domingo, 25 de junho de 2017

Universal slaughter

Trechos de Preparedness, The Road To Universal Slaughter (1915), de Emma Goldman.


Ever since the beginning of the European conflagration, the whole human race almost has fallen into the deathly grip of the war anesthesis, overcome by the mad teaming fumes of a blood soaked chloroform, which has obscured its vision and paralyzed its heart. Indeed, with the exception of some savage tribes, who know nothing of Christian religion or of brotherly love, and who also know nothing of dreadnoughts, submarines, munition manufacture and war loans, the rest of the race is under this terrible narcosis. The human mind seems to be conscious of but one thing, murderous speculation. Our whole civilization, our entire culture is concentrated in the mad demand for the most perfected weapons of slaughter.

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Just like cattle, panic-stricken in the face of fire, throw themselves into the very flames, so all of the European people have fallen over each other into the devouring flames of the furies of war, and America, pushed to the very brink by unscrupulous politicians, by ranting demagogues, and by military sharks, is preparing for the same terrible feat.

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The jingoes and war speculators are filling the air with the sentimental slogan of hypocritical nationalism, "America for Americans," "America first, last, and all the time." This cry has caught the popular fancy from one end of the country to another. In order to maintain America, military preparedness must be engaged in at once.

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No less pathetic is it that so few people realize that preparedness never leads to peace, but that it is indeed the road to universal slaughter.

With the cunning methods used by the scheming diplomats and military cliques of Germany to saddle the masses with Prussian militarism, the American military ring with its Roosevelts, its Garrisons, its Daniels, and lastly its Wilsons, are moving the very heavens to place the militaristic heel upon the necks of the American people, and, if successful, will hurl America into the storm of blood and tears now devastating the countries of Europe.

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Since the war began, miles of paper and oceans of ink have been used to prove the barbarity, the cruelty, the oppression of Prussian militarism. Conservatives and radicals alike are giving their support to the Allies for no other reason than to help crush that militarism, in the presence of which, they say, there can be no peace or progress in Europe. But though America grows fat on the manufacture of munitions and war loans to the Allies to help crush Prussians the same cry is now being raised in America which, if carried into national action, would build up and American militarism far more terrible than German or Prussian militarism could ever be, and that because nowhere in the world has capitalism become so brazen in its greed and nowhere is the state so ready to kneel at the feet of capital.

Like a plague, the mad spirit is sweeping the country, infesting the clearest heads and staunchest hearts with the deathly germ of militarism. National security leagues, with cannon as their emblem of protection, naval leagues with women in their lead have sprung up all over the country, women who boast of representing the gentler sex, women who in pain and danger bring forth life and yet are ready to dedicate it to the Moloch War. Americanization societies with well-known liberals as members, they who but yesterday decried the patriotic clap-trap of to-day, are now lending themselves to befog the minds of the people and to help build up the same destructive institutions in America which they are directly and indirectly helping to pull down in Germany - militarism, the destroyer of youth, the raper of women, the annihilator of the best in the race, the very mower of life.

Even Woodrow Wilson, who not so long ago indulged in the phrase "A nation too proud to fight," who in the beginning of the war ordered prayers for peace, who in his proclamations spoke of the necessity of watchful waiting, even he has been whipped into line. He has now joined his worthy colleagues in the jingo movement, echoing their clamor for preparedness and their howl of "America for Americans." The difference between Wilson and Roosevelt is this: Roosevelt, a born bully, uses the club; Wilson, the historian, the college professor, wears the smooth polished university mask, but underneath it he, like Roosevelt, has but one aim, to serve the big interests, to add to those who are growing phenominally rich by the manufacture of military supplies.

Woodrow Wilson, in his address before the Daughters of the American Revolution, gave his case away when he said, "I would rather be beaten than ostracized." To stand out against the Bethlehem, du Pont, Baldwin, Remington, Winchester metallic cartridges and the rest of the armament ring means political ostracism and death. Wilson knows that, therefore he betrays his original position, goes back on the bombast of "too proud to fight" and howls as loudly as any other cheap politician for preparedness and national glory, the silly pledge the navy league women intend to impose upon every school child.

- - -
The very proclaimers of "America first" have long before this betrayed the fundamental principles of real Americanism, of the kind of Americanism that Jefferson had in mind when he said that the best government is that which governs least.

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No doubt Woodrow Wilson has reason to defend these institutions. But what an ideal to hold out to the young generation! How is a military drilled and trained people to defend freedom, peace and happiness? This is what Major General O'Ryan has to say of an efficiently trained generation: "The soldier must be so trained that he becomes a mere automation; he must be so trained that it will destroy his initiative; he must be so trained that he is turned into a machine. The soldier must be forced into the military noose; he must be jacked up; he must be ruled by his superiors with pistol in hand."

This was not said by a Prussian Junker; not by a German barbarian; not by Treitschke or Bernhardi, but by an American Major General. And he is right. You cannot conduct war with equals; you cannot have militarism with free born men.

- - -
Preparedness is not directed only against the external enemy; it aims much more at the internal enemy. It concerns that element of labor which has learned not to hope for anything from our institutions.

Already militarism has been acting its bloody part in every economic conflict, with the approval and support of the state. Where was the protest of Washington when "our men, women and children" were killed in Ludlow? Where was that high sounding outraged protest contained in the note to Germany? Or is there any difference in killing "our men, women and children" in Ludlow or on the high seas? Yes, indeed. The men, women and children at Ludlow were working people, belonging to the disinherited of the earth, foreigners who had to be given a taste of the glories of Americanism, while the passengers of the Lusitania represented wealth and station - therein lies the difference.

Preparedness, therefore, will only add to the power of the privileged few and help them to subdue, to enslave and crush labor. Surely Gompers must know that, and if he joins the howl of the military clique, he must stand condemned as a traitor to the cause of labor.

- - -
The European mass destruction is the fruit of that poisonous seed [preparedness]. It is imperative that the American workers realize this before they are driven by the jingoes into the madness that is forever haunted by the spectre of danger and invasion; they must know that to prepare for peace means to invite war, means to unloose the furies of death over land and seas.

That which has driven the masses of Europe into the trenches and to the battlefields is not their inner longing for war; it must be traced to the cut-throat competition for military equipment, for more efficient armies, for larger warships, for more powerful cannon. You cannot build up a standing army and then throw it back into a box like tin soldiers. Armies equipped to the teeth with weapons, with highly developed instruments of murder and backed by their military interests, have their own dynamic functions. We have but to examine into the nature of militarism to realize the truism of this contention.

Militarism consumes the strongest and most productive elements of each nation. Militarism swallows the largest part of the national revenue.

- - -
It is not at all unlikely that the history of the present war will trace its origin to this international murder trust. But is it always necessary for one generation to wade through oceans of blood and heap up mountains of human sacrifice that the next generation may learn a grain of truth from it all? Can we of to-day not profit by the cause which led to the European war, can we not learn that it was preparedness, thorough and efficient preparedness on the part of Germany and the other countries for military aggrandizement and material gain; above all can we not realize that preparedness in America must and will lead to the same result, the same barbarity, the same senseless sacrifice of life? Is America to follow suit, is it to be turned over to the American Krupps, the American military cliques? It almost seems so when one hears the jingo howls of the press, the blood and thunder tirades of bully Roosevelt, the sentimental twaddle of our college-bred President.

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It is not enough to claim being neutral; a neutrality which sheds crocodile tears with one eye and keeps the other riveted upon the profits from war supplies and war loans, is not neutrality. It is a hypocritical cloak to cover, the countries' crimes. Nor is it enough to join the bourgeois pacifists, who proclaim peace among the nations, while helping to perpetuate the war among the classes, a war which in reality, is at the bottom of all other wars.

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They must organize the preparedness of the masses for the overthrow of both capitalism and the state. [...] That alone leads to true internationalism of labor against Kaiserdom, Kingdom, diplomacies, military cliques and bureaucracy. [...] That alone will enable them to inculcate in the coming generation a new ideal of brotherhood, to rear them in play and song and beauty.


Fonte:
http://www.lib.berkeley.edu/goldman/Preparedness-theRoadtoUniversalSlaughter.pdf

Mais:
http://docs.google.com/file/d/0BxwrrqPyqsnIVy1ueXZMZk0yaFk
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/My_Disillusionment_in_Russia

domingo, 18 de junho de 2017

Enrico Toti

BIKE ITALIA
14 gennaio 2015

Ritratto di Enrico Toti, bersagliere ciclista

Un'esistenza costellata di sfide e soddisfazioni, viaggi in bicicletta e battaglie al fronte. Ritratto di Enrico Toti, il cicloviaggiatore con una gamba sola.

(Alessandro Micozzi)

Di Enrico Toti conosciamo soprattutto un'immagine, quella che lo vede ritratto nel mezzo di una battaglia mentre, pochi attimi prima di morire, scaglia la stampella contro il nemico al grido di:

"Nun moro io!".

Verità o leggenda, il lancio della gruccia è solo uno dei tanti misteri attorno alla figura di questo ciclista mutilato e combattente della prima guerra mondiale.

Ma andiamo con ordine.

Enrico Toti nasce a Roma nel 1882. Ancora quindicenne si imbarca su una nave come mozzo, lavoro che si protrarrà per 8 anni fino al 1905, data del suo congedo e dell'assunzione come fuochista presso le Ferrovie dello Stato.

Il 27 marzo del 1908 è un giorno che segnerà per sempre la vita di Enrico Toti. Alle prese con lavori di manutenzione su una locomotiva nella stazione di Colleferro, scivola e finisce con la gamba sinistra sotto gli ingranaggi del mezzo. Nonostante il trasferimento in ospedale è costretto a subire l'amputazione dell'arto a livello del bacino.

Va ricordato che una menomazione fisica in quel tempo poteva avere pesanti ricadute anche sulla vita professionale. Enrico Toti era un manovale, poco istruito, dal cui stato fisico dipendeva il suo lavoro e il sostentamento economico. Nel contesto dell'Italia del primo Novecento una simile invalidità avrebbe rappresentato un danno enorme per chiunque, ma non per il giovane Enrico Toti che si rialzò e non si perse d'animo

Non sappiamo con certezza se fu proprio la perdita della gamba a far emergere in lui lo spirito coraggioso e avventuriero, ma è un dato di fatto che l'ex-ferroviere romano si sia reso protagonista delle esperienze più incredibili proprio dopo l'incidente.

Nel 1911, dopo un periodo di avvicinamento alla bicicletta decide di intraprendere un primo viaggio a pedali attraverso l'Europa, passando per Francia, Paesi Bassi, Danimarca, Finlandia, Russia e Polonia, per poi fare ritorno in Italia l'anno successivo, nel 1912. Ma Enrico Toti è instancabile e dopo pochi mesi dal rientro parte per un secondo lungo viaggio, ancora in bicicletta ma stavolta in Africa, pedalando tra Egitto e Sudan. Qui viene fermato dalle autorità inglesi occupanti e, ritenuto troppo pericoloso il percorso intrapreso, viene rispedito prima al Cairo e infine a Roma. E' un episodio molto rappresentativo della vita di Enrico Toti, un uomo che si è dovuto misurare più con la diffidenza degli altri che con la propria disabilità.

Ecco cosa scrive lo stesso Enrico Toti nella sua autobiografia a proposito di quel viaggio in bicicletta:

"Attraversai tutta la Francia, il Belgio, l'Olanda, la Germania, la Danimarca, la Svezia e la Norvegia. Arrivai al Circolo Polare Artico, e convissi, a causa del ghiaccio, qualche tempo con gli esquimesi in Lapponia. Di là in Finlandia, poi in Russia e da Pietrogrado, attraverso le innumerevoli steppe, giunsi a Mosca. Attraversai la regione dei Turcomanni, la Polonia, l'Austria fino a che giunsi a Roma, in famiglia. Dopo qualche mese di riposo andai in Alessandria e percorsi lungo il Nilo, tutto l'Egitto, la Nubia arrivando fin sotto l'Equatore nel Sudan, poco lungi dal Congo. Percorsi nel mio giro di esplorazione circa ventimila chilometri."

Con l'entrata in guerra dell'Italia nel 1915, Enrico Toti vuole arruolarsi e nonostante il respingimento a tutte le sue richieste decide di partire da solo per il fronte, anche questa volta in sella alla sua bicicletta. Arrivato a Cervignano del Friuli viene prima destinato a "servizi non attivi" in qualità di volontario, e solo l'anno successivo trasferito nei bersaglieri ciclisti.

Il 6 agosto del 1916, durante la battaglia dell'Isonzo, Enrico Toti viene ferito da colpi avversari contro i quali, poco prima di morire, si dice abbia lanciato la stampella pronunciando la celebre frase "Nun moro io!". Il 4 dicembre dello stesso anno viene decorato con la Medaglia d'Oro al Valor Militare con la seguente motivazione:

"Soldato Enrico Toti, da Roma, del 3º btg. bers, ciclisti. Volontario, quantunque privo della gamba sinistra, dopo aver reso importanti servizi nei fatti d'arme dell'aprile a quota 70 (est di Selz), il 6 agosto, nel combattimento che condusse all'occupazione di quota 85 (est di Monfalcone). Lanciavasi arditamente sulla trincea nemica, continuando a combattere con ardore, quantunque già due volte ferito. Colpito a morte da un terzo proiettile, con esaltazione eroica lanciava al nemico la gruccia e spirava baciando il piumetto, con stoicismo degno di quell'anima altamente italiana. Monfalcone, 6 agosto 1916."

Di Enrico Toti non rimane soltanto un'onorificenza militare e il ritratto del lancio della stampella contro il nemico in punto di morte. Quella che ci lascia è un'eredità a tratti scomoda, fatta di dubbi sull'attendibilità degli episodi di cui si sarebbe reso protagonista e di un'immagine cavalcata dal regime fascista per scopi propagandistici.

Cominciamo dai dubbi. Nel 1993 Lucio Fabi, uno dei massimi storici della prima guerra mondiale, pubblica un libro intitolato "La vera storia di Enrico Toti" aprendo un dibattito in cui afferma che lo stesso non sia mai stato arruolato ufficialmente come soldato, tesi che lascerebbe comunque spazio all'ipotesi di un aggregamento al fronte "ufficioso" ma non per questo totalmente inventato. A smentire questa dichiarazione è stato il generale Sabato Aufiero proprio durante la presentazione del libro, mostrando un attestato che certificherebbe la presenza al fronte del soldato Enrico Toti.

L'altra eredità di Enrico Toti, più imminente agli anni della sua morte, è quella dell'eroe venuto dal popolo, nazionalista e antiborghese, morto al fronte per difendere la Patria; tutti elementi ideali per "elevarlo" da Mussolini a icona fascista, tanto che i numerosi monumenti e statue erette in sua memoria risalgono proprio al ventennio.

Eppure Enrico Toti era un invalido, per di più in anni in cui la prestanza fisica era esaltata dallo stesso regime e con gli "storpi" non si andava tanto per il sottile. Era uno spirito libero, un viaggiatore solitario e ribelle che non amava prendere ordini, che si recò al fronte di sua volontà senza rispettare le sentenze di respingimento. Anche per questo il suo carattere irrequieto aveva poco a che fare con l'obbedienza al capo tanto declamata dall'ideologia fascista.

In ultimo, rispetto alla sua partecipazione al conflitto, chi ci dice che Enrico Toti non si sia recato al fronte per il semplice bisogno di non sentirsi "diverso" dai suoi coetanei, per mostrare di essere più forte della sua invalidità, piuttosto che per un'adesione convinta alle motivazioni che portarono l'Italia in guerra?


Fonte:

Mais:

domingo, 11 de junho de 2017

O mundo de ontem

Trechos de O Mundo De Ontem (1942), de Stefan Zweig.


O verão de 1914 permaneceria igualmente memorável sem o cataclismo que se abateu sobre o solo europeu, porque raramente vi um verão tão exuberante, belo e quase diria... de veraneio.

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Na véspera daquele 29 de junho que a Áustria católica sempre celebrava como a festa de São Pedro e São Paulo, chegaram a Viena muitos clientes. Vestida com roupas de verão brancas, feliz e despreocupada, a multidão se agitava no parque diante da banda de música.

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De repente, a música parou no meio de um compasso. [...] Levantei-me e vi que os músicos deixavam o coreto da orquestra. [...] quando me aproximei, vi que as pessoas vieram correndo juntas em grupos agitados diante do coreto, ao redor de um comunicado que, obviamente, tinha acabado de ser ali colocado. Como eu soube depois de alguns minutos, tratava-se de um telegrama anunciando que Sua Alteza Imperial, o herdeiro do trono e sua esposa, que haviam ido à Bósnia para assistir a manobras militares, tinham caído vítimas de um vil atentado político.

[...] devo dizer com toda a honestidade que nos rostos não se adivinhava qualquer emoção ou irritação especial, porque o herdeiro do trono nunca tinha sido um personagem querido. [...] a notícia de seu assassinato não despertou qualquer sentimento profundo. Depois de duas horas já não se via qualquer sinal de aflição autêntica. As pessoas conversavam e riam, e à noite a música foi tocada novamente em todos os locais. Naquele dia, havia na Áustria muitas pessoas que, secretamente, respiraram aliviadas porque havia sido eliminado o herdeiro do velho imperador em benefício do jovem arquiduque Karl, muito mais popular.

No dia seguinte os jornais publicaram, é claro, extensos obituários em que expressavam a devida indignação com o ataque. Mas nada indicava que fossem aproveitar o acontecimento para tomar uma ação política contra a Sérvia.

- - -
Viena, cuja curiosidade foi, assim, privada de um bom espetáculo, em seguida começou a esquecer o trágico acontecimento. Ao fim e ao cabo, após a morte violenta da imperatriz Elizabeth e do príncipe herdeiro, e depois da escandalosa fuga de vários membros da casa imperial, o povo austríaco já havia se acostumado à ideia de que o velho imperador sobreviveria, sozinho e imperturbável, à sua prole "tantálida".

Mas então, depois de cerca de uma semana, de repente começaram a aparecer nos jornais uma série de escaramuças, num crescendo muito simultâneo para ser mera coincidência. Acusavam o governo sérvio de conivência com o ataque e insinuavam que a Áustria não poderia deixar impune o assassinato de seu príncipe herdeiro [...]. Nem os bancos, nem as empresas, nem os particulares mudaram seus planos. Que nos importava aquela eterna disputa com os sérvios, que, como todos nós sabíamos, no fundo tinha surgido por causa de simples acordos comerciais relacionados à exportação de suínos sérvios? Eu havia preparado as malas para minha viagem à Bélgica, em casa de Verhaeren, e meu trabalho estava bem encaminhado; que tinha que ver o arquiduque morto e enterrado com a minha vida? Era um excelente verão e prometia sê-lo mais ainda; todos encarávamos o mundo sem preocupação. Lembro-me de que no meu último dia de estada em Baden passeava com um amigo pelas vinhas e um velho jardineiro nos disse:

- Não temos um verão como este há um longo tempo. Se continuar assim, vamos ter uma colheita sem precedentes. As pessoas irão se lembrar deste verão!

Aquele velho senhor de avental branco não sabia que tão terrível verdade encerravam suas palavras.

A mesma atmosfera despreocupada reinava em Le Coq, o pequeno balneário perto de Ostend no qual eu pretendia passar duas semanas antes de ficar, como todos os anos, na pequena villa de Verhaeren. Os veranistas ficavam deitados na praia sob guarda-sóis coloridos ou tomavam banho; as crianças empinavam pipas e os jovens dançavam no quebra-mar em frente aos cafés. Todas as nações imagináveis estavam pacificamente reunidas ali; em todos os cantos ouvia-se o idioma alemão, porque, como todos os anos, os turistas da vizinha Renânia preferiam ir às praias belgas. O único estorvo procedia dos rapazes que vendiam jornais, que para anunciá-los esganiçavam-se bradando as ameaçadoras manchetes dos diários de Paris: L'Autriche provoque la Russie, L'Allemagne prépare la mobilisation. Podia-se observar como ficavam obscuros, ainda que apenas por alguns minutos, os rostos dos que compravam os periódicos. Mas afinal conhecíamos há muitos anos aqueles conflitos diplomáticos; sempre eram resolvidos no último momento, antes que as coisas fossem de mal a pior. Por que não desta vez também?

Mas as más notícias iam se acumulando e eram cada vez mais ameaçadoras.

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De repente, começamos a ver soldados belgas, que até então nunca tinham andado na praia. Apareceram carroças, carregadas de metralhadoras, puxadas por cães (curiosa peculiaridade do exército belga).

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Quando passou uma tropa de soldados com uma metralhadora puxada por cães, um de nós se levantou e acariciou um dos animais, o que enfureceu o comandante do pelotão, temendo que aqueles mimos em um objeto bélico pudessem prejudicar a dignidade de uma instituição militar.

- - -
- Enforquem-me neste poste se os alemães entrarem na Bélgica!

Mas agora agradeço a meus amigos por não terem me cobrado a palavra.

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De repente surgiu um vento frio de medo na praia, que a varreu até deixá-la completamente vazia. As pessoas, aos milhares, deixaram os hotéis e tomaram de assalto os trens; mesmo os mais confiantes apressaram-se a fazer as malas. Eu também, assim que ouvi a notícia da declaração de guerra por parte dos austríacos, garanti um bilhete, e a verdade é que cheguei na hora certa, porque o expresso de Ostend foi o último trem que cobriu a rota entre Bélgica e Alemanha. Viajamos em pé nos corredores, nervosos e impacientes, conversando uns com os outros. Ninguém conseguiu ler ou ficar sentado e quieto [...]. Passamos por Verviers, a estação de fronteira belga. Funcionários alemães entraram no trem: em dez minutos estaríamos em território alemão.

Mas, a meio caminho de Herbestahl, a primeira estação alemã, o trem parou de repente em campo aberto. Apertávamo-nos contra as janelas dos corredores. O que tinha acontecido? Na escuridão, vi passar um trem de carga após o outro na direção oposta: vagões abertos ou cobertos com lonas, embaixo das quais achei ter visto vagamente as ameaçadoras silhuetas de canhões.

- - -
Finalmente apareceu o sinal de "via livre", o trem retomou a marcha e entrou na estação de Herbestahl. Desci os degraus de um salto para ir buscar um jornal e pedir informações. Mas a estação estava ocupada pelo exército. Quando eu quis entrar na sala de espera, um severo oficial de barba branca postado à porta fechada me parou: proibida a entrada nas dependências da estação. Mas eu já tinha ouvido, através do vidro da porta, cuidadosamente tapado, o barulho das espadas e os golpes secos de rifles no chão. Sem dúvida, havia sido posto em movimento o que parecia monstruoso: a invasão alemã da Bélgica contra todas as leis do direito internacional. Com um calafrio de horror voltei para o trem e continuei minha viagem de volta para a Áustria. Não havia a menor dúvida: ia direto para a guerra.

Na manhã seguinte eu estava na Áustria. Em todas as estações haviam colado cartazes anunciando a mobilização geral. Os trens enchiam-se de recrutas recém-alistados, as bandeiras ondeavam, a música retumbava e em Viena encontrei toda a cidade imersa em um delírio. O primeiro espectro dessa guerra que ninguém queria, nem o povo nem o governo, a guerra com que os diplomatas tinham jogado e blefado e que depois, por descuidos, escorregara por entre os dedos contra seus propósitos, havia desembocado em um repentino entusiasmo. Formavam-se manifestações nas ruas, de imediato agitavam bandeiras e em toda parte ouviam-se bandas de música, os recrutas marchavam triunfantes, com os rostos iluminados, porque as pessoas aplaudiam. Eles, os homenzinhos cotidianos, nos quais ninguém tinha reparado antes e que nunca tinham sido tratados com gentileza.

Em honra à verdade, devo confessar que naquela primeira saída das massas à rua havia algo grandioso, arrebatador, inclusive cativante, o que era difícil de evitar. E, apesar do ódio e aversão à guerra, eu não gostaria de ser privado, durante o resto da minha vida, da memória daqueles primeiros dias; milhares, centenas de milhares de homens sentiram como nunca o que mais lhes teria valido a pena sentir em tempos de paz: que formavam um todo. [...] Os estranhos se falavam pela rua, pessoas que por anos tinham evitado umas às outras agora se davam as mãos, por todos os lados viam-se rostos animados.

- - -
[...] a circunstância de que um amigo, oficial de alta patente, trabalhasse em um arquivo, tornou possível que eu me empregasse lá. Tinha que servir na biblioteca, tarefa na qual foi útil o meu conhecimento de línguas, e também corrigir estilisticamente muitos comunicados dirigidos ao público. Certamente não era uma atividade gloriosa, admito-o de bom grado, mas era algo mais adequado à minha personalidade do que cravar uma baioneta nas tripas de um camponês russo.

- - -
[...] canções e hinos rúnicos para que entregassem suas vidas com entusiasmo. Choviam em abundância os poemas que rimavam krieg (guerra) com sieg (vitória) e not (penúria) com tod (morte). Os escritores juraram solenemente que jamais voltariam a ter relação cultural com um francês ou um inglês, e mais ainda: do dia para a noite negaram que houvesse existido algum dia uma cultura inglesa e uma cultura francesa. Tudo aquilo era inferior e fútil comparado à essência alemã, à arte alemã e ao modo de ser alemão. Os eruditos foram ainda mais severos. De repente, os filósofos não conheciam outra sabedoria além da que explicava a guerra como um benéfico "banho de águas ferruginosas" que prevenia a decadência das forças dos povos. Eram apoiados pelos médicos, os quais elogiavam tanto as próteses, que uma pessoa ficava com vontade de amputar uma perna saudável e substituí-la por uma artificial. Os sacerdotes de todas as denominações também não queriam ser deixados para trás e se uniram ao coro.

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Alguns [escritores], é verdade, logo experimentaram o amargo sabor do fastio de suas próprias palavras, quando se evaporou o conhaque do primeiro entusiasmo.

- - -
Os ignorantes que espalhavam tais mentiras não sabiam que a técnica de culpar os soldados inimigos de todas as crueldades imagináveis faz parte do material bélico tanto quanto a munição e os aviões, e que são regularmente retiradas dos arsenais em todas as guerras.

- - -
Combatia-se a França e a Inglaterra em Viena e em Berlim, na Ringstrasse e na Friedrichstrasse, coisa muito mais cômoda. Os letreiros franceses e ingleses tiveram que desaparecer das lojas, porque irritavam as pessoas. Comerciantes íntegros e honestos assinalavam suas cartas com a frase "Deus castigue a Inglaterra". Senhoras da alta sociedade juravam (e escreviam em cartas para os jornais) que, enquanto vivessem, nunca mais pronunciariam uma frase em francês. Shakespeare foi banido dos palcos alemães; Mozart e Wagner, das salas de concerto francesas e inglesas, os professores alemães explicavam que Dante era germânico; os franceses, que Beethoven era belga; sem escrúpulos requisitavam os bens culturais dos países inimigos, do mesmo modo que os cereais e os minerais.

- - -
Companheiros com os quais há anos eu não discutia acusavam-me grosseiramente, dizendo que eu não era austríaco, que eu deveria ir embora para a França ou para a Bélgica. Mais ainda: insinuavam cautelosamente que deveriam informar as autoridades de opiniões como a de que aquela guerra era um crime.

- - -
Um dia, a campainha tocou. Ao abrir a porta, encontrei um soldado do tipo mais tímido. Tive um sobressalto. Rainer Maria Rilke disfarçado de militar! [...]

Por sorte, existiam mãos prontas para ajudá-lo e protegê-lo, e logo ele entrou de licença graças a um benevolente exame médico. Ele voltou a meu escritório para despedir-se, agora em trajes civis. Ele também tinha vindo me agradecer porque, através de Rolland, eu havia tentado salvar a sua biblioteca, confiscada em Paris. Pela primeira vez já não parecia mais jovem: era como se o pensamento do horror o tivesse consumido.

- - -
Eis aqui, pois, o que diferenciava a Primeira Guerra Mundial da Segunda: a palavra escrita ainda tinha autoridade. [...] Naqueles tempos, as ondas de vibração incessante do rádio ainda não inundavam os ouvidos e a alma do povo.

- - -
[1917] sabia-se que com dinheiro ou influência obtinham-se suprimentos lucrativos, enquanto seguia-se empurrando para as trincheiras camponeses e trabalhadores meio costurados a bala. Assim, pois, todos começaram a cuidar de si o melhor que podiam, sem escrúpulos. Os artigos de primeira necessidade ficavam cada dia mais caros devido a um vergonhoso comércio de atravessadores, os víveres escasseavam e, acima do pântano sombrio da miséria coletiva, brilhava como um fogo-fátuo o luxo provocador dos que se aproveitavam da guerra. Uma desconfiança irritada foi gradualmente tomando conta da população: desconfiança contra o dinheiro, que perdia valor cada vez mais, desconfiança contra os generais, oficiais e diplomatas, desconfiança contra os comunicados oficiais e do estado maior, a desconfiança contra os jornais e suas notícias, desconfiança contra a própria guerra e sua necessidade.

- - -
No dia em que o imperador Wilhelm, que havia jurado lutar até o último suspiro de homens e cavalos, fugiu pela fronteira e Ludendorff, que havia sacrificado milhões de homens à sua "paz pela vitória", escapou para a Suécia com seus óculos escuros, aquele dia foi um grande consolo para nós, porque acreditávamos - e todo o mundo também - que aquilo havia acabado "A" guerra para sempre, que se havia domado ou exterminado a fera que havia assolado o nosso mundo. Acreditávamos no grandioso programa de [Woodrow] Wilson, que subscrevíamos inteiramente. Éramos uns tolos, eu sei. Mas não apenas nós. Quem viveu aquela época lembra que as ruas de todas as cidades estrondavam de júbilo ao receber Wilson como salvador do mundo, e que os soldados inimigos se abraçavam e se beijavam; era agora ou nunca a hora da Europa comum com a qual havíamos sonhado. O Inferno havia ficado para trás, o que poderia nos assustar depois dele? Começava outro mundo. E, como éramos jovens, dizíamos: será o nosso, o mundo com que sonhamos, um mundo melhor e mais humano.


Mais:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eQTVw15RbsE
http://www.martinschlu.de/kulturgeschichte/zwanzigstes/rilke/1914krieg.htm

domingo, 4 de junho de 2017

Out of my life

Trechos de Out Of My Life (1920), de Paul von Hindenburg.


And now the war was upon us. [...]

At three o'clock in the afternoon of August 22 I received an inquiry from the Headquarters of His Majesty the Emperor as to whether I was prepared for immediate employment.

My answer ran: "I am ready."

- - -
In the pocket-book of a dead Russian officer a note had been found which revealed the intention of the enemy Command.

[...] The Russians were thus planning a concentric attack against the 8th Army, but Samsonoff's Army now already extended farther west than was originally intended.

- - -
These men of the 17th Corps and 1st Reserve Corps as well as the Landwehr and Landsturm also had behind them everything which made life worth living.

We had not merely to win a victory over Samsonoff. We had to annihilate him. Only thus could we get a free hand to deal with the second enemy, Rennenkampf, who was even then plundering and burning East Prussia. Only thus could we really and completely free our old Prussian land and be in a position to do something else which was expected of us - intervene in the mighty battle for a decision which was raging between Russia and our Austro-Hungarian Ally in Galicia and Poland. If this first blow were not final the danger for our Homeland would become like a lingering disease, the burnings and murders in East Prussia would remain unavenged, and our Allies in the south would wait for us in vain.

- - -
On our way from Marienburg to Tannenberg the impression of the miseries into which war had plunged the unhappy inhabitants were intensified. Masses of helpless refugees, carrying their belongings, pressed past me on the road and to a certain extent hindered the movements of our troops which were hastening to meet the foe.

- - -
It was only against the Cossacks that our men could not contain their rage. They were considered the authors of all the bestial brutalities under which the people and country of East Prussia had suffered so cruelly.

- - -
In our new Headquarters at Allenstein I entered the church, close by the old castle of the Teutonic Knights, while divine service was being held.

- - -
This first evacuation had left behind remarkable traces of Russian semi-civilisation. The heady odours of scent, leather and cigarettes were not able to cover the odour of other things.

- - -
There is a certain book, 'Vom Kriege,' which never grows old. Its author is Clausewitz. He knew war, and he knew men. We had to listen to him, and whenever we followed him it was to victory. To do otherwise meant disaster. He gave a warning about the encroachment of politics on the conduct of military operations.

- - -
The achievements of Germany and the German Army in the year 1914 will only be appreciated in all their heroic greatness when truth and justice have free play once more, when our enemies' attempt to mislead world opinion by propaganda is unmasked.

- - -
The numbers and resources of our other foes had in the meantime reached giant proportions, and in the circle of their armies Russia's place had been taken by America, with her youthful energies and mighty economic powers!

- - -
On our part of the Eastern Front fighting was resumed with the greatest violence. It had never completely died down. With us, however, it did not rage with quite the same fury as in the Carpathians, where the Austro-Hungarian armies in a desperate struggle had to protect the fields of Hungary from the Russian floods.

- - -
One thing we noticed was that before the surrender the Russians had shot their horses wholesale, obviously as a result of their conviction of the extraordinary importance which these animals had for our operations in the East.

- - -
The tide turned, and our cavalry division had to withdraw again. The railway into the heart of the country was open to the Russians once more. We had come too late and were now exhausted!

- - -
In April, 1916, I celebrated at Kovno the fiftieth anniversary of my entry into the Service.

- - -
There was something unsatisfactory about the final result of the operations and encounters of this year [1915]. The Russian bear had escaped our clutches, bleeding no doubt from more than one wound, but still not stricken to death.

- - -
Activity was uncommonly lively in the enemy's back areas. Deserters complained of the iron discipline to which the divisions drawn from the lines were subjected, for the troops were being drilled with drastic severity.

- - -
If our Medical Services had not remained at the level they actually reached we should not, on this account alone, have been able to carry on the war so long. Some day, when all the material available has been scientifically worked through, the achievements of our Medical Services will be revealed as a glorious testimony to German industry and devotion for a great purpose. Let us hope they will then be made available for common humanity.

- - -
"Verdun"! The name was continually on our lips in the East from the beginning of February in this year. [...] With Verdun in our hands our position on the Western Front would be materially strengthened.

- - -
The French and English, in very superior numbers, had hurled themselves at our relatively weak line on both sides of the Somme and pressed the defence back. Indeed, for a moment we were faced with the menace of a complete collapse!

- - -
I put down the receiver and thought of Verdun and Italy, Brussiloff and the Austrian Eastern Front; then of the news, "Rumania has declared war on us." Strong nerves would be required!

- - -
In view of the collapse on the Galician front, the Austro-Hungarian offensive in the southern Tyrol had had to be abandoned. The Italians, in reply, had themselves passed to the offensive on the Isonzo front. These battles made a very heavy drain on the Austro-Hungarian armies, which were fighting against great superiority.

- - -
Lastly, the position in the Balkans at this moment was of importance to the whole situation and the emergencies of the times. The offensive on which, at our suggestion, the Bulgarians had embarked against Sarrail in Macedonia had had to be broken off after gaining preliminary successes. The political objective which was associated with this offensive - to keep Rumania from entering the war - had not been reached.

- - -
A new army, composed of Bulgarian, Turkish and German units, was being concentrated on the Bulgarian side of the Dobrudja frontier and farther up the Danube. It had about seven divisions of very different strengths.

- - -
Further, the consumption of ammunition and material in the long and immense battles on all fronts had become so enormous that the danger that our operations might be paralysed from this cause alone was not excluded.

- - -
The domestic circumstances of Austria-Hungary had changed for the worse during the summer of 1916.

- - -
The Turkish Empire had entered the war without any ambitions for the extension of her political power. Her leading men, particularly Enver Pasha, had clearly recognised that there could be no neutrality for Turkey in the war which had broken out. It could not, in fact, be imagined that in the long run Russia and the Western Powers would continue to heed the moderating influences with regard to the use of the Straits. For Turkey her entry into the war was a question of to be or not to be, far more than for us others. Our enemies were obliging enough to proclaim this far and wide at the very start.

- - -
We sent material even to the Senussi on the north coast of Africa. These we supplied principally with rifles and small arm ammunition, with the help of our U-boats. Though these deliveries were but small, they had an extraordinarily rousing effect on the war spirit among the Mohammedan tribes. Hitherto we have not been able to appreciate the practical advantages of their operations to our cause.

- - -
It was while we were in residence at Pless that the Emperor Francis Joseph died. Both for the Danube Monarchy and ourselves his death was a loss, the full and impressive import of which was only to be appreciated later. There was no doubt that with his death the ideal bond of union between the various nationalities of the Dual Monarchy was lost. With the venerable white-haired Emperor a large part of the national conscience of the conglomerate Empire sank for ever into the grave.

- - -
Disaster now overtook Rumania because her army did not march, her military leaders had no understanding, and at long last we succeeded in concentrating sufficient forces in Transylvania before it was too late.

- - -
The situation in Irak at this time was better. For the moment the English had not yet made sufficient progress with their communications to be able to embark on an offensive to revenge Kut-el-Amara.

- - -
The third Asiatic theatre, Southern Palestine, gave cause for immediate anxiety. The second Turkish attempt on the Suez Canal had been defeated in August, 1916, in the heart of the northern part of the Sinai peninsula. Following on this occurrence, the Turkish troops had gradually been withdrawn from this region and were now in the neighbourhood of Gaza, on the southern frontier of Palestine.

- - -
There was a great deal of interest in many German circles in these regions. Without saying as much, the thoughts of these gentlemen were probably straying beyond Mesopotamia to Persia, Afghanistan and India, and beyond Syria to Egypt. With their fingers on the map men dreamed that by these routes we could reach the spinal cord of British world power, our greatest peril.

- - -
It was not until December that the actions at Verdun died down. From the end of August the Somme battle too had taken on the character of an extremely fierce and purely frontal contest of the forces on both sides. The task of Main Headquarters was essentially limited to feeding the armies with the reinforcements necessary to enable them to maintain their resistance. Among us battles of this kind were known as "battles of material." From the point of view of the attacker they might also be called "battering-ram tactics," for the commanders had no higher ideal. The mechanical, material elements of the battle were put in the foreground, while real generalship was far too much in the background.

- - -
If our western adversaries failed to obtain any decisive results in the battles from 1915 to 1917 it must mainly be ascribed to a certain unimaginativeness in their generalship. The necessary superiority in men, war material and ammunition was certainly not lacking, nor can it be suggested that the quality of the enemy troops would not have been high enough to satisfy the demands of a more vigorous and ingenious leadership. Moreover, in view of the highly-developed railway and road system, and the enormous amount of transport at their disposal, our enemies in the West had free scope for far greater strategic subtlety. However, the enemy commander did not make full use of these possibilities, and our long resistance was to be attributed, apart from other things, to a certain barrenness of the soil in which the enemy's plans took root. But notwithstanding all this, the demands which had to be made on our commanders and troops on this battlefield remained enormous.

- - -
In my view, war with America was inevitable at the end of January, 1917. At that time Wilson knew of our intention to start unrestricted U-boat warfare on February 1. There can be no doubt that, thanks to the English practice of intercepting and deciphering our telegrams on this subject to the German Ambassador in Washington, Wilson was as well informed about this matter as about the contents of all our other cables.

- - -
In 1914 the Belgian Army had escaped from Antwerp and was now facing us, though practically inactive, and thus imposing on us a certain wastage which was not unimportant. Our experiences with the Serbian Army in 1915 had been only superficially better for us. It had avoided our enveloping movements, though its condition was very pitiful. In the summer of 1916 it reappeared, once more in fighting trim, in the Macedonian theatre, and its units were being continually reinforced and increased from all kinds of countries, of late more particularly by Austro-Hungarian deserters of Slav nationality.

- - -
Think of seventy million human beings living in semi-starvation, thousands of them slowly succumbing to its effects! Think of all the babies in arms who perished because their mothers starved! Think of all the children who were left sick and weakly for life! And this was not in distant India or China, where a stony-hearted, pitiless Nature had refused her blessed rain, but here, in the very centre of Europe, the home of culture and humanity! A semi-starvation which was the work of the decrees and power of men who were wont to glory in their civilisation! Where is the civilisation in that? Do these men stand any higher than those others who shocked the whole civilised world by their savagery against non-combatants in the highlands of Armenia and there came to a miserable end in thousands as a punishment of Fate? No other voice than that of vengeance, certainly not that of pity, has ever spoken to the rough Anatolian peasant.

What was the object of these decrees of the champions of "civilisation"? Their plan was clear. They had seen that their military power would never enable them to realise their tyrannical ambitions, that their methods of warfare were useless against their adversary with his nerves of steel. They would therefore destroy those nerves. If it could not be done in battle, man to man, it might be done from behind, by finding a way through the Homeland. They would let the wives and children starve! "With God's help," that would have its effect on the husbands and fathers at the front, perhaps not at once, but certainly by degrees! Perhaps it would compel those husbands and fathers to throw down their arms, for otherwise the menace of death would hover over their wives and children; the death - of civilisation. There were men who reasoned thus, and indeed prayed thus.

Our enemies are hurling American shells at us. Why do we not sink the ships in which they come? Have we not the means to do so? A question of right? Where and when has our enemy ever thought about right?

- - -
The battles of Arras, Soissons and Rheims raged on for weeks. It revealed only one tactical variation from the conflict on the Somme in the previous year.

- - -
Russia in revolution! How often had men with a real or pretended knowledge of the country announced that this event was at hand? I had ceased to believe in it. Now that it had materialised, it aroused in me no feeling of political satisfaction, but rather a sense of military relief.

- - -
The English attack at Cambrai for the first time revealed the possibilities of a great surprise attack with tanks. We had had previous experience of this weapon in the spring offensive, when it had not made any particular impression. However, the fact that the tanks had now been raised to such a pitch of technical perfection that they could cross our undamaged trenches and obstacles did not fail to have a marked effect on our troops. The physical effects of fire from machine-guns and light ordnance with which the steel Colossus was provided were far less destructive than the moral effect of its comparative invulnerability. The infantryman felt that he could do practically nothing against its armoured sides. As soon as the machine broke through our trench-lines, the defender felt himself threatened in the rear and left his post.

I had no doubt that though our men had had to put up with quite enough already in the defence, they would get on level terms even with this new hostile weapon, and that our technical skill would soon provide the means of fighting tanks, and, moreover, in that mobile form which was so necessary.

- - -
With the appearance of the Americans on the battlefield the hopes which the French and English had so long cherished were at length fulfilled.

- - -
The homeland collapsed sooner than the Army. In these circumstances we were unable to offer any real resistance to the ever-increasing pressure of the President of the United States.

- - -
Stamboul was not destined to fall by some mighty deed of heroism or impressive manifestation of military power.

- - -
The political structure of Austria-Hungary went to pieces at the same time as her military organisation. She not only abandoned her own frontiers, but deserted ours as well.

- - -
The Revolution was now in full career, and it was purely by chance that the general escaped the clutches of the revolutionaries on his way back to Headquarters.

- - -
The visible sign of the victory of the new powers was the overthrow of the Throne. The German Imperial House also fell.

- - -
Like Siegfried, stricken down by the treacherous spear of savage Hagan, our weary front collapsed. It was in vain that it had tried to drink in new vitality from that fountain in our homeland which had run dry. It was now our task to save what was left of our army for the subsequent reconstruction of our Fatherland. The present was lost.

domingo, 28 de maio de 2017

Goodbye to all that

Trechos de Goodbye To All That (1929), de Robert Graves.


I find it most inconvenient to be born into the age of the internal-combustion engine and the electric dynamo and to have no sympathy with them: a bycicle, a Primus stove, and a army rifle mark the bounds of my mechanical capacity.

- - -
Marching on cobble roads is difficult, so when a staff-officer came by in a Rolls-Royce and cursed us for bad march-discipline, I felt like throwing something at him. Trench soldiers hate the staff and the staff know it.

- - -
The few old hands who went through the last show infect the new men with pessimism; they don't believe in the War, they don't believe in the staff. But at least they would follow their officers anywhere, because the officers happen to be a decent lot. They look forward to a battle because that gives them more chances of a cushy one in the legs or arms than trench warfare. In trench warfare the proportion of head wounds is much greater.

- - -
My remaining trench service with the Second Battalion that autumn proved uneventful; I found no excitement in patrolling, no horror in the continual experience of death.

- - -
[A peasant] gave me a vegetarian pamphlet entitled Comment Vivre Cent Ans. (We already knew of the coming Somme offensive, so this seemed a good joke.)

- - -
I used to get big bunches of Canadians to drill: four or five hundred at a time. Spokesmen stepped forward and asked what sense there was in sloping an ordering arms, and fixing and unfixing bayonets. They said they had come across to fight, and not to guard Buckingham Palace.

- - -
Patriotism, in the trenches, was too remote a sentiment, and at once rejected as fit only for civilians, or prisioners. A new arrival who talked patriotism would soon be told to cut if out.

- - -
The troops, while ready to believe in the Kaiser as a comic personal devil, knew the German soldier to be, on the whole, more devout than themselves. In the instructors' mess, we spoke freely of God and Gott as opposed tribal deities.

- - -
Jovial Father Gleeson of the Munsters, when all the officers were killed or wounded at the first battle of Ypres, had stripped off his black badges and, taking command of the survivors, held the line.

- - -
Our great trial was the German canister. A two-gallon drum with a cylinder inside containing about two pounds of an explosive called ammonal that looked like salmon paste, smelled like marzipan and, when it went off, sounded like the Day of Judgement.

- - -
Not wanting to face a religious argument, I decided to humour my parents; if they believed that God stood squarely behind the British Expeditionary Force, it would be unkind to dissent.

I smelt no rat, beyond a slight suspicion that they were anxious to show me off in church wearing my battle-stained officer's uniform.

- - -
Lloyd George was up in the air on one of his "glory of the Welsh hills" speeches. The power of his rhetoric amazed me. The substance of the speech might be commonplace, iddle and false, but I had to fight hard against abandoning myself with the rest of his audience.

- - -
The militia majors, for the most part country gentlemen with estates in Wales and no thoughts in peacetime beyond hunting, shooting, fishing, and the control of their tenantry.

- - -
The number of dead horses and mules shocked me; human corpses were all very well, but it seemed wrong for animals to be dragged into the war like this.

- - -
I was still superstitious about looting or collecting souvernirs. "These greatcoats are only a loan," I told myself.

- - -
Being now off duty, I fell asleep in the trench without waiting for the bombardment to stop. It would be no worse getting killed asleep than awake.

- - -
Divisions could be always be trusted to sending a warning about verdigris or vermorel-sprayers, or the keeping of pets in trenches, or being polite to our allies, or some other triviality, exactly when an attack was in progress.

- - -
My copy of Nietzsche's poems, by the way, had contributed to the suspicions of my spying activities. Nietzsche, execrated in the newspapers as the philosopher of German militarism, was more properly interpreted as a William le Queux mistery-man - the sinister figure behind the Kaiser.

- - -
The Drapeau Blanc [a brothel] saved the life of scores by incapaciting them for future trench service. Base venereal hospitals were always crowded.

- - -
The drafts were now, for the most part, either forcibly enlisted men or wounded men returning; and at this dead season of the year could hardly be expected to feel enthusiastic on their arrival in France.

- - -
We used to boast that our transport animals were the best in France, and our transport men the best horse-thieves.

- - -
We could no longer see the War as one between trade-rivals: its continuance seemed merely a sacrifice of the idealistic young generation to the stupidy and self-protective alarm of the elder.

- - -
Though the quality of the officers had deteriorated from the regimental point of view, their greater efficiency in action amply compensated for their deficiency in manners.

- - -
Our final selection was made by watching the candidates play games, principally rugger and soccer. Those who played rough but not dirty, and had quick reactions, were the sort needed.

- - -
They saw the War as a dispensation of God for restoring France to Catholicism, and told me that the Freemason element in the French Army, represented by General "Papa" Joffre, had now been discredited, and that the present Supreme Command, Foch's, was predominantly Catholic, - an augury, they claimed, of Allied victory.

- - -
Yet in the very next sentence he [Siegfried Sassoon] wrote how mad it made him to think of the countless good men being slaughtered that summer, and all for nothing. The bloody politicians and ditto generals with their cursed incompetent blundering and callous ideas would go on until they tired of it or had got as much kudos as they wanted.

- - -
"... going cheerfully like British soldiers to fight the common foe... some of you perhaps may fall... upholding the magnificent traditions of the Royal Welch Fusiliers..." The draft cheered vigorously; rather too vigorously, I felt - perhaps even ironicaly?

- - -
The embarassments of our wedding-night (Nancy and I being both virgins) were somewhat eased by an air-raid: Zeppelin bombs dropping not far off set the hotel in an uproar.

- - -
The first Spanish influenza epidemic began, and Nancy's mother caught it, but did not want to miss Tony's leave and going to the London theatres with him. So when the doctor came, she took quantities of aspirin, reduced her temperature, and pretended to be all right. But she knew that the ghosts in the mirrors knew the truth. She died in London on July 13th, a few days later.

- - -
The situation must have seemed very strange to the three line-battalion second-lieutenants captured at Mons in 1914, now promoted captains by the death of most of their contemporaries and set free by the terms of the Armistice.

- - -
Whatever hopes we had nursed of an anti-Governamental rising by ex-service men soon faded. Once back in England, they were content with a roof over their heads, civilian food, beer that was at least better than French beer, and enough blankets at night.

- - -
The Treaty of Versailles shocked me; it seemed destined to cause another war some day, yet nobody cared.

- - -
We found the University remarkably quiet. The returned soldiers did not feel tempted to rag about, break windows, get drunk, or have tussles with the police and races with the Proctors' "bulldogs", as in the old days.

- - -
Edmund Blunden, who also had leave to live on Boar's Hill because of gassed lungs, was taking the same course. The War still continued for both of us and we translated everything into trench-warfare terms.

- - -
Pro-German feelings had been increasing. With the War over and the German armies beaten, we could give the German soldier credit for being the most efficient fighting-man in Europe.

- - -
Some undergratuates even insisted tha we had been fighting on the wrong side: our natural enemies were the French.

- - -
My own compulsion-neuroses make it easy for me to notice them in others.

- - -
I also suggested that the men who had died, destroyed as it were by the fall of the Tower of Siloam, were not particularly virtous or particularly wicked, but just average soldiers, and that the survivors should thank God they were alive, and do their best to avoid wars in the future.


Mais:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFuIx2HN20o
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Battle_of_Messines_(1917)

domingo, 21 de maio de 2017

The backwash of war

Trechos de The Backwash Of War (1916), de Ellen N. La Motte.


When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left eye, and then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they bundled him into an ambulance and carried him, cursing and screaming, to the nearest field hospital. [...] He was a deserter, and discipline must be maintained. Since he had