The Czechoslovak Review/Volume 1/Stories of War Prisoners

by Artur Kurt

Stories of War Prisoners.

Gut’ Morhen, meinen Herren . . .

 

We were returning from patrol work in no man’s land. The morning mist was thinning out, a warning to us to get back into the trenches. We walk quietly, each man tired and melancholy.

Ahead of us the sun rises and its rosy light penetrates the white, heavy mists through which we can now perceive indistinctly the gray outlines of Old Sambor.

About a hundred more feet to the trenches; suddenly a dull, heavy noise is heard from our left side. We fall down immediately ready to defend our lives. I strain my eyes trying to make out anything moving, but the mist rolls over the ground and nothing can he distinguished twenty feet away.

“Boys,” I whisper to the rear, “we have to wait, until the mist gets thinner.” “The devil take them,” somebody answers.

We lie flat for fifteen minutes and then we hear another sound, this time nearer.

“Halt, wer da?” I yell and rattle the rifle. “Guter Freund”, says a feeble, scared voice from the mist. “What friend?”, I ask the unseen person. No answer for a while, and then the sound becomes more distinct, as the unknown approaches.

“Look out, boys,” I command, and the next moment we make out a crawling figure. A Russian soldier, unarmed, pressed to the ground, making progress like a snake. We jump up and order him to rise and come nearer.

He gets up slowly and fawns at us. “Gut’ Morhen, meinen Herren”, he greets us humbly with a foreign accent. It was plain that he was not of the Russian race.

I look at my comrades and they could read my feelings; what I wanted most to do was to send a bullet right between those two Judas eyes. But two among us were Germans and we had to be careful.

We “captured” the deserter and hurried back to the trenches. *⁠*⁠* Up to that time the general opinion on our side was that the Russians opposite us were intrenched in force. We were greatly surprised to receive the order “umhengen”, while our artillery was thundering its very loudest. We attacked and captured easily the enemy intrenchments which were only weakly held and defended.

We knew well who furnished the necessary information to our commander—a Judas for thirty pieces of silver.

 

Mind Your Own Business

 

When we were departing for the front, our wives and our sweethearts marched with us to the depot with roses in their arms and hot tears in their eyes.

Our hearts were stirred to their depths at the thought of leaving those who were dearest to us. Soon they will be stretching out their arms after us in vain. It was a tragedy for every one.

We came to the depot. The band played a sentimental march, handkerchiefs fluttered in the wind to bid us good-by, the crowd looked at us with sympathy, as we were to leave them to go to an uncertain fate.

Bent under the weight of his equipment Corporal L... marched ahead of me. In his rifle was stuck a small red and white flag. We entered the spacious station vestibule. At the entrance stood the commander of our battallion, Captain Brandt, to give us the last, hasty inspection. As soon as he noticed Corporal L. with his red and white flag, he stepped forward, his face flushed with anger, his eyes glittered, and snatching his sabre he swung it at the flag. "Bohemian cattle", bellowed the captain at the offender.

Corporal L. hit on the head by the sabre dragged himself to the train, and once in the car gave way to silent tears. We gathered around him as if to shield him. We knew he did not cry because of the pain, but because of fury at the indignity put upon all Bohemians in a public place.

No one said a word, but we knew that a sentence was pronounced upon the captain. *⁠*⁠*

 

After the first skirmish in which our battallion took part Captain Brandt was missing. When the ambulance men found him, he had four mortal wounds, all in the back, caused by Austrian rifles.

He only got, what he deserved.

Artur Kurt.