The Two-Headed Eagle поп-3

by Джон Биггинс

  The train moved out of the station once more in a haze of lignite smoke, and was soon clanking through the five successive tunnels be­yond Adelsberg, where the line burrows through a series of mountain spurs. Before long we were squealing to a halt alongside the low plat­form of the station at Divacca. I had changed trains here many times during the previous sixteen years, for Divacca was the junction for the line down the Istrian Peninsula to Austria’s principal naval base at Pola. But this morning it was to be different: my rail warrant extended only as far as Divacca, where I was to get off the train and carry on to an ob­scure little town called Haidenschaft some twenty-five kilometres away, thence to a doubtless even more God-forsaken place called Caprovizza, so out-of-the-way that I had been unable to find it even on quite large-scale maps of the Kustenland region.

  The other difference that marked off my arrival that morning at Divacca from all the previous ones was that I was now stepping down from the train as someone else. On all previous occasions I had been travelling as a plain, ordinary naval lieutenant called Ottokar Prohaska, the son of a Czech postal official from a small town in northern Moravia. Now though, even if I was still only a Linienschiffsleutnant as regards ser­vice rank, I was altogether something far more exalted in social standing: Ottokar Prohaska, Ritter von Strachnitz, the most recent recipient of the very rarest and most prized of all the Old Monarchy’s honours for brav­ery in action, the Knight’s Cross of the Military Order of Maria Theresa, awarded to me a few days previously at Schonbrunn by the Emperor him­self, in recognition of my feat one night a few weeks previously, when I had shot down an Italian airship off Venice and then, for good measure, torpedoed one of their submarines as well. And to be honest I was finding it more than a little hard to get used to my sudden fame and elevation to noble rank. I had tried to leave Vienna quietly the previous evening—not least because I had got married only two days before. But quiet farewells to my wife had not been possible, not with the crowds which had somehow gathered ahead of me at the Sudbahnhof, and the autograph hunters, and the popping magnesium flashes and the children being held up on their fathers’ shoulders to get a look at me. In the end, unused to such celebrity, I was heartily glad when the train steamed out of the station.

  But even as we clanked southwards through Graz and Marburg I was not to be left in peace. As I made my way along the corridor to the meagre wartime buffet car, brother-officers had jostled to shake my hand and slap me on the back and wish me well in my new career now that (according to the Vienna newspapers) command of a U-Boat had become too humdrum for me and I had volunteered for flying duties, “. . . as the only field left in which he may provide fresh evidences of his matchless valour in the service of Emperor and Fatherland.” When I was at last able to find some peace back in my compartment I looked down once more at the decoration pinned to the left breast of my jacket. It seemed a small enough thing to be making such a fuss about, I thought as I gazed at it lying in the palm of my hand: a small white-enamelled gold cross with a little red-white-red medallion in the middle, encircled by the word Fortitudini . Such a small thing, yet within a few hours it had turned my life upside-down to a degree where I was already beginning to suspect that malignant fairies had substituted someone else for me while I slept.

  Nor was there to be any respite at Divacca, that bleak little township up on the arid limestone plateau above Trieste. Word of my arrival had somehow travelled ahead of me during the night and the townspeople— mostly Slovenes in these parts—had arranged a reception for me. As I ap­peared at the door of the carriage to descend to the platform I saw a crowd waiting. Before I realised what was happening the town band had struck up the “Radetzky March” and I was being hoisted on to their shoulders to be carried through the station vestibule into the square in front of the building. A crowd cheered and the Burgermeister stood holding a large bouquet of flowers as the band played the “Gott Erhalte” and the local gendarmery and fire brigade presented arms. The houses were bedecked with black-and-yellow and red-white-red bunting, while on the opposite side of the square a banner proclaimed:

  VIVAT OSTERREICH—NIEDER MIT DEN ITALIENERN!

  ZIVELA AVSTRIJA—DOL S ITALIJANI!

  VIVA AUSTRIA—A BASSO GLI ITALIANI!

  With that little ceremony over, I am afraid that the whole thing rather ran out of steam. If you are carrying someone on your shoulders you have to be carrying them somewhere, and the welcoming committee clearly had no idea of what to do with me next. So after the Burgermeister had made a short patriotic speech and the crowd had applauded I was un­ceremoniously put down on the cobbles of the station forecourt while everyone dispersed to go about their daily business, leaving me holding the bouquet and a scroll of paper giving me the freedom of the commune of Divacca—surely, now as then, one of the least desirable privileges on the whole of God’s earth.

  I went back into the station, which had resumed its normal wartime bustle of men proceeding on leave and men returning from leave. I took out my movement order and looked at it: “Report at 1200 hours 24/VII/16 to HQ Fliegerkompagnie 19F, flying field Haidenschaft-Caprovizza.” Well, it was now just past 8:00 a.m., so I had four hours in hand. But how to get there? The order took me only as far as Divacca by train, so how was I to get myself and my belongings to Haidenschaft and then to Caprovizza, wherever that might be? Clearly, expert advice was called for. I entered the station offices and eventually found a door marked PERSONNEL MOVE­MENTS—k.u.k. armee (commissioned and warrant officer ranks) . They would surely know in here. I opened the door and entered to find an unkempt and rather shabby-looking Stabsfeldwebel dozing with his boots resting on a paper-littered desk. A copy of the dubious Viennese magazine Paprika lay open beside him, while the walls of the office were decorated with numerous bathing beauties, evidently cut out from this same magazine, whose sumptuous padding had not yet been reduced to any noticeable degree by the privations of wartime. I coughed. He stirred, looked at me with one eye, then got up and made a perfunctory salute while fastening the topmost buttons of his tunic.

  “Obediently report, Herr, er—” (he gazed at my three cuff-rings for some moments in puzzlement)—“Leutnant, that you’ve got the wrong office: naval personnel movements is upstairs.”

  “I’m not concerned with that. I have been seconded to the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe, Flik 19F, at a place called Caprovizza near Haidenschaft. I’ve no idea where it is or how to get there, so I would be grateful if you could help me. Do you deal with movements of flying personnel or only with ground troops?”

  “Obediently report that both, Herr Leutnant.”

  “Excellent. So how do I get from here to Caprovizza?”

  He rubbed his chin—he had not yet shaved that morning—and rum­maged beneath some papers. It was quite plain that he felt it to be really no part of his duties to assist anything that wore blue instead of field grey, even if it did have the Maria Theresa pinned to it. At length he answered.

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to be so easy, Herr Leutnant. Normally there’s a lorry comes up here mornings and evenings to collect people for the Vippaco Valley airfields. But the rear axle broke yesterday evening so there won’t be any transport now before about nineteen-hundred.” He paused for a while. “Tell you what though, Herr Leutnant, I could help you perhaps. Strictly outside regulations of course, but . . .”

  So in the end, once I had reluctantly parted with a precious tin of cigarettes, a way was found of getting me to Haidenschaft by midday. It appeared that a despatch rider’s motor cycle had to be returned to my new posting’s parent unit, Flik 19 at Haidenschaft. The reason for this, I learnt, was that the previous day, on the station platform, a Hungarian soldier proceeding home on leave had sought to demonstrate to his comrades the utter unreliability of Italian hand-grenades, using a captured example which he was taking home as a souvenir. The result had been three on­lookers dead and seven more or less seriously injured, among them Flik 19’s despatch rider, who had been standing nearby wai
ting to collect a packet of documents from the Vienna express. The motor cycle had to be returned to its unit, but since it had been moved to a shed on the other side of the town I would have to wait while an orderly was sent to fetch it. There was time for refreshments.

  As I made my way to the station buffet I began to grasp for the first time exactly how strange a territory it was that I was entering, this Zone of the Armies which I had heard and read so much about while stationed down at Cattaro, but which I had never visited. The station was thronged with soldiery from every nationality of the polyglot Army of the Emperor of Austria and Apostolic King of Hungary: Magyars and Slovaks and Bosnians and Tyroleans and Ruthenes and Croats, all reduced now to a weary sameness, not only by their shabby grey uniforms, and the rust-red mud of the Isonzo trenches which still caked the boots and puttees of most of them, but also by that glazed, apathetic look which I was soon to learn was the inevitable consequence of a prolonged spell at the Front. It was a look which I was to see again a quarter-century later in the Nazi death camps. The men going home on leave jostled wearily on the plat­forms as the provost NCOs bellowed at them, loading them into the trains that would take them back for a few brief days with their wives and chil­dren in their mud hovels in the Hungarian puszta or their cottages in the Carpathian valleys. For many of these gaunt-faced peasant soldiers with their drooping black moustaches it would no doubt be their last leave. After the failure of our offensive on the Asiago Plateau in May, the Italians were preparing a counter-blow of their own on the Isonzo. The men now clambering down from the returning leave trains at Divacca would be in the front line to face it.

  When I had at last fought my way into the crowded station buffet— reserved for officers but still packed to standing—and purchased the glass of tea (in fact dried raspberry leaves) and slice of kriegsbrot that would be my breakfast, I had leisure to look around me. It was only then that I realised quite how much the Imperial and Royal Army had changed in two years: how the great battles against the Russians in Poland in the autumn of 1914 had torn the heart out of the old k.u.k. officer corps, and how the numerous gaps in the ranks had been filled with hurriedly commissioned pre-war Einjahrigers or youths straight from secondary school. I noticed that one chair was free at a side table, and moved over to ask the other customer, a young Leutnant, whether I might sit down. He could only have been twenty or so but he looked much older, tunic dusty and torn by barbed wire. He did not answer; in fact seemed not to notice me as he stared into nowhere with sunken, dark-ringed eyes. I saw that his lips were moving slightly as he talked to himself, and that his hand shook as he con­tinuously stirred his tea, mechanically, like a toy in a fairground, as if he would go on doing it for ever unless someone pressed the stop-button.

  I finished my breakfast just as the orderly returned with the motor cycle. I signed the appropriate receipts, then fastened my luggage to the carrier and set off, glad that in this dusty summer weather I had brought my pre-war pair of flying goggles with me from Vienna. It was a Laurin und Klement machine I remember, with no kick-starter so that I had to run alongside it down Divacca’s main street and leap into the saddle as the engine began firing. I was soon glad though that I had chosen to make my own way to my new posting instead of waiting for transport. It was a beautiful morning, too early yet for the July heat to be shimmering among the limestone boulders and myrtle thickets of this bleak plateau. I puttered along the smooth metalled road at a leisurely speed as I enjoyed the view, leaving a cloud of white dust behind me as I droned through Senosetsch and then down from the Birnbaumerwald into the Vippaco Valley, a sud­den ribbon of greenness among the bare, grey mountains of the Carso.

  Curious, I thought, that there should be so little traffic on this road. Here we were, only kilometres behind one of the major battlefronts of the great­est war in history, yet there seemed to be little more movement than in peacetime, when the only vehicles would be those long, narrow-bodied farm carts, with the horse harnessed to one side of the single shaft, which characterise the Slav world from Slovenia to Vladivostok. Most of the supplies for the Isonzo Front came either down from Laibach or up from Trieste along the branch railway line to Dornberg; so apart from the air­fields at St Veit and Wippach this winding valley road was not much used by the military. I passed a few motor lorries throwing up choking clouds of dust, and one or two columns of marching men, but otherwise saw little sign of the war except when I had to stop for a gang of Russian POWs engaged in road-mending. They seemed a cheerful enough lot and waved in farewell as I went on my way, having dispensed my remaining tin of cigarettes among them as largesse. They were supervised only by an elderly, bearded Landsturm reservist who (I observed) left his rifle in the care of one of his charges as he went into the bushes on a certain er­rand. Otherwise the scene in the Vippaco Valley was one of immemorial peace, the summer-shallow river winding half-heartedly among banks of pale grey limestone pebbles and the twittering of the birds in the willow thickets quite undisturbed by that constant ill-tempered rumbling in the distance.

  I have always found journeys to be conducive to thought; and that morning I was particularly grateful for solitude and the opportunity to think things over, after the dizzying succession of events over the pre­vious week. Last Wednesday morning I had been a national hero. The hurrah-patriotic press had worked itself up into a frenzy of adulation over me—“one of the greatest feats of arms of the entire war” the Reichspost had called it—not least because the performance of Austro-Hungarian arms elsewhere that summer had been so uniformly dismal. But being cre­ated a Maria-Theresien Ritter had not been my only engagement that week, for on the Saturday I was to have been married in the Votivekirche to a beautiful Hungarian noblewoman, the Countess Elisabeth de Bratianu, to whom I had been engaged since the previous autumn and who was working as a nurse in a Vienna military hospital. But Fortune’s wheel was to turn with bewildering speed. By three o’clock that same afternoon I had found myself standing in the War Ministry before an unofficial court martial, accused of having sunk a German minelayer submarine off Venice in mistake for an Italian boat—and of having killed my own future brother-in-law, who had been among the German vessel’s crew. Elisabeth’s relatives had immediately forbidden the wedding on pain of disinheritance. But it had gone ahead just the same—not least because (as I now learnt for the first time) she was two months pregnant with my child—and we had got married the next day in a registry office while she was duly disinherited by her family.

  As for myself, the War Ministry was in a quandary. Though uncon­vinced that I had sunk the German minelayer, they were in no position to resist Berlin’s demands for my immediate court martial. The best that they could do in the end, short of having me shoot myself or pushing me under a tram, was to get me out of the way by posting me to the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe on the Italian Front. This (officialdom felt) would put me beyond the German Admiralty’s reach at least for the time being and quite probably for good, soon reposting me either into the next world or into an Italian prison camp for the rest of the war or—most probably—to join my elder brother Anton in that indeterminate category “missing in action.” One way or another, I had been placed in Austrian bureaucracy’s favourite desk-tray: the one marked asserviert, or “pending.”

  It was only after asking for directions from townspeople and from soldiers on the streets that I was able to find my way to the headquarters of my parent unit Fliegerkompagnie 19, based on a rough meadow some way to the west of the little town of Haidenschaft (or Ajdovscina or Aidussina as its largely Slovene and Italian inhabitants called it). It was near midday now and already very hot in this trough in the karst mountains. But my reception in the orderly room at k.u.k. Fliegerfeld Haidenschaft brought an immediate chill into the air. I had expected a certain reserve on my first arrival here. The Austro-Hungarian military and naval air services were largely self-contained forces under their own commands and did not generally have much to do with one another. The Navy’s aircraft, it is true,
did give a great deal of support to the Army on its southernmost flank during the later Isonzo battles, bombing Italian batteries and shoot­ing up the enemy in the trenches. But since the Navy’s aeroplanes were exclusively flying-boats, for obvious reasons their pilots were reluctant to take them very far inland. So for most of the time the two air arms kept themselves to themselves. A few army pilots had flown with the Naval Flying Service, but so far as I knew I was the first naval officer to serve with the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe.