Sergei and Hans Chapter 3 Part 5
A day later, I finally saw the mountains up close and I was awestruck by the enormity of it all. It was far too grand. These mountains Carpathia. Who needed God when Man had this?
The cliffs were majestic with mushroom caps, and the softest flutings I'd ever seen, made by the finest snow. It was crafted only by erosion and compelled by the grace of time, and still ever changing. The rocks and ridges were brown and the front of the slope looked like some dark phenomenon, but the ridges beyond were blue and green and outstretched for miles. Along the gorges and ravines, there was a difference in the air, as if the mountain itself was letting us know about the coming cold and winter. I was still captivated. I couldn't take it all in at once. I blinked several times then looked and looked. My eyes were caught in its glimmer, caught in a treasure of trance. Because from here, I felt the silence. No wind. Nor shells. Nor barking orders. To think how quiet it was. Down below, the Austrians probably thought the same. I wondered what their view was like. It took me several minutes to calm down, and I kept my hand on my chest, afraid that my heart would pop out.
I pondered and gazed and continued to stare. I always dreamed of these mountains. I wondered about the origin of it all and how it was conceived. Maybe that's why so many believed in God, or at least the artist of time. I could have died right there, Anya. I really could have. It took that much out of me. The snow fell harder, and I heard a voice scream through the icy air.
"Stop looking up, you ass."
Then I saw the owner of the voice and his sneer. His expression was a mixture of both hate and bafflement. It was Igor, and he was right.
"Yeah. It's a mountain" he added. "Come on. Get going."
He slapped me hard on the back then headed off in a long determined stride. Not long after, Sasha approached me and did the same. He slapped a little harder though. He wanted to break my heart, but it was already stolen.
My grandfather told me stories about these mountains. I remember grim tales he told to me about witches and bats and wolves. I haven't seen them yet, but I wouldn't be surprised if I did. There was a haunting presence to these mountains, painful and challenging. It was evident, even in the morning, even in the clear and blue, for everything was old. The pines and the birches. The cherries and the dogwoods, and the cedars. All old. You could feel it in each bark. And above the grapevines, to the left of the gorge, were abandoned stone castles, which were said to be there since the Teutonic knights. I still couldn't believe it when I saw it. I'd love to see this place in spring. I stared at the stone, and its carving, and all my thoughts revisited the signified, unmistakable fact of time's decline.
I saw some of the villagers' faces as we headed up the slope. They were as hard and old as the rocks we climbed. They were good folk and I could tell, for every stranger they came across they greeted with a smile. I truly believed them when they told me their cheese and wine was the finest in the entire world. I knew in my heart it was true. Who wouldn't be proud to live in a land this? Surrounded by beauty. Such painful beauty. And that led me to think of the poets here. The artists. The damn fools who went mad long ago then escaped to the caves. I wondered if there were still some left. I wondered if there were any aging musicians here, and I wondered too if they could still hit the high notes. I'd probably hear them someday, and I wanted to dearly, if I managed to survive all this.
The trance finally broke. I woke up and noticed that I was far behind my platoon, and was in danger of completely losing sight of them. I stared too long. I had to ignore it. I had to climb.
I got halfway and exerted myself up the ledge, and I was finally within sight of the platoon. During the climb, I thought of the Germans and Austrians many times over, our enemies. They were men, just like us. Though the feeling lasted only so long. That feeling was only there when they weren't shooting at us. Those bastards. Those poor, poor bastards. These Germans and Austrians, whomever we were killing, were husbands and fathers and kids, but above all they were men. Men who wondered if they'd ever make it home again. They were probably thinking the same of us. If only we could tell each other through the bombing and the fire. But bullets replaced words a long time ago. And rifles replaced friends. Some wished us to go to hell, but we were already there.
Because you must understand, Anya, we were men, and men unlike women suffer from a high quality of madness, which is deep and insufferable. Each man has it in him. It's what started this war, and it'll end this world if we ignore it completely. It's a collective madness, born from tradition, and each man serves his time, and unleashes the anger within. For men always have to prove something, to ourselves, and to the world. We must hunt. We must cling to the myth and the madness that comes with it. We have no other choice.
I joined my platoon and was greeted with indifference. We headed on for another mile then stopped a bit, and then were told to wait and escort an approaching wagon from the opposite hill. We waited a bit longer than expected, and when the wagon came it was quite a relief. The wagon was full of Austrian prisoners. We glared at them. There were about a hundred Austrians in all. Their faces were pale and most of them were peaceful, but all of them were sad. They were exhausted. There were some that required medical attention but they were granted no such thing, so they sat there till they froze. If death were boiled down to its roots, these men had come out of the same primal pot. They were men exercised to their limit, and would have been all right had they died on spot, but they were still alive, still barely hanging on, and the war proved to be even more preposterous. So we marched them back down until we reached the assigned transport carriage.
As our march progressed, I noticed the Austrians didn't say a word to each other. Sleet began to pour but we still had a ways to go. We knew they'd rebel and try to escape. The question was only when. It was obvious they were planning something. There was a level of certainty. We saw it in their eyes. They saw it in ours. Any moment would do, but as we waited for them to make a move, some of my comrades grew too impatient and began shooting at the prisoners indiscriminately. It was then I knew our men were fully entranced by the horror, for after the shooting, they started to beat the prisoners over the head with their wooden clubs. It was as brutal a beating as I ever seen. Believe me, Anya, I did my best and tried not to watch, but as you know, some things are unavoidable. They took great joy in the beating. It was raw and unbridled. They could have done this all night if they wanted to, but they stopped and restrained themselves. It was probably because they saw the blood and brains reach the snow. They stared at the scene for the longest time. At first the blood appeared bright. Then it became dark and dull, but after the sun had set it became sparse and forgotten.
I thought after seeing such carnage and punishment inflicted on their comrades that the Austrians would all succumb to the carriage, and most of them did, but the ones who didn't, the ones who slipped through and ran through to the woods, those were the men I appreciated most. They knew the risk and took it. There were only a half a dozen at most. We shot half of them and the other half escaped. The rest who stayed put, well, I couldn't blame them either. I'd probably have done the same, had it been us instead of them.
It was in the afternoon that I received an order that I was to assist the cannon crew. I had no idea what the job entailed, but when I asked the Lieutenant he assured me that it was simple enough: "You carry and load. That's all."
I was ordered thusly and followed two other men and we crawled about a mile down the slope. And there I saw the cannon crew, Czarist, and near. I could make out three men from a distance. They looked like black ants, scurrying, spitting, and sprawling about the snow. I hurried and got closer, hurried and shouted, shouted and waved. They ignored me. I moved even closer and could plainly see that they were stuck in a drift, and as I moved in closer, I knew exactly why we had been called in to help.
The dead horse lay near them about fifty feet behind. Its face was frozen. Blood was smeared on its teeth, and the golden brown hair turned into a thick plate of milky white ice. Its harness was ripped from its side. It was a part of the soil now.
Other than us, there wasn't a soul for miles. We pushed the cannon through, inches at a time. We slid on the ice and the weight of the cannon pulled us down, but we grunted through. Our steps receded as the cannon's resistance grew heavier. The commander screamed at us to push further another ten feet. It took us time but we got there, and when we did, the celebration lasted a brief second-and-a-half.
"Load! Load! Load!" the commander shouted.
So we loaded. We headed to the front of the cannon, inserted a cartridge, drew back, fired, and then repeated. The shells blasted upwards towards steep cliffs. We didn't know exactly what we fired at, and judging by the expression on the commander's face, I'm sure he was as clueless as anyone. We watched the blasts fall into the cliffs and we watched the black smoke blend into the falling snow. Each time my hands trembled, and each time the process proved to be more arduous than the last, but there was a gleam in each man's eye. A gleam that formed a solidarity. One of madness.