Cars full of generals noisily speed along the streets. The tunics’ red facings flash before the crowds of onlookers like matadors’ red capes.
Hurry, don’t overdo the sentimentality. Seamstresses, no more kissing your boyfriends; stuff your crumpled photographs into their pockets and say your goodbyes. Cooks, dry your eyes with your greasy aprons, and with your fingers that smell of browning stroke the clumsily shaved heads of your lance corporals. Everyone must own something from which they could be parted. The wives have husbands, the mothers have sons. The children say goodbye to their fathers, highly amused by their new appearance, especially the whistle and the compass on its blue cord. They have realized at last that their parents are children too, especially when they cry. Somebody must have beaten them, or they are about to. Some children are pleased that their fathers are going into the field. There will be nobody to beat them now. Where is this field, though?
The magistrate’s widow hurries to court to gift to the state her only keepsake, her gold wedding ring, receiving an iron one in exchange. After all, everyone must own something they could part with.
The fragrant Countess Lili has her hair cut short. Wearing a white cap and cloak, she goes to the Academy of Fine Arts, where the Red Cross flag is fluttering. She is keen to carry out the bedpans of the wounded in her dainty, feminine hands. The war has not yet lost its virginity; the hospitals are still empty.
The bridges across the river have begun vibrating. The reservists are already on the march from the railway stations to the barracks. Black wooden trunks on their backs, flowers in their caps. In the school playgrounds, the steam of boiling water is rising from the field kitchens. A young soldier, a one-year recruit who is a philosophy student, is eating meat with a spoon, for the first time in his life. An old reservist, an agent of the Provident Insurance Company, is lying on the bare ground, for the first time in his life. Uniforms have not been issued yet. The men are still in their own skins. A fitter from the Siemens works is dissatisfied. He does know that he will be assigned to a technical unit, actually, but that’s still army. For now, he is enjoying the cigarettes he got from a pretty girl at the station.
Things have begun to stir. The new recruits are parting with their own personalities. This is the hardest parting of all. Full of contempt and sadness, they cast aside the former individual along with their civilian clothes, parting, as they don the worthy Imperial tunic, with their health and their life.
Cattle-drovers from Tisá, swineherds from the Puszta and mountain shepherds from the Carpathians are now wearing the blue uniform. First of all—to the canteen! Farmworkers from Galicia, Moravia and Styria have all taken on the same colour. The Bosnians wear a fez on their shaved heads. A gesture to Islam on the part of the Catholic authorities. The one-year recruit, the philosophy student, has never seen puttees before in his life. He consoles himself with the thought that Napoleon apparently wore them as well. The Dragoons wear helmets with shiny eagles, but they have to cover them with a greyish-blue slipcase, or wax them, so they don’t glint in the sun at a distance, drawing enemy fire. For the same reason, the higher ranks cover up the insignia on their collars with a handkerchief. Only the Hussars keep their plumes, though they too must cover their helmets with oilcloths. You would look in vain for the proud cockerel plumes on the Chasseurs’ caps. The Chasseurs will march in caps with matt buttons like the ordinary infantry. The priest has changed his clothes as well. He wears a habit, but he is still a captain and he will sprinkle holy water on the regiment as it sets off into the field. He will render unto God what is God’s and unto Caesar what is Caesar’s. He will bury the slain and absolve the seriously wounded of the mortal sin of killing. He will distribute books with comforting content in the field hospitals.
The corps, divisions, regiments and brigades have already been formed. In the first company of every brigade, standard-bearers carry the flag. Endless retinues of mummers in weird attire obediently await orders from their directors. Only their faces lack masks. But faces are no longer of any significance. Today, all that counts is someone’s torso, their limbs and what kind of stars and buttons are sewn onto them. Buttons! Above all, the buttons must be in order. Actually, masks will have their day too. Gas masks.
Following ancient tradition, the soldiers of the Imperial and Royal Army set sprays of oak leaves in their caps. In every soldier’s trouser pocket there nestles, like a code and price label from a shop, a discreet metal identification tag, the death capsule, which will be removed from the dead by the orderlies. This concludes definitively the transaction with the conquered territory.
Attention! The lieutenants, field glasses and maps slung round their necks, are now leading their companies out. The captains are on horseback at the head of the battalions. They are followed by the adjutants and the buglers. With their sabres, the mounted regimental commanders salute the onlookers, who shout patriotic slogans, throwing flowers that are trampled under the horses’ hooves. The regimental band strikes up the Radetzky March. Sweat runs down the faces of the Czechs blaring away on their brass helicons and bass tubas. A small drummer boy, a child soldier, beats away with all his might on the calf-skin of his drum. A little donkey carries the big drum on its back.
Mobilization. The officers’ and ensigns’ sabres glint. Oh dear, you sabres will not glint in the sun’s rays much longer, will you? You will soon be done away with on the orders of His Excellency the Minister for War, so the enemy will be unable to distinguish officers from privates. Your place will be taken by the bayonet, the ordinary, crude bayonet.
Mobilization. The company bugles sound and the drummers’ sticks start to beat. Oh dear, you drums will not beat time for the infantry much longer, will you? You will soon be done away with on the orders of His Excellency the Minister for War.
Mobilization. Men, horses, donkeys, mules and cattle are on the move. Iron, brass, wood and steel are on the move. Baggage trains rattle on, lorries start up grindingly, and ammunition wagons begin rumbling off, full of grenades, shells and bombs stacked in boxes like bottles of mineral water. Mortar, cannon and howitzer carriages lurch forwards. Animate and inanimate numbers are walking, driving, gasping, numbers worked out in the heads of the staff officers. In rows straight as a die, a host of heads in caps and helmets is marching, bodies in blue, grey and green tunics swaying like a field of wheat. Armies of buttons, whistles and belt straps flow upon armies of people in new, yellow, unpolished boots. The backpacks and grey mess tins sway on Polish, German, Czech, Italian and Hungarian shoulders. Haversacks, cartridge belts and bayonets are on the move, carried on foot, on horseback, by people, by horses, in wagons and in motor vehicles. Goods trains are loading up (40 men—8 horses) with masses of humans, animals, iron, wood, fabric, straps, and patience. Terror accumulated in such quantities does not know what to do with itself. For now, it is releasing itself in the form of trampling, clattering and rumbling noises.
In these processions man was fraternizing with beast, iron and wood. Rifles have now taken the place of wives, in place of brothers haversacks are befriended, and water flasks replace favourite children. Dear child, kiss the thirsty infantryman’s parched lips.
The benevolent grey, chestnut and dun horses toss their heads. The donkeys loaded with machine-gun parts calmly and silently look round for the last time from the wagon ramp.
Mobilization. The railway stations at Vienna, Pest and Prague are weeping now, as are those at Lwów and Kraków. Answering sobs sound at stations in Belgrade and Moscow. Warsaw too.