# The Russian Review/Volume 1/March 1916/"War is War"— Incidents of the Present Strife

"War is War."
Incidents of the Present Strife.
By A. Michailovsky.
When viewed in its whole immensity, the present War is an enormous, never-ending drama, with its action never ceasing, yet always changing with almost kaleidoscopic rapidity. Its great sea of dramatic power, of horrifying, maddening tragedy, of comedy that can evoke but a slight response from hearts already sick with the incongruity of the whole thing, is constantly fed by millions of tiny, individual streams of suffering, short-running and becoming lost in the great ocean of the world sorrow.
There is, indeed, a strong element of incongruity about war. War is a reversion to "man's primal state;" it evokes the basest instincts that in times not martial lie slumbering within the heart of man. But it cannot kill entirely his instincts for good. It can stun them temporarily, it can rob man of his ideas of the beautiful and the noble, substitute for them the bare instinct of self-preservation, now distorted and swelled to unbecoming proportions, drown his humanizing traits in the sight of blood and of torn flesh, in the incessant hell of battle.
And yet, even under these conditions, the drama of war often presents peculiar, tiny twists and turns of its action, unfolds before our eyes little pictures that we cannot help admiring, despite all their grimness, despite what now appears to be the habitual cruelty that seems to have become man's very element. Perhaps these little pictures of individual valor, of individual attainment, strike us so, because they speak to us of the impossibility of converting immense masses of men into regulated fighting machines, because they remind us of the individual units whose willingness to undergo suffering for whatever they think is right or necessary, is so often abused and wantonly squandered. There is unfathomable pathos in these simple, little, individual dramas that run their course within the implacable shadow of the awful War.
Turning, at random, the leaves of the War's grim annals, ​upon which is still wet the blood with which the records are written, we come across numberless dramas of this sort, scattered over the vast battlefield of the Old World. Let us choose one or two.
The Russian press has recently reported the capture of the commander of the 82nd German Division, together with his whole staff, by a handful of Russian troops. The story of this raid is one of grim simplicity, yet behind the uncolored details we feel the gripping romance of hours of racking torture, of fearful strain, of recklessness verging almost on frenzy, of implacable cruelty, of delirious joy at the unexpectedly brilliant success.
But, war is war. . .
The object of the raid was to reach the small village of Nevel, where, according to reports, was stationed the staff of the 271st regiment of German infantry. The village lay far within the German lines, in the very midst of a large territory covered with impassable swamps. The fact of the presence of these swamps led the Germans to weaken their vigilance at some parts of the line, and this made the raid possible.
The attack was undertaken by a small detachment of troops, scarcely numbering forty, led by a young officer. Their guides were several local trappers who knew every road and by-way for miles around. They undertook to lead the raiders by secret paths to the very village of Nevel. The movements of the detachment had to be conducted in absolute silence, and the commanding officer warner his soldiers grimly that he would use his sword on any one who talked or coughed louder than was necessary. The commander of the detachment himself gives the following graphic description of the raid.
"The night was clear, the moon was out, and the stars twinkled in the blue November sky, while under our feet the fresh snow was crackling softly. We were going slowly, feeling our way. Despite all care, someone would occasionally fall off the path and into the deceptive layer of snow, but the strong hands of his neighbors would immediately help him out. Our guides showed us the precise spot where we were to meet a German detachment of thirty of forty men. It was necessary to destroy this detachment. This, in itself, was not difficult, of course, but it was essential to do the thing so that there would not be any unnecessary noise. Moreover, it was important not to let any one get away.
​"Without a single suspicious sound, we approached the German position. 'Halt! Wer-da?' was heard almost immediately. 'Friends,' answered we in German, and in the same instant our bayonets went into action. The Germans did not have a chance even to realize what was going on. One or two fired at random. It did not take us more than a few moments to dispatch them all. . .
"Soon we approached the sleeping village. There was no difficulty in quietly dispatching the guards. It was then that the work began. We had taken along with us a considerable number of hand grenades, to the use of which our soldiers have now become quite accustomed. Our guides assured us that there was nobody in the village except the German soldiers, who occupied every available hut and cottage. Our task was made easier by the fact that the village stretched out in a long line. . . The work consisted in approaching a window of a hut, breaking the glass with the elbow, and then throwing the grenade inside. Ten seconds later, which is sufficient time for the man throwing the grenade to run to a safe distance, the grenade would explode with a terrific force, shattering everything inside and setting the building on fire. There was no escape for those caught inside the huts.
"The work began. From every direction came the sounds of explosions, and hut after hut flared up. Most of the Germans were asleep, and they passed to the next world, never knowing what had sent them there. . . There was a light in one hut, and through the window we could see a group of five or six officers playing cards around a table. Evidently they had had their supper only a short while before, and were now passing a pleasant hour before retiring. They had come to Nevel the day before, together with the staff of the 82nd Division, whose presence in the village was a welcome surprise to us. The officers evidently thought themselves in perfect safety and were in fine spirits. Suddenly the glass of the window-pane jingled to the floor, and, several seconds later a terrible explosion shook the place. Of the peaceful card-table scene nothing remained but the flaming hut, in whose ruins was burning the torn flesh of the German officers.
"The explosion and the conflagration made our presence in the village evident, of course, and the disturbed Germans began to rush out of the houses, firing at random. But they inevitably struck one of our bullets or bayonets.
