The World as I Found It

by Bruce Duffy

  In his heart, he must have known this bluff talk didn’t fool anyone, but it helped calm him, his chatter growing more absurd the more frightened he became. And he was more jumpy than ever now, having heard that that essential personage Prince Primkin had been ordered to evacuate at his earliest opportunity with his four young aides. Stize was trying to be a good sport about it. Shaking his head resolutely, he told Wittgenstein:

  The prince very much wanted to stay but I told him he must go. Really no choice. And do you know what the prince said to me then? He said, Carpe diem — that’s our regimental motto, you know — and I said, By God, you go ahead, Rudolph. (I call him Rudolph, you know. No hanging on protocol for him.) Yes, there you go, old chap, I said. Never you mind about the old chocolate maker. He’ll find his way home.

  But Stize was not so sanguine when he returned a few minutes later. His gas mask had been stolen, and he had heard from the prince that three officers up the line had been shot by agitators.

  Stize continued: He told me I’d better watch my back, and then — here Stize proudly pulled a small pearl-handled revolver from his pocket — he gave me this. Stize flicked on his flashlight so Wittgenstein could see it better. See his initials on the barrel? There’s an inscription, too, from his father, the grand duke. Well, you can imagine how I felt. He even wanted to give me a card for some debts, but naturally I refused. Staring at the pistol, Stize was like a boy who likes to scare himself with stories of hobgoblins. God, he said. Only hope my hand doesn’t shake if it should come to that. Should do the job up close, though, don’t you think? Bloody fanatics. Heard some have to be shot three and four times before they go down. Always been excitable. Even giving speeches in school. Terrified me. Well! he said, slipping out his flask with a shiver. Enough of that. Have a drink. Go on — do you good. Never tell a soul. No? Well, then — Glowering as the brandy bit back. Surely, they’ll tell us to fall back. I mean, they can’t very well expect us to fight to the last man. Not with this bunch we have here. I’m sure they’ll be sending up fresh reserves. Have to.

  Wittgenstein couldn’t get rid of him. Again and again, Stize returned that night, filled with spurious war lore, staff rumors and misinformation. First he had heard that the Russians positively would not attack because it was Sunday, then, on the contrary, that they were the most murderous on Sundays, when they were all sure to be raging drunk and wearing shirts specially blessed by the priests to ward off bullets.

  Between the men and Stize, Wittgenstein hardly had a moment all night to speak to Ernst, who was silent and gloomy as dawn approached and the bombardment began to die down. It seemed as if there was something to say — something forgotten or unsaid in their leave-taking — but at bottom, he realized, there was nothing to say, nothing at all. He felt oddly humiliated by this, humiliated in the way he had felt once when his father had slapped him, snapping his words off in midstream. And now that life was breaking off, all he felt was silence, an abiding, humbling silence. Not a consoling silence: it was as cold and impersonal as fate, but at least it was real in the sense of being how things stood: an end to life’s delusions.

  By that time, most of the men were sleeping or in that general attitude, the living almost indistinguishable from the dead. Ernst, meanwhile, had taken some men to bring up crates of stick bombs and ammunition, and Wittgenstein was watching the Russian lines, when he heard someone yell, Hold it, you yellow bastard!

  Turning then, he saw, illuminated by the flashes of an automatic pistol, the blood-streaked face of an officer who was firing into the darkness. Cursing, the officer slapped another clip in his pistol, cocked it, then lurched toward a dugout and flung the door open, bellowing down, Get the hell up here, you miserable cowards. The Russians are about to attack! Do you hear me, he yelled, brandishing a stick bomb. Out! Out right now or I’ll kill you all myself!

  Shots rang out. Screaming, the officer pulled the fuse ring and flung it down, bringing pandemonium. But it didn’t explode.

  You, Sergeant! he yelled, running over to Wittgenstein. Give me a stick bomb — now!

  Saluting, Wittgenstein lied. I don’t have one, sir.

