by Alma Boykin
“What?” An angry chorus erupted from the other officers and Felix raised one hand.
“Rumor. Pure rumor, that because the Germans had to dismount in their woods and fight from behind trees, we will do the same. First we need trees.”
“True,” István said, keeping his voice calm. “Probably someone overheard one of the generals talking about reassigning some of our supply wagons to the powder Jews or command staff for a few days and . . . ” he waved his empty hand.
Nods met his statement. After all, everyone knew how rumors grew. The night’s barrage certainly showed that!
“Are we still attacking the Russians soon?” Felix asked, looking at Eggenberg.
“I do not know, sir. I have not heard or seen any changes to our orders, but I did not look for them, either.”
We will, I’m sure. The Germans had begun screaming for a distraction, or so rumor had it, for the Austrians to pull some of the Russian army south and give the Germans breathing space. Well, István thought, at last the cavalry could show what they were for. As the infantry ate dust, he’d be riding through the grass, sabering Cossacks and chasing Russian soldiers back to Moscow. The steppes sounded like the Alföld, endless kilometers of grass—the perfect horsemen’s country.
It was already as hot as the Alföld here in Galicia. Just greener, with more hills and lots of tiny rivers to cross. And the occasional stink of oil for variety, instead of the miasma of the Hungarian marshes.
“So, what are our orders, Eggenberg?”
He handed István the page. More scouting, more looking for signs of an army that was probably at least fifty kilometers north from them at the closest. More likely a hundred and fifty kilometers, he thought. But riding was better than sitting in the heat and waiting for trouble, like the infantry bastards had to do. His feet hurt just thinking about it.
Two days later, István peered into the distance and cursed the Russians, the Austrian general staff, and General Fischerbach. A Russian shell landed a half-kilometer or so in front of him, kicking up a spray of dirt and debris. He flinched, then caught himself. The roar numbed his ears and his mouth felt dry. He wanted to be on horseback, attacking the gunners. Instead he stood—crouched really—rifle in hand, saber on his belt, waiting for the Russian infantry to attack. He stood close to the bole of a beech tree, trying not to be obvious but not wanting to look like a coward, either. Another shell exploded, and more sandy soil turned into powder, fountaining up then drifting back to patter down like the devil’s idea of rain. A horse screamed somewhere, or was that a man?
A whizz of sound flicked past his ear, followed by a meaty thunk sort of sound. A man grunted behind him, then began to wail. István turned his head enough to see Baltazar clutching his shoulder, his rifle on the ground. Shut up, you’ll let them know they’ve hit us, István thought—followed by, they’re shooting at us. Another shot zipped past and he crouched lower, aiming for the unseen enemy straight ahead. He glimpsed movement, sighted and fired, then fired again. Men shouted behind him, shots rang through the misty woods, and the Russians kept firing. Another artillery shell exploded, showering them with dirt and splinters. At some point the wailing stopped.
István reloaded. “Fire at will, men” he called. A commotion erupted just ahead and to his left, and he glanced that way in time to see a half-dozen men in reservist uniforms running past, arms in the air and panic in their gestures. They’d dropped their rifles.
“The Russians are here, run!” One of them yelled, stumbling, then catching himself and running even faster toward the rear. More men followed.
“Steady! Stand your ground!” István turned back and fired again as the Russian bullets continued to arrive. “Hold your position!”
But the panic swept through the Austrian line. His lieutenants and sergeants managed to keep István’s men in position, but the line around them melted away. After half an hour, István gave up. They’d be surrounded at this rate, and that would be the end of his war. “Fall back in order,” he commanded. Tears of fury almost blinded him, and he wanted to hang the deserters himself.
Where was Baltazar? István stopped long enough to look where he’d last seen his servant. The man lay dead, staring at the tree limbs, his pale eyes wide. A second bullet had ended his life. Damn. István crouched and closed the sightless eyes before catching up with his men.
They retreated through the woods, dropping back to a road. They found ammunition pouches and rifles as they went, and red mist clouded István’s vision. “Ah, sir, are you feeling well,” Lt. Merkl asked, leaning away as if ready to flee.
