(The apparition vanishes.)
A garrison. The following scenes are played out in jerky sequence. Slovak peasants, returned home from Russian captivity, some in peasants’ clothes, some in Russian uniforms, are asking for an extension of their leave to catch up on harvesting. The company commander orders the petitioners to be attached at once to the next company bound for the front. Two young returnees, 19 and 21 years old, are seen asleep. They are wakened by the noise of what is going on outside. The sergeant is distributing uniforms. The men are refusing to take them and demand they be allowed to report to battalion headquarters. The sergeant hits some of them, and is himself struck in the face. The barracks guard is alerted, guns are loaded, the mutineers driven into the barrack square and surrounded. The captain appears, everyone obeys his order to line up in rank and file. The two young soldiers are now part of this. The captain is informed about the incident. No one knows who struck the blow. The captain has every tenth man seized and led off to the guardhouse. There they are beaten, their ankles shackled, and they are taken to the garrison prison. Martial law is imposed. Then come the hearings. Six are court-martialed. The prison courtyard at dawn next morning. The judges, the battalion commander, the military prosecutor, and two priests appear. A table and a crucifix are brought. The tribunal is grouped around the table, a priest on each side. At the sight, one of the six has a seizure, howling and foaming at the mouth he collapses, others tear their hair, rage, rip their clothes. The guards try to calm them with the assurance that only two would be sentenced to death. A judge reads out the charge. The 19-year-old and the 21-year-old are sentenced to death by firing squad, the others to many years’ imprisonment. The 19-year-old falls on his knees before the head of the tribunal and, racked with sobbing, begs for mercy. He shows a locket with the picture of his old mother. She won’t survive his death, let them send him to the front, he would show that he is a brave soldier, he had been asleep during the incident, he is totally innocent. The judge has him taken away. The other accused is deathly pale, but stands upright. He speaks the words:
God knows that I die an innocent man!
He lets himself be taken away, while the others weep over their comrades. The judges go off to the mess. There one of them says:
It’s quite clear that only that married one can be the culprit. But can you shoot a father of six children? The state would have to pay for his surviving dependants! This way, he’s got six years, as many as he has children, and the state provision for military convicts can be withdrawn anyhow.
A second says:
Three others were married, too — so that only left the two young ones to be shot. In any case, they’ll certainly have done something wrong. And if not today, then tomorrow! Innocent or not — one has to set an example.
At night in the prison. The younger one is standing with a rosary, praying, behind the barred window. The priests appear in order to give the last sacrament to the offenders. The younger one howls and asks to see his mother one last time. They pray together. He asks for paper and pencil to write to his mother. He writes. It is already a quarter past eight. He gets up.
Mother!
He collapses. The other one:
Is that why I fought, is that why I returned from Russia, to be led like an ox to the slaughter? — Let them tie me up and carry me! — Is that why I lived for 21 years — to be shot? — Quick, get it over with!
On the way to the place of execution. He takes his leave from the radiant August sun. He pulls off a green leaf from a tree and kisses it passionately. The younger one weeps incessantly for his mother. At the place of execution. The courtyard of an old castle. Entrance confined to those producing the correct papers. Among those present are the top officials, senior officers, and dignitaries with their ladies. There are representatives of the best social circles. The judges, the battalion commander, and those officers not on duty take up their positions in the middle of the hollow square. The prisoners are brought in. The judgment is read out. The elder one:
If the sergeant gave that evidence, he deserves to stand here and be shot.
They refuse blindfolds.
I no longer fear bullets.
They are blindfolded. They kneel.
Fire!
The sabre falls. Two corpses lie in the grass. The commander orders prayers. All salute. One of the priests, in officer’s cap and with gold braid on his sleeve, makes a speech, points with his raised right arm to a standard, and, with an ecstatic expression on his face, raises his eyes heavenward to the Habsburg coat of arms above the gate.
(The apparition vanishes.)
Kragujevac. Two parallel rows, each with 22 open graves. In front of them kneel 44 returnees, veterans with all grades of medals for bravery. Bosnians shoot at a distance of two paces. Their hands tremble. The first line writhe on the ground. None is dead. Gun barrels are put to their heads. Officers’ mess. The chief supply officer raises his glass and, toasting his mirror image in the banqueting hall, speaks the words:
Y’know, I’d have had 300 executed. Excessive drunkenness cannot be tolerated. I made an exception and granted them an honourable death by firing squad.
(The apparition vanishes.)
Captain Prasch is standing in front of his shelter, completely covered in blood, holding above his head a head that he has impaled on a pole. He speaks:
That’s my first Italian prisoner, I did it with my own sabre. My first Russian prisoner I had tortured first. Czechs are my favourites for that. I’m from Graz by birth. Anyone I encountered in Serbia, I shot ’em down on the spot. I killed 20 people, civilians and prisoners among them, with my own hand, at least a 150 I had shot. Any soldier who held back in an attack or hid during a barrage, I shot down with my own hand. I always hit my subordinates in the face, either with my cane or with my fist. But I did a lot for them, too. In Serbia I raped a Serb girl, but then left her to the soldiers, and the next day had her and her mother hanged from the railings of a bridge. The rope broke, and the girl was still alive when she fell into the water. I drew my revolver and shot away at her until she disappeared under the water. I always did my duty, to the last breath of man and mount. I was decorated and promoted. I always kept my wits about me. War makes strict demands — you must concentrate all your energies. You mustn’t let your spirits sink. Head held high! (He raises the pole higher.)
(The apparition vanishes.)
A lieutenant of the lancers has an Orthodox priest tied to a lancer’s stirrup. He is stripped of his overcoat.
You’ll hardly need your coat anymore.
The rider departs at a brisk trot.
(The apparition vanishes.)
Winter in the Carpathians. A man tied to a tree. He is untied and collapses, unconscious. The company commander digs him with the heel of his boot, then points to a hole in the ground to which the soldiers carry him.
(The apparition vanishes.)
Troops on the retreat. It is raining. The general from the banquet is sitting in an automobile. He gives instructions to take the tarpaulin from a wounded man’s stretcher and to spread it over his car. He waves to his mirror image and drives off.