  The officer, a major, stuck a bent cigarette in his lips and struck a ghastly profile, with blood oozing down his shako cap. Then give me a light! You at least have a match, don’t you? Looking away, the major mumbled, Goddamn idiots …

  Sir, said Wittgenstein, who now could smell alcohol on the major’s breath as he rummaged through his pockets for a match. I respectfully suggest that you seek medical attention. There’s —

  But the raging major stared into his eyes, bits of spittle on his lips as he flipped the cigarette up and down. Don’t you think I know that, you goddamned bumpkin? I’ll be damned if I’ll take guff from some simple-assed son of a sausage maker like you. The major was working himself into another fit. God damn you! he roared, suddenly jamming the hot pistol barrel into Wittgenstein’s neck. You’ve got five minutes to get these sorry bastards up on the line because when I come back I’ll be bombing dugouts and shooting traitors, especially Czech traitors. One just shot Major Springer. I’ve been after the little bastard all night. They have a special whistle they use to signal the Russians. Ever hear it? Sounds like a partridge. You know what a partridge sounds like, don’t you, straw foot? Still holding the pistol at Wittgenstein’s throat, the major thoughtfully mumbled something to himself, then presented the bent cigarette in his slobbery dog’s teeth, snarling, Now, light me up, asshole.

  The match flared. Wittgenstein was considering grabbing the madman’s pistol when the major whirled around and fired. There! There he goes! Over there, God damn it! Are you blind, too?

  The major charged off into the darkness, cursing and firing. Then, several minutes later, Stize ran toward Wittgenstein with a muddy handprint on his face.

  Did you see him? Just now! This major, some lunatic, slapped me as I was coming out of the officers’ dugout. Prince Primkin was right behind me with his orderly. He was just about to leave, and the man struck him, too. Knocked him down! Just raving with the blood pouring from his face. Stize patted his pockets for a cigarette, then continued. And that’s not the worst. They want us to fight to the last man. And the Russians are certain to attack. Did you hear? They were issued fresh underwear yesterday — underwear and vodka, so they’re all sure to be running amuck. Prince says it’s a sure sign. Apparently the wretches think they can’t go to heaven in dirty underwear. And watch your back. There’s this whistle the Czechs are using to warn the Russians. Goes like a cuckoo or something —

  Cutting him off, Wittgenstein said impatiently, Sir, it’s nearing day-break. I think we ought to deploy the men.

  Stize shook his head rapidly. Right! About to say the very same thing. Good. You do that. Reinforcements are coming. Prince says they’re sure to call us back. Got to. Bloody suicide to stay here.

  Wittgenstein pulled away from him wearily when Stize pulled the little pistol from his pocket and asked meekly, By the way, will your pistol cartridges fit this thing? Blasted thing’s unloaded. Meant to catch the prince before he left. No? Stize wavered a moment, staring at the pistol, then said, Well, look here, then, I’ll find some bullets and be right back. Good! Very good!

  A cold morning breeze was blowing as Stize disappeared again. Over the Russian trenches, the first faint streaks of dawn were beginning to appear. Wittgenstein was trying to collect his thoughts when an empty tin struck him on the elbow — a warning, followed by a little edge of laughter as he turned and heard the snap of a fuse ring. He knew who it was, and turned, fatalistic, as Grundhardt flipped a stick bomb at his feet. No time to throw it away or run. Wittgenstein could hear Grundhardt cackling as he scuttled off. But the joke was on both of them, because this one didn’t explode either, though for Wittgenstein it might as well have.

  The mad major was perhaps not as mad as he seemed. The Russians did attack shortly after dawn, and it was only because the Austrian first lines were deployed that they even delayed th
at onslaught.

  Some reinforcements arrived just before the attack, but they weren’t in much better shape than Wittgenstein’s own men, who were almost docile after a night’s pounding. While the machine gunners locked and cleared their guns with a peremptory coughing, Wittgenstein and Ernst situated the men, handed out stick bombs and bandoliers of ammunition, then ordered them to load and fix bayonets. They were barely ready when the first Russian wave rushed out in a probing maneuver, covered by a thin smoke screen and a walking barrage laced with rifle fire. Stumbling over shell holes in long brown coats and tall fleece caps, most of the Russians were summarily cut down by return fire and the chugging, water-cooled machine guns that swung back and forth, dropping them in clotted heaps, some crumpling, some sitting abruptly, some blown back onto the ugly spike bayonets of those rushing behind them.

