‘I’m afraid you’re not fit to return to duty at the moment,’ he’d told Gabriel. ‘You’ve lost a good deal of weight and there are some crackles in your right lung apex. It could be nothing, but it might be TB. Have you any other symptoms – cough, night sweats, bloodstained phlegm in the morning – that sort of thing?’
Gabriel had shaken his head. ‘No. I feel quite well really, only rather tired, as you might expect.’
‘Ideally you need a chest roentogram, but the Serbs have destroyed all their X-ray equipment.’ He had produced a sheet of paper, written on it in pen, dried the ink by blowing on the letter and then given it to Gabriel.
‘I’ve signed you off for a month,’ he’d said. ‘I think you should go home to Klagenfurt and have the roentogram taken there. If it’s all clear, then report to the Army Medical Board in Vienna at the end of the month: they will decide if you’re fit enough to re-join your unit. And if the roentogram shows a shadow…Well, you don’t need me to tell you what that means.’
Gabriel nodded, and although he tried to look concerned he felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He knew he didn’t have TB – he had seen enough patients to know the symptoms and signs – but a month’s leave from the army was just what he needed.
He had arrived in Klagenfurt the previous morning and gone straight to the hospital to have his chest roentogram taken; it was, as he had suspected, completely normal. He’d spent the first night at his father’s small apartment near the square, and then, after waking early this morning, had quietly dressed and gone out for a stroll to remind himself of the splendour of the city. After his walk he had taken a seat in the sun outside the café and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast as he waited for the chief to arrive.
He lowered his face and opened his eyes. Klagenfurt was closer to Venice than Vienna, and many of the shops, cafés and government buildings which bordered the town’s central square were of a baroque Italian design, with vivid pink and yellow renaissance decoration. Gabriel studied the faces of the people waking past him in the square: conspicuous in his uniform, he attracted numerous glances, and through their smiles and nods of recognition could tell that most citizens of Klagenfurt still had a sense of pride in the Austrian soldier. However, Gabriel could also read a sadness in the eyes of these ordinary people, a gloomy despondency at the terrible losses that the Austrian army had suffered in Serbia and Russia.
And now Italy had declared war on Austria: Klagenfurt was close to the Italian border and on his walk that morning Gabriel had seen several convalescing soldiers, pale-faced, dark-eyed men with arms or legs in plaster, sitting on their own at a café table, a half-empty bottle of schnapps in front of them.
Because the 6th Army were transferring the more seriously wounded back to Klagenfurt, Gabriel had been thrilled to learn that Chief Fischer was temporarily based in the town. As he gazed distractedly at the people strolling by, Gabriel suddenly noticed a tall, grey-bearded man in uniform walking briskly across the square towards the café entrance. It had been a while since he last saw him, but the upright profile was unmistakable. Gabriel stood up and waved, and the chief suddenly changed direction. Even at this distance, Gabriel could see the smile that creased his mentor’s face.
‘My dear boy,’ the chief said as he arrived at Gabriel’s table. ‘I’m so pleased to see you again.’
‘It’s good to see you, too,’ Gabriel replied, grinning at the chief’s enthusiastic double-handed handshake. ‘I can’t believe it’s more than a year since we last met.’
‘Well, you’re alive, Gabriel, that’s the most important thing.’ The chief sat opposite him. ‘You’ve lost quite a bit of weight, I see. Nothing serious I hope?’
‘They thought it might be TB. But the roentogram is all clear.’
‘Good. So you just need a bit of feeding up – that it?’
‘Yes. A year as a prisoner does wonders for one’s figure.’
The chief laughed. ‘Well, let’s see if we can’t do something about that.’ He snapped his fingers at a waiter loitering in the heat of the café entrance. ‘Two coffees, please,’ he said when the waiter arrived, ‘and a large portion of strudel with extra cream.’
For the next hour, the two men sat in the weak November sun and Gabriel listened to the chief describe how the battered remnants of the 6th Army had been transferred to the mountains on the Italian border. He heard the hellish tale of mountain fighting: hand-to-hand combat on ice-covered rock, no trees or bushes for cover, no trenches for protection. However, the Austrians were fighting a purely defensive battle, the chief said, and so far had been able to hold their positions. And in return Gabriel described his experience as a prisoner and the difficulties he had faced during the typhus epidemic. He told the chief all about the good works of the Scottish women, and of Harry Plotz and his vaccine.
But just as he was about to tell the chief about Elspeth, a stranger – an older-looking man who had been walking past their table – suddenly stopped, turned around, and began to stare at Gabriel. At first Gabriel thought it was the typical civilian veneration for anyone in a soldier’s uniform. But the stranger’s eyes flicked between Gabriel and the chief, almost as if he recognised them both. Indeed the man looked vaguely familiar to Gabriel: dressed in typical hill-walking clothes – boots, gaiters, leather cap and eagle’s feather – and carrying a knapsack and an antler-handled walking stick. There was something about him – an air, a manner – which stirred a memory in Gabriel’s mind. Then the man lifted a hand to remove his leather cap.
‘Good Lord,’ Gabriel exclaimed and sat up in his chair, his jaw sagging in astonishment.
The chief swivelled to follow Gabriel’s open-mouthed gaze as the stranger stepped forward and smiled hesitantly, his cap held before him. The chief’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment Gabriel wondered if he had seen a flicker of contempt in his mentor’s eyes. But if there was, it had quickly vanished by the time the chief stood to greet the man.
‘Governor Potiorek,’ the chief said, extending a hand. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’
To Gabriel the moment was surreal: the last time he’d seen Potiorek had been more than a year ago, when Potiorek had been in full uniform, standing in front of a roomful of officers, ordering them to invade Serbia. But the figure standing in front of Gabriel now was almost unrecognisable as the man who had once governed the whole of Bosnia and had started this great European war. Without his uniform, Potiorek could so easily have been mistaken for any other ordinary citizen returning from a morning walk in the mountains. Except for the look in those eyes, two cold black pebbles unwaveringly fixed on the chief’s face, which were just as Gabriel remembered.
‘Chief Fischer,’ Potiorek replied as he stepped forward. ‘It is good to see you again.’
‘And it is good to see you, too, Governor,’ the chief replied.
‘Ah, but I am no longer a governor,’ Potiorek said with a rueful smile. ‘I’m just an ordinary Austrian civilian now, although even in retirement I am still entitled to use my former rank.’
It was a moment before the chief understood. ‘Oh. Of course, Herr General.’
‘Thank you. I would prefer that. I’m not unhappy to be out of the limelight. My days of service to the emperor are over.’
The chief motioned towards Gabriel. ‘You do remember Captain Bayer, Herr General?’
Potiorek made a quarter turn towards him. ‘Of course.’ He bowed his head. ‘How could I forget? I recognised you as I walked by just now, Captain.’
‘Herr General.’ Gabriel gave a brief formal nod of his head, and then noticed that Potiorek was looking at him oddly, as if he had something to say.
‘Actually, Captain, I’m pleased to have met you again.’ Potiorek blinked, then sighed. ‘You see, I have never properly thanked you for what you tried to do for the Archduke that terrible day. He was mortally wounded, but you did your best. For that I must thank you.’
Gabriel was stunned that the conversation had so quickly tu
rned to the topic of that awful day; he opened his mouth to respond but could not find any words. It was the chief who finally broke the awkward silence. ‘Please, won’t you join us for a drink?’
Potiorek hesitated and then glanced around him. There was only one other outside table occupied at the café, and an older couple sitting at it were staring at Potiorek with undisguised curiosity. ‘Forgive me, good doctor, but I’d rather not,’ Potiorek replied. ‘I lead a quiet life now and I don’t like to be seen in public. I normally avoid the city centre; I only pass through here on my morning walk in the mountains—’
‘Please, General,’ the chief said, ‘we would consider it a great honour if you would join us, even for one drink.’
‘No,’ Potiorek said, looking uncomfortable at the chief’s persistence. ‘Thank you for the invitation, but—’
‘Please, Herr General,’ Gabriel said, finally finding his voice. ‘I would also like you to sit and share a drink with us.’
‘I’m sorry, Captain.’ Potiorek began to back away.
‘It would help me if you could stay and talk for a while,’ Gabriel said. ‘You see, I was captured at the Battle of Kolubra last December.’
Potiorek suddenly stopped. ‘Oh. I see.’ He straightened his shoulders. ‘You were taken prisoner?’
‘Yes.’
‘And released when the Germans broke through last month?’
‘Yes.’ Gabriel stared into Potiorek’s eyes ‘I would very much like to understand what happened.’
Potiorek looked thoughtful and then nodded his head. ‘Very well, Captain. I’ll stay for one drink.’ He glanced at the couple sitting nearby, still watching the trio with interest. ‘But we’re in the shade now’ – he motioned towards the entrance to the café – ‘so perhaps we should go inside?’
The chief nodded and led Potiorek towards the door. A blast of steamy warmth greeted Gabriel as he followed them into the café, which was full of people eating lunch. Almost immediately, Gabriel was aware of a lull in conversations as customers looked up from their tables to take in the newcomers. From the furtive glances and whispering-behind-hands, Gabriel quickly gleaned that Potiorek was a well-known figure in Klagenfurt, but not a well-liked one.
Ignoring the almost-palpable antipathy in the room, the chief confidently led them towards a small table near the back. While Gabriel and Potiorek removed their coats, the chief snapped his fingers at a waiter standing by the bar and ordered a bottle of Zweigelt red and three glasses. As the waiter went to fetch the wine, Gabriel saw that most of the other customers in the café were still staring at the trio and finally understood Potiorek’s reluctance to stay.
‘So, Herr General: why have you moved to Klagenfurt?’ the chief asked as he settled himself into a chair.
‘When I relinquished the Governorship of Bosnia,’ Potiorek replied, ‘I lost my grace-and-favour apartment in the Konak. And then I resigned from the army…’ he paused, as if the memory gave him pain. ‘Anyway, I decided to move back to Austria. Vienna is too public a place for me, but my brother has a house on the outskirts of Klagenfurt, so I came here. We are just two old men, two old bachelors living a simple life. I read, write a bit, take a walk most days in the mountains or by the lakes. I chop wood, attend to the garden. The house is comfortable and has everything we need. The only item I took with me from the Konak is the chaise longue from my bedroom.’
Gabriel suddenly recalled the patterned Ottoman couch in Potiorek’s dressing room. And lying – dying – on the couch he could clearly see the Archduke in his bloodstained tunic, calling out for his wife…
‘Why of all things,’ Gabriel quietly asked, ‘did you take that with you?’
‘As a permanent reminder,’ Potiorek quickly replied, as if he had always expected to be asked the question, ‘of the Archduke’s final moments.’
There was silence as Gabriel absorbed Potiorek’s reply, but before he could think of a suitable response, the waiter returned with the bottle of Zweigelt and three glasses.
‘Good health, gentlemen,’ the chief said, raising his glass in the air once the wine had been poured.
‘Prost,’ replied Gabriel and Potiorek almost simultaneously, and there was a gentle clink of crystal as the three men toasted their meeting. Gabriel drank some of the heavy red wine, which was pleasantly warm and smooth on his tongue. Potiorek drained half of his glass in one quick swallow, before replacing it on the table and turning towards Gabriel with a sigh.
‘You see, Captain, I carry a heavy burden over the Archduke’s death. Of course, I still feel that fate dealt me a harsh hand, and that it was an unlikely set of circumstances that led to his assassination. Ultimately, however, I must accept that the final responsibility lay with me: I invited him to Sarajevo and he was under my protection. That protection failed, and I will have to live with the consequences of that for the rest of my life. And believe me, Captain, when I say that living with that knowledge is like a life sentence.’
Potiorek’s openness was surprising, thought Gabriel: he had expected the general to be more defensive. This should be a good opportunity to ask some hard questions. He glanced across at the chief and saw his mentor lean back in his chair, giving Gabriel a subtle nod.
‘And what about the failure of the invasion of Serbia,’ Gabriel continued. ‘Do you accept responsibility for that, too?’
A thin smile appeared. ‘It looks bad, doesn’t it, Captain? Three invasions and all of them repulsed. But we now know that our plans had been given away by Colonel Redl. The Russians knew all our troop dispositions and logistics, where we would strike, in what strength and order. They gave all this information to the Serbs. Should I be blamed for such a disadvantage?’
‘But we had known about Redl’s treason for some time, so why weren’t the plans for war changed?’
‘Because there was not enough time. Once it was clear that Russia would support Serbia, our best hope of victory lay in a quick pre-emptive strike against the Serbs.’
‘Maybe too quick,’ Gabriel said. ‘You pushed our troops forward so quickly that we badly over-extended our supply lines. Then, when our exhausted soldiers were attacked, they had insufficient ammunition to defend themselves.’
Potiorek shifted uncomfortably in his chair. ‘The Serbs appeared to be on the verge of total collapse and my judgement was that one final push would finish them off. But then – as luck would have it – the French resupplied them with ammunition and…well, you know the rest.’
‘I saw General Appel die from typhus,’ Gabriel said quietly. ‘He was in the bed next to me when I was in hospital.’
Potiorek nodded. ‘Poor Michael.’
‘Many others died from typhus.’
‘You cannot blame me for those deaths, Captain.’ Gabriel heard the edge in Potiorek’s voice.
‘But what about the atrocities on the Serbian population? I saw civilians executed, women hanged like…like…’ Gabriel could not find words to describe what he had seen.
For several seconds Potiorek said nothing. ‘There were a number of unfortunate incidents where the actions of Serbian civilians caused the deaths of Austrian soldiers,’ Potiorek said, a steely edge to his voice. ‘Incidents where Serbs were found hiding arms and ammunition, or supplying food to the Chetniks, or giving away our positions. And where there was proof of such infractions,’ he shrugged, ‘well, Captain, military law is harsh, but that has long been the nature of warfare.’
‘And the orders you issued prior to the first offensive, that no mercy or kindness was to be extended to the Serbian population? Was that not an incitement to the men to commit the brutalities and excesses I witnessed?’
‘I knew well before this war began that this would be a total war, one country against another, one people against another,’ Potiorek replied. ‘It was always going to be bloody and brutal. The assassination of the Archduke was designed to goad us into a war. The Serbs are responsible for that. My orders were appropriate for the nature of the conflict�
��’
‘Appropriate?’ Gabriel said, feeling his shoulders tighten in anger. He suddenly realised he had raised his voice and the room had grown quiet, and, glancing away from Potiorek, he saw the other patrons staring at him. He turned back to Potiorek, trying to keep his voice level as he spoke. ‘How can it be appropriate to hang a woman, to allow her children to watch their mother strangle on the end of a rope—’
‘The issue is not as simple as you might think.’ Potiorek’s voice was soft but his eyes were cold and hard. ‘Both of you’ – he glanced across at the chief – ‘are medical men, guided by your Hippocratic oath, which binds you to behave with kindness and compassion. But the job of a soldier is to win at all costs and too strong a sense of compassion can be fatal. If you take your foot off your opponent’s throat, he will come back at you and kill you. No, Captain, my orders were consistent with the compassion of war.’
He paused, waiting for a response, but Gabriel – sickened by his fluent justification – could not think of a suitable reply.
‘It is easy to assume, Captain,’ Potiorek continued, his fingertips steepled below his chin, ‘that I am some sort of demon, or madman, or incompetent. But I assure you I am none of these. I have been told that there will be a military commission when the war is over – whenever that will be – and that this commission will examine the reasons for our military failures. I have been told that I will have to give an account of all my actions, which will then be made part of a public record. The Viennese newspapers have speculated over my mental health since the Archduke’s death. I have read reports that either I must be mad – in which case I ought to be in an asylum – or if sane then I am criminally culpable and should face the hangman.’
He said these last words very matter-of-factly, his face betraying no emotion as he paused for a moment before continuing. ‘Well, I believe that I deserve neither course of action. When the time comes, however, I will happily face that commission, and I will tell them exactly what I’ve told you today. And I will leave it in the hands of my peers, and my God, and will accept whatever they find, whatever they decide.’
The Furies Page 31