"It did not take us long to destroy, in this manner, the whole ​battalion of the 271st regiment of German infantry stationed in this village. Our losses, naturally, were very small. But our work did not end here. At the very beginning of the fray our company divided into several parts. While some of us worked with the grenades, others sought the battery of guns stationed in Nevel, and explosions from that quarter soon joined the general din. At the same time, the rest of us surrounded the largest house in the village, where, according to our information, the headquarters of the regiment were located. But kind fate sent us the staff of a whole division, in addition to that of the regiment. The officers opened fire, but they were almost all cut down. Only General von Tabernis, commander of the 82nd Division, was saved by a sheer miracle, for he wore a sweater instead of his uniform, and was unarmed. It was only later that we recognized him. . . We took with us large quantities of important papers and maps.
"But it was time to start back. The din and the conflagration caused the alarm to spread all around. And we were far within the German lines. The most difficult task was to get back safely. . . We set out on our homeward march in the sight of German troops already closing upon us. Luck was with us to the end. Constantly firing back at our pursuers, we succeeded in preventing them from encircling us. Besides, the general commotion robbed the Germans of their usual alertness and quickness of action. . . Towards morning, we were already approaching our own positions. There were no more orders of the kind, 'Just you cough, and I'll. . .' Each one sang as loudly as he could. Only those can understand our feelings who have themselves passed through whole hours of such a November night, in the circumstances in which we found ourselves.
"We did not bring back many prisoners. The risks were too great. But we did have the general and the commander of the battery with us. General von Tabernis was very gloomy. He did not have his casque on; there was no time to look for it. When we offered him a cap, he sullenly refused it, tying a handkerchief about his head. We tried to put some questions to him, but he answered abruptly, 'Why do you ask me? You know that I am a Prussian general and won't say anything.' He walked along, silent and dignified. Only once did he break his silence, to ask about the fate of his Chief of Staff. 'I cut him down,' said one of my soldiers and bared his bloody sabre. General von Tabernis looked at the soldier and at his sabre, and then lowered his eyes. . .
​"Every one was silent . . . What was to be done? War is war . . ."
Cruelty, undisguised and unadorned, becomes the sole article of faith, the only rule of behavior. No one shuns it or relegates it to the category of evil. On the contrary, it is the highest good, for it forms the basis of bravery, which, in its turn, breeds heroism. Cruelty transformed into heroism! Men forget themselves, forget the most elementary principles of interhuman life. Human creatures in different uniforms are there to destroy and to be destroyed.
Gregory Petrov, one of the most brilliant of Russia's war correspondents, tells of such a little drama of heroism, that occurred during the siege of Novogeorgievsk. It may well be named "The brave ones' madness."
". . .Several forts pass through the last hours of their life. All the fortifications are swept away, most of the guns are silent, the men are nowhere in sight. German infantry floods the grounds. Columns of soldiers advance from the right and from the left. Their front seems impenetrable.
"In one of the forts there is still a handful of men. One corner, like a bare jaw, is still throbbing with life. Behind the fort there is a road of escape, which makes return to the fortress possible. But the 'brave ones' madness' asserts itself. The commanding officer gathers his men together and says:
" 'Boys, it's for you to say. If you speak the word, we'll all go back. But I'm for staying here. We still have a lot of machine guns, a couple of light pieces, and a good supply of ammunition. Let's wait here for our guests. But remember, if we stay the chances are that not one of us will escape. What do you say?'
" 'Of course, we'll stay. What difference does it make? It's just the same in the fortress. Death may come any moment. We'll stay and have our fun here.'
"They bared their heads, made the sign of the cross, and kissed each other like brothers. The officer informed the fortress through underground telephone, of the decision of his men.
" 'We'll stay here to the end. And maybe you'll come and get us out.'
"A few moments later, the struggle between this handful of men and several German columns began. For some hours these men sang their song to the 'brave ones' madness.' The Germans, encircling the silent fort, never expected to find amidst its ruins a handful of 'madmen.' The advancing columns were ​rolling on. Suddenly the ruins burst into life. Machine guns splashed their hail of lead, and a shell or two fell into the midst of the German columns.
"The German became furious. They rushed to the remains of the fort, and turned back, met by a living wall of lead and fire. The heavy German guns began their booming . . . Clouds of dust and broken stone surround the fort, which still speaks its language of fire. The officer reports the operations to the fortress:
" 'We are surrounded. Firing incessantly. They're falling fast. They've turned back. They are hammering our covers with heavy guns. The Germans are beginning their attack. Firing, firing, firing. We're mowing them down. How are things with you? We are waiting for you . . .'
"A half-hour later, the officer reports again:
" 'They're hammering hard. The arches seem to hold out. Attacking us again. We've lots of ammunition. We are waiting for you . . ."
"Another hour goes by.
" 'Everything around is strewn with bodies of Germans. They are all mad. Throw themselves on us like starved rats, and we shoot. Every shot tells.'
"A little later, the voice speaks excitedly:
" 'The Germans are flooding everything. We've no time to fire. We cut down ten, and twenty take their places. We mow down the twenty, and forty others are there already . . . The Germans are in the fort. We are still firing at those in the field. They're trying to break through the roof . . . Can't hear anything . . . The Germans are piling rocks against our gun openings. We are still firing . . . Fire . . .'
"The voice stopped short. The Germans were in full possession of the fort."