  The first wave was decimated, as was the second. But those who got through managed to clear paths through the remaining wire for the third and fourth waves, who by then were whooping and cheering, impeded only by the bodies of their comrades.

  The noise was deafening and it was difficult to follow targets or get more than glimpses of what was happening through the bursting shells and drifting smoke. Ernst, six or seven men down the wall from Wittgenstein, was firing and urging the men on; in the confusion, Wittgenstein never had a chance to settle accounts or say good-bye in that veiled, awkward way of men before battle. To Wittgenstein’s amazement, Stize was there, too. Wittgenstein never expected him to return, yet there he was, glowering and hung over, frantically pacing back and forth to keep from trembling, almost enraged now that he realized he was trapped with nowhere to run for instructions, with no other business before him but to be sacrificed with his more expendable men, without even the prince there to see him valiantly waving that unloaded pistol in the air.

  Stize probably surprised himself that day. He was helping feed bullets into the machine gun after the second gunner was killed, when he himself was shot through the throat. Wittgenstein was too busy cranking the hot bolt of his rifle, firing at glimpses of coats and arms, to be able to do anything about the chocolate maker as he lay there, bleeding to death with Krull bent over him. Nor was there anything to be done about Ernst a few moments later, when Wittgenstein paused to reload and saw him lying at the bottom of the trench, with his legs flung over his shoulders and the side of his head blown off. The Russians were nearly on them by then. Some of his men had fled, while others were wounded or feigning wounds or death or else frantically throwing down their weapons and holding up crucifixes, having heard that the Russians wouldn’t shoot a man holding a crucifix. Wrong again.

  There was no time to turn the men around; there was no time to do anything. As the first Russian attackers neared the trench, Wittgenstein and others nearby flung two and three stick bombs each over the breastworks, but only a handful exploded. And then the first Russians broke over them, a gang of six or seven, young and green. The Austrians who were still fighting were mostly the brawlers, the mean-eyed ones who loved it. A bearish man beside Wittgenstein dropped his rifle in favor of a pickhandle bristling with nails and a sharpened railroad spike, exultantly cursing as he broke the back of one boy in midair, then took another down at the knees, splattering his brains like a toadstool. Wittgenstein had never been caught in a dreaded hand-to-hand fight, assuring himself that it would be better to sacrifice himself, Isaac-like, than stoop so low. But he saw hobnailed boots and a bloody face in the sky — then ducked as a Russian bayonet sank like a javelin into the sandbags opposite. Whipping around, he shot the man pointblank in the face, then winged a second, before a third swung from behind and leapt on him with his rifle. The pistol went off and dropped, but as Wittgenstein fell, either he managed to put his boot into the man’s groin or else the man just stumbled — no telling which, it happened so fast — and Wittgenstein wrenched the rifle from his grasp and pounced on him. The Russian was barely a boy, a yearling soldier with a square face and queer Mongol eyes. The boy knew he was dead, so fearstruck that when he screamed only air-starved steam rushed out. It was Grundhardt again. Grundhardt was all Wittgenstein saw. Like a wounded rabbit, the boy was squealing in hot, panting little breaths, his muddy hands frantically tearing at Wittgenstein’s tunic, when the steel rifle butt stove down, a glancing blow that tore the skin from the side of his forehead. The broken boy shuddered and bucked. Fear raised the rifle up. Something was set in motion that couldn’t be stopped. Dizzily, Wittgenstein aimed, then rammed the butt home with one final, lusting grunt, crushing bone to jelly as a tardy, sickened impulse told him the first blow would have done it.

  Then Wittgenstein was scrambling over gelatinous bodies, clawing up as out of a bloody bucket. Everyone who still had legs was running then. Ahead he saw Krull, Stize’s orderly, hopping nimbly over the shell holes, like black Peter with his sack of chocolates. And behind him hundreds more were running as through a fire storm, going up in geysers or falling gored on their faces as the rallying pursuers shot them down. Wittgenstein’s pack was slapping his back and his blood was splashing. His chest could hardly contain his lungs. The miracle was that he was actually running to save his life that day, running with no thought of his book or of anyone but himself, bawling, Nicht schiessen, nicht schiessen!

  The Russian offensive was a route for the Austrians, who in the next week were driven back forty miles, losing some two hundred big guns and more than three hundred thousand men, killed, captured or missing. What had been an army was now a frantic, fleeing mob bent only on saving itself, stripping the dead, abandoning the wounded — even taking their last drop of water — and murdering anyone who got in its way. Hundreds drowned in the crush to cross a flimsy pontoon bridge across the rain-swollen Styr. Russian planes bombed and strafed the bottle-necked columns, and bands of Cossacks mounted on the hairy Kirghiz ponies cut down stragglers. And complicating everything were hordes of refugees, who were driven from the roads into the forests, where they hid, competing for the spoils with scavenging packs of deserters from both armies. Yellow Units, they were called, murderers and thieves who hunted in packs, like wild dogs, the all against the all.

  Unable to find his own unit, Wittgenstein fought with remnants of various other units during two days of rear guard skirmishes with the Russians while the main army escaped. And everywhere he went, he looked for Grundhardt. He knew this was madness, and yet, if anything, the sheer improbability of ever finding Grundhardt made their meeting seem all the more inevitable. If he saw a soldier with Grundhardt’s general build or coloring, Wittgenstein’s heart would fly into his mouth. But when he called out Grundhardt’s name, some weary stranger dragging a rifle and bedroll would turn around, puzzled by his wild stare.

  Finally, an officer sent several squads back to a virgin stand of birches for a full night’s sleep, Wittgenstein’s first in weeks. Exhausted and desperate to forget, most of the men were out the second they lay down. But Wittgenstein only grew more agitated as he lay there listening to their tormented mumblings, watching them twitch and whimper in their sleep like dreaming dogs. This was not sleep, nor was the sleep life, nor was life the end. Beasts walk the earth — he saw that now. Hirsute and engorged with themselves, they rose like erections, spilling and stealing and cutting the generations down like corn.

  Now the picture of his life cast its shadow across the world. Bitterly, he thought of how fiercely he had fought to save himself. And for what? Flatulent heart. Fraudulent life. The shadow ran through his empty heart as through a sieve, spilling lies in the vain hope of distilling even a few grains of truth. He had no faith, and yet he felt faith’s desires — a castrato’s urge, singing to only a dim memory of music, pretending that one is, after all, human, born of woman and earth. No, it was quite clear: he had no soul, but still he felt the pain of one, the phantom pain that amputees feel from missing hands that still play empty rondos and fugues. But by far the most excruciating pain was how, once severed from the soul, the unmoored mind persisted, gliding
along like a monstrous shark, swimming for no other reason than to force raw life through its gills, swimming like sperm to ovum, seeking life, seeking death.

  He desperately wanted to weep but every pore was plugged; he thought he would explode there under the stars, surrounded by the sleep-talkers and skittish horses who stood dreaming on their feet. And then Grundhardt was there; he was sitting right beside him. His face was black and vacant and the sharp little triangles at the top of his skull, like the ears of a cat, only confirmed Wittgenstein’s suspicions. Dragging between his legs was a thick cock or tail with a meaty club head that, when Wittgenstein looked closer, resembled an ace of spades. Loathsome, the insistent way Grundhardt stropped and fondled it; Wittgenstein felt his sphincter lubricate and tighten in apprehension. He didn’t argue when Grundhardt said that many others were writing the same book as he; Wittgenstein had long suspected as much. God is wasteful. How else to explain why so many men of genius — so many Darwins — are simultaneously put on the world to die in their prime so that one might propagate some peculiar species of idea? Were ideas so precious? Effortlessly, sketching equations in the air with a smoking fingernail, Grundhardt was making all kinds of logical connections that so far had eluded Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein was amazed at how he had underestimated him, that master metaphysician. Grundhardt had, for instance, devised an equation — a sort of ballistic triangulation — by which he could plot the path of bullets and so slip unscathed through the steel fusillades in the way that air slides between raindrops. But when Grundhardt sketched out Wittgenstein’s own ideas, the signs swirled into nonsense and the logic went awry, causing Wittgenstein’s once majestic propositions to wilt over him like spaghetti strings until he groaned with mortification. With eyes as low as the Dead Sea, Grundhardt said contemptuously: