(Change of scene.)
Scene 9
A German Reserve Division.
COLONEL (dictates) At the obstacle, grid square 4674, two members of a French fatigue detail were shot dead with three shots by trench sentry Lance-corporal Bitter of 7 Company of the Imperial Infantry Regiment 271. I congratulate Lance-corporal Bitter on his achievement.
(Change of scene.)
Scene 10
The Isonzo front. Brigade headquarters. After dinner.
ALICE SCHALEK (standing, surrounded by officers) I have now covered the whole of the Gorizia sector of the front on the Isonzo, every step of the way. They showed me everything! The things I experienced there! Those sitting back home simply can’t imagine. After repeated requests I finally got permission to accompany them. I sensed that the fact that I was going of my own free will made it harder for them. Being under no compulsion to go creates an inner conflict. At the appointed time, five o’clock in the afternoon, I present myself to the general as ready to march off. I ask permission to accompany a gentleman who would be going back to his post in any case. No one shall be endangered on my account, beyond what duty dictates!
A very young second-lieutenant, utterly delighted at the prospect of doing something different, takes me on a diversion round the foot of the mountain, which we then tackle from the flank. My previous orders are to be back punctually to where we started by nine o’clock. Whee, whee, wheeee! — it comes whistling in at us from the flank. And so, chatting away, we strolled on through the moonlight to our destination. But then! I was sitting beside the artillery observer up on the Podgora plateau, waiting breathless to see what would happen in his sector. Well, instinct began to take over, personality was coming to the fore — something previously out of bounds. I was being fired at from over the wall surrounding the castle grounds. We stand where we are, motionless. If the enemy sees us, so what! We haven’t exchanged a single word yet. I look at him. He’s thin and pale. Can’t be much more than 20. I have a funny feeling. I look at the lieutenant; he’s a primary schoolteacher in some Hungarian village. And like a blinding light, a sudden intuition strikes me. During the heavy barrage on the crest of San Michele, a new understanding illuminates every convolution of my brain. The lieutenant has no notion of the impact his whole bearing is having on me. He looks at me and smiles. He feels my thoughts are in tune with his, that our nerves vibrate in unison during the barrage. It sounds like an orchestral solo … Tikka, tikka, tikka — rings out … It’s the first sound at daybreak, when I get up at half past three to go to my post. Whee, whee, whee — tikka, tikka, tikka — kaboom! But neither of us imagines for a moment that we could be disobedient and not comply with orders. The immense driving force behind an order — I can feel it now in my very bones. The lieutenant is still standing there. A nightingale is calling and the fragrance of the acacias is intoxicating. But now it’s coming from the other side, the noise; no longer an urgent whip crack but a slow roar, almost singing in mockery. The lieutenant presses me against the wall. Voo — voo — phut — a dud, fizzled out … No question of staying where we were, or looking for cover. The order was: Report back by nine o’clock. For the first time, I know exactly what the men must be feeling. What a relief an order is! How amazingly easy it is to go through fire, if that’s what you’ve been ordered to do. Happy the nation that can live under orders, trusting, believing that the order must be correct, since it emanates from on high. The same applies to the order here on the Isonzo — to push forward, cutting off all possibility of retreat, in order to protect our birthright! Wounded soldiers catch up with us … One has been struck deaf and dumb. He gestures to indicate what happened to him …
The motor cars are waiting and soon we’re back at headquarters. The table is laid, and the meal is served up in steaming bowls. The reflected glory of a decisive experience lingers in every eye. But we eat like troopers and sleep like logs, and at lunchtime next day the military band strikes up outside the officers’ mess. After all, we’ve captured the trench we wanted. So we can dine in the open air, the asparagus tastes quite superb and sweet waltz melodies compete with the cuckoo and the woodpecker … All Salandra will hear about in Rome is that he lost a trench today. Well, the barrage on Monte San Michele was by now just a memory. But the next day it was off again to the front. The columns of the wounded are interesting. Those with light wounds can still straighten up and salute, others look up wearily and try to raise a hand to their cap, but many are lying motionless, their coat drawn over their face, and see and hear nothing. . The exchange of fire is over. So we can go. The next day I tell myself: “Oh well, time to move on from Monte San Michele.”
Today I’m off to the next division, the Army’s Hungarian troops. The stench of corpses wafts across the road. There are more people on this shell-scarred road than you’ll ever see on any bustling cosmopolitan boulevard. For some eight to ten months now, corpses, riddled with holes and completely mummified, have been lying between the lines. The trenches are narrow, seldom more than the width of a man, and the soldiers lie there stretched out to sleep. Others clamber over them, but they don’t wake up … We count the impact of six shells and manage to take a quick camera shot … I’m allowed to observe through the armour plate and am amazed at the crater … At the battalion commander’s I’m given a glass of eggnog. Very soothing, since my nerves are still tingling from the relentless, thunderous noise all around! “Lay out a fresh sheet of newspaper”, this hospitable officer cries. (Evidently that’s meant as a compliment.) Six artillery rounds — six direct hits … I take pictures for the future, fill one plate after another … And then back to here. Breakfast awaits us at the Brigadier’s; I accept gratefully. And what a breakfast—! Since Cadorna spared me again today, since the shell once again arrived that crucial quarter of an hour too late, we cracked a bottle of champagne — the real thing — and, as a special reward, a tin of genuine caviar. Crisp croissants and brightly coloured flowers, radishes and damask linen table settings — such contrasts you’ll only find here at the front!
THE OFFICERS Cadorna couldn’t determine her fate, since the shell arrived just a little too late—
Cadorna couldn’t determine her fate,
since the shell arrived just a little too late.
There were croissants and caviar and flowers,
that’s how it should be in this army of ours.
We’re the staff at headquarters, an awesome elite,
and do ourselves proud in our cosy retreat.
The trenches, however, are not our affair,
the cannon fodder have no shampers there.
Nor caviar blinis, that’s not their style—
it’s a hero’s death for the rank and file.
We do the eating, while they only pay
with their lives, for the Fatherland, hooray!
To fall for one’s country is fine, we’re assured,
but we only fall when we’re drunk as a lord.
Cadorna has spared us their fate. To be blunt,
such contrasts you’ll only find here at the front!
(Change of scene.)
Scene 11
Divisional headquarters.
A COMMANDING OFFICER This venture was doomed from the start, Your Excellency, for lack of artillery support. The enemy simply started shooting practice at the pontoons we had put in place, and at those manning them. Hundreds of bodies disappeared into the River San that day, and we finally had to give up trying to force a crossing. The situation now is unchanged.