What? I feel— ah. István took a deep breath and ducked his head, making himself calm down. He’d begun to lose his human coloring. Another deep breath and he felt in control once more. “No, just eyes irritated from the smoke. Pick up any ammunition pouches you find. We’ll need them.” To give us enough bullets to shoot the bastards who ran as well as the Russians. He matched deeds to words and slung a sack around his neck, officer dignity be damned. A meter or so to his right, a rifle lay at the foot of a tree on the edge of the road and he stalked over, bending to pick it up. He tried to work the bolt. Nothing moved. He pointed the muzzle down and pulled the trigger. It moved a fraction of a centimeter, nothing more.
“Half the rifles we’ve found are jammed, sir,” one of the men volunteered. “The fine sand is death on the actions.”
The dirt hates me. St. Martin and St. Michael give me strength, St. István and St. Imre protect me. “I see. Thank you.” He looked around. Baltazar was nowhere to be seen. He’d probably run with the other shirkers, István decided. Well, he’d just have to find another servant and orderly. No, no—he’s dead, István reminded himself. Where to take up position? The earth shook, and dirt and chunks of tree erupted over the woods to the east, farther up the road. They’d have to fall back, at least to the bend in the road. Where was the Imperia artillery? Their job was to stop the Russian guns. He added them to the list of people not on his good list and ordered the men with him to fall back farther.
István and his men trudged through the heat for two hours before finding some other Austrian troops tucked under cover at a ravine and bridge on the road. “Halt!” someone called from the brush. “Who goes there?” the voice continued in Hungarian.
“The emperor’s men,” István called back in the same tongue.
“Thank God.” A man wearing an infantry lieutenant’s uniform appeared, followed by a sergeant. They saluted. “We’re forming a line here, sir, trying to stop the Russians.”
“Good.” István beckoned his men forward and they joined the infantry, at least for the moment. One of the sergeants took his canteen and refilled it from the stream. István drank, ignoring the odd tastes in the cool water. He didn’t want to know.
A few bullets hit the trees around them, but no one appeared and the Russian artillery finally stopped. István and Lt. Merkl located themselves on their maps and considered what to do next. We can’t stay here. He might not be infantry, but István knew very well that seventy men on their own, lined up along a ravine by a dirt track, could not stop the Russians. The original plan had been to stop the Russians at the Bug if they counterattacked through the Austrian advance. Well, there had not yet been an advance, but the Bug River seemed to be a good place to reconnect with the rest of the regiment and division. Dusk fell as the officers conferred, and István decided.
“We’ll march west as soon as we have light, unless the Russian gunners wake us earlier.” He tapped the map. “The army is to hold at the Bug, blocking the Russians here and here. They can’t use our railways, St. István be thanked, but we can resupply.”
Lt. Merkl and the infantry lieutenant, Vladimir Havel, nodded. Havel turned and repeated the instructions in Czech to the sergeants. One of them asked a question and Havel turned back. “What about our wounded, sir?”
“We bring them. They can all walk?”
“Yes, sir. But Ivan’s” Havel touched the side of his
head. “Shell took off part of his skull.”
“Him too.”
Havel passed the order to his sergeants, who saluted and scattered out to tell the men.
“Do your men not speak German?”
“Just enough for basic commands, sir. And even then, there are a few who pretend, I suspect. We’re a Bohemian home unit.”
Someone hates me.
Russian artillery began pounding the earth into fragments just after midnight. The booms sounded different, off to the north of the road and ravine instead of due east of them. István considered staying in place, but changed his mind. That would let the Russians get behind him. And—the way his luck was going—it would lead other Imperial troops to shoot at his men on the assumption that anyone left in the woods had to be Russian.
They stayed on the road, or close to it. The mist made strange shapes of the trees and bushes, and István heard men muttering and whispering prayers. He felt at home, for all that the trees were not those of the Matra Range and grew on flat ground instead of steep slopes. The Russian guns kept pace, then shifted to behind the men.
They found a farm, abandoned except for a dog that growled, then hid. The soldiers stopped long enough to drink from the well and to requisition any food they could find, including spooking the hens off their nests for eggs. István found a candle stub, paper scrap and pencil, and left a note so the farmer could claim repayment for his missing food. Apparently the deserters and others had fled so fast they’d missed the fresh bread and fruit in the farm’s larder, so the troopers helped themselves. István and Lt. Havel stopped the men from grabbing anything else, including one corporal who tried to steal the silver and a tablecloth.
The sun rose, turning the mist silver, then pink. It began to burn through, revealing more debris of war and the bodies of a few soldiers. An hour after first light, István ordered a halt. The men scattered little, many falling asleep as soon as they sat. He wanted to do the same, but had to set an example. His feet hurt and he didn’t dare take off his boots because he knew what he’d find. He cleaned his rifle as best he could. Two more men had lost weapons to the nasty sand, the bolts jammed beyond hope of field repair. István silently cursed the soil of Galicia, as well as the staff officer in his comfortable tent who had taken the cavalry’s horses away.
Silence filled the woods. István, Havel, and Merkl shared exhausted, knowing looks. “We need to move.”
“Yes, sir.” The lieutenants and sergeants roused the men, all but one. The man with half his skull missing had died. The others crossed themselves. “Should we bring him with us, sir?” Havel asked.
“No,” the other lieutenant said. “We’ll send someone to collect the body but not right now. Take his ammunition and rations, and his personal kit for his family, and we’ll send someone back.”
No one looked pleased, but no one protested, either. István hated leaving the dead to the Russians, but there wasn’t a good way to carry the body, especially not in the heat. Where are the wagons? Where is the army?
They found some Imperial scouts three hours later, at the edge of the fields near the Bug. “Advance and be recognized!”
“Major István Eszterházy and his men, with Lt. Havel of the 2nd platoon of the 4th regiment of the Emperor Karl Division.”
The man rode closer, and István recognized Sgt. Gabor Attila. “It is Major Eszterházy,” the rider confirmed. “You were reported dead or captured along with all your men after the scrap yesterday.”
“Well, we’re here. I need to report to Col. Marbach. There may be Russian infantry behind us. We heard shelling to the north, then to the east.”
Gabor pointed southwest. “That way, under that big clump of trees in the farmhouse. I’ll pass the word.”
István and Lt. Merkl led their men to a convenient place near the farmhouse. Merkl went to see about food and shelter, while István washed his face in the horse trough before approaching the guard at the door. “Major Eszterházy reporting to Col. Marbach.”
“Wait here, please sir.” The corporal vanished, then reappeared. “Just a moment, sir.”
The moment took half an hour, before an unfamiliar captain appeared. “Eszterházy? This way.”
Temper starting to rise, István followed the man into the dark farmhouse. Someone had left the religious cards and pages on the walls, and István recognized St. Isidore and St. Barbara, as well as a few unfamiliar ones that had to be Russian Orthodox. “Here, Eszterházy.”
“That’s Major Eszterházy, captain.” István corrected.
“Not for much longer, Major, since you men broke and fled and caused the entire retreat,” the waspish man snipped.
“That is quite enough, Pilbrodi,” Col. Marbach growled. “The Russian army and the local Reservists played a part in the scene, as you may recall.”
“Yes, sir, and that’s why I came here. The Russians may not be that far behind me and my men,” István said. “They were shelling us starting just after midnight, northeast of our position, and the shelling followed, then shifted east, behind us, not long ago.”
“Show me,” Marbach said. He pointed to a map on a table. “We are here, two kilometers south of Busk.”
Oh chit. There’s the rail line straight into Lemberg. “After the retreat began, we moved back to, ah, here sir. Found twenty or so infantry and joined forces, retreated a little. Overnighted, then started moving again around two this morning when the guns began. It sounded as if they were aimed here,” István pointed to the hamlet of Sokolówka. “We kept coming along the road. Two hours ago the firing shifted south, onto the road.”
“When Col. Von Ees was due to start his counter attack,” Marbach said. He stroked his mustache. “We’re in temporary reserve, Major. I don’t know how temporary, so take your men, and collect your horses and what ammunition you can find. I’ll take your report of dead and missing later.”
The Slav captain glared daggers at István, but didn’t say anything. István saluted, turned, and saw himself out. By the time he located his men, Merkl had gotten food and had located their horses. Of the infantry, István found no trace. “An infantry captain came for them. He’s commanding half their regiment.”
“A captain? Blessed St. Martin, what happened?”
Major Felix Starhemberg answered from behind him. “Their colonel and two majors were standing in the open, screaming at the men for cowardice for trying to dig in. Russians dropped a shell right on them. A lot of fast promotions yesterday. Today too, I suspect.” He waved for Merkl to be gone. “We lost Stulich. Krzweski’s wounded, Bathory as well. Eggenberg had a horse shot out from under him but he’s mostly alive.”
“Damn.” István heard the words but they seemed to run off of his mind. “I need to get food and to my horse.”
“Yes, you do, because the Russians are not stopping to rest on their laurels, asses, or anything else.” Felix slapped him on the back and walked off, probably to see to his horse.
The next two weeks faded into a blur of gunfire, gunpowder stench, and mud. The summer sun surrendered to the first fall rains, turning the sand into goo that clung worse than treacle syrup. Streams overflowed, and Galicia shifted from hot and rolling to sodden and sticky. István wondered why the Russians wanted it, except that the Austrians claimed it. That and the oilfields that fed the Imperial navy and other motorized things. The days passed in attempts to advance and slow retreats, back across the Bug toward Lemberg. “Can we hold at Lemberg?” Bathory asked, arm bandaged, stiff with broken ribs.
“We would, except that the unlamented Gen. Conrad failed to prepare it for a siege,” Felix spat. They’d gathered in a barn on yet another abandoned farmhouse. The rain had stopped for a moment but a damp east wind found every gap in the log walls, and there were more gaps than log. István wondered how the farmer’s animals had survived winters in the building, if you granted the roofed-over woodpile the dignity of calling it a building. “Archduke Leopold Lichtenstein-Habsburg set Conrad’s ass on fire, or
so I heard—or he would have if his highness had let him. Archduke Leopold is commanding this front now, with Archduke Thomas as overall commander.”
Dear Lord, Franz Josef must be livid. Or had another brain attack and can’t protest. Probably the latter, given how hard he and his father and grandfather had tried to keep other family members out of the line of command. Well, times changed. “So we stop here and hope the Russians are as miserable as we are in this morass, and see what orders arrive.” István sniffed and hid his sigh.
“And pray to Our lady of Snows that, one, the snow stays away and, two, the Italians don’t listen to the French,” Felix said.
“Wha—?”
“That’s just rumor. The Italians are,” Bathory made a gesture with his good arm, mimicking some of the Neapolitan shouters. “But their government knows better than to break the alliance now.”
István tapped the map again. “So we are to try and stop the Russians from capturing Lemberg, while the four Corps to the north are doing their best to keep the other Russian armies from coming down out of Russian Poland.”
Felix nodded. “And we are supposed to have more supplies coming through Przemysl Fortress, as well as up the lines from Stryi. Assuming the Russians have not gotten to them first.”
Felix’s bitter tone worried István. The others as well, if their stern looks and over-the-shoulder glances were any sign. “With the rivers rising, they can’t move that fast.” István said the words and hoped that they were true.
The flashes of artillery shattered the next night. Clouds reflected the light down before István heard the all-too-familiar booms. “Form lines! Get into position, the Russians are attacking the entire line!” came the word.
István grabbed his men, those not needed to get the horses to shelter, and pushed them into position in the darkness. Despite the roar he could hear battle cries to the east, north, and south. The Russians were coming down the ridge—they had to have used the cover of the woods and marsh to get into position, and the rail line from Tarnopol. “Damn and blast it, get down,” István ordered one slow soul.
