I was overcome with amazement. I had had no suspicion of this ruse! I had taken it for cowardice. My heart thumped, my breast swelled with joy. I felt a wonderful sense of relief after the terrible strain.
A dramatic scene followed. Our troops pressed in from every side, forcing the surrounded foe together and backward between the front line and the river bank. At last they were packed so closely together that they could scarcely move, and we began to destroy them. It was a massacre the like of which I have never seen, and not only a massacre, for they were driven out into the river where they drowned like rats. They fought for dear life in the current, flailing the water with their arms, yelling for help and altogether behaving in a most un-soldierly fashion. Hardly any of them could swim; it was as though they had never seen water before. Those who could crawl ashore were promptly cut down, and those who tried to reach the other bank were carried away by the fierce current. Scarcely any escaped alive.
Our disgrace was transformed into a splendid victory!
Developments followed each other at a tremendous pace. Our center stormed down on the enemy, followed by the left wing, while, on the right, Boccarossa’s troops slashed away with renewed and frenzied energy. And from the hills fresh cavalry squadrons came charging down with their lances in rest, and joined in the melee, completely demoralizing il Toro’s exhausted wavering army. Soon their desperate defense was turned into disorderly flight, and we pursued them with the horsemen in the van, to squeeze the last drops from our matchless victory. The Prince was determined to profit by every opportunity. Part of his force, including infantry and cavalry, was sent in a different direction from the others, and went off down one of the side valleys with the obvious purpose of overtaking the enemy. The mountains concealed their further movements so we could not see exactly what happened next. They disappeared among the vine-clad hills on the other side of the level ground which had been the scene of the battle.
Now we began to stir ourselves in the camp. Horses were harnessed to the wagons, and everything was hastily packed onto them, stores and armaments of every description; everybody rushed wildly about, the baggage was to be sent away. I sat at the back of the cart on which the Prince’s tent had been placed. The signal was given and we drove down the slope and on to the battlefield. It was deserted, save for the dead and wounded who lay so close together that we could hardly proceed without sometimes driving over them. Most of them were already dead, but the others moaned and sighed without ceasing. Our own men called to us to take them along, but it was impossible, for we must hasten to catch up with the army. In war one becomes hardened, inured to everything, but I had never known anything like this before. I saw some horses among the corpses. We drove past one that had had its belly split open so that the entrails lay on the ground. The sight made me feel sick and I feared I might vomit. I do not know what came over me; I called to the driver to increase his pace; he cracked his whip and we rolled on.
It is very strange. I have often noticed that in some respects I am peculiarly sensitive. I find certain things quite unendurable. It is the same whenever I think of Francesco’s intestines. Some things, though perhaps quite natural in themselves, are really extraordinarily nauseating.
The day was drawing to a close. Even a day like this must have an end. The sun was low above the western hills and its dying rays fell over the field which had witnessed so much glory, heroism, and defeat. Twilight began to cover it as I sat there in the jolting wagon, looking backward.
The scene was enveloped in darkness and the bloody drama which had been enacted there was already a part of history.
I HAVE had plenty of time for writing, because it rains without stopping, pouring down for days on end as though the heavens had been opened. We are deluged unceasingly.
This, of course, is tiresome. Everything in camp is dirty and muddy. The tent lanes are knee-deep in clay, and equine and human excrement floats about in the mire. Everything one touches is wet and filthy and feels disgusting and if one goes out for a moment one is immediately soaked to the skin. The tent roofs leak and inside it is like a morass. All this is very unpleasant and not at all good for morale. Every evening we hope that tomorrow will be fine, but as soon as we wake up we hear the same pattering on the canvas.
I do not see the point of this eternal rain. It impedes all warfare and puts a stop to the whole campaign. And just when we were going to garner the fruits of our great successes. Why is it raining?
The soldiers are out of sorts. They spend their days sleeping or throwing dice. Naturally there can be no martial spirit under such conditions. We can be sure that all this time il Toro is reinforcing his troops, whereas we are not getting any stronger. Not that it worries me, but the thought of it is irritating just the same.
Nothing has such an injurious effect on an army’s morale as rain. The excitement of the game fades away and the glamour disappears, all the glitter and stimulus which are part of warfare. The power and the glory have departed. But there should be a reaction against this picture of war as an uninterrupted carnival. War is not a pastime, it is deadly serious. It is death, defeat, destruction. It is no agreeable life, no jousting with an opponent who is perhaps perpetually inferior. One must school oneself to endure everything, toil, hardship, suffering of every kind. That is absolutely necessary.
It can be dangerous if this depression spreads itself among the troops. Much still lies ahead before we can achieve the final victory. The enemy is not quite routed, although he soon will be. And we must admit that he made rather a skillful retreat after the terrible defeat at the river, and prevented us from actually capturing him. And now, as I have pointed out, he is sure to be mustering new forces. We shall need all our old fighting spirit to put an end to him.
But the Prince is not in the least dispirited. He is one of those who really love war in all its forms. He is calm, self-confident, and energetic, and his temperament is unchanging in its serenity. He is always filled with courage and absolutely sure of victory. A marvelous warrior! In the field he and I really resemble one another.
I have only one grudge against him which I cannot overlook and for which I constantly reproach him; that is his refusal to let me join in the fighting. I cannot understand why he refuses my request, why he prevents me! Before every battle I have begged and implored him, once I even besought him on my knees, clasping his legs and bathing them with my tears. But he always pretends not to hear me or merely smiles and says something about my being too precious, that something might happen to me. Happen! I ask nothing better! He does not realize what this means to me, that I crave combat with all my soul, more so than any of his soldiers, with a deeper and more burning passion than they. War is no game to me, but grim reality. I want to fight, I want to kill! Not for the glory of it, but for the deed alone! I want to see men fall, see death and destruction around me. He knows nothing about me! And so he lets me pour his wine and wait upon him, and forbids me to leave the tent and join in the fray where I so long to be. I must stand about and look on while others perform the deeds which are never out of my thoughts, but I may never share in the battle. It is so unbearably humiliating! Why, I have not yet killed a man, not a single one! He has no notion of the suffering which he causes me.
So I am not absolutely truthful when I call myself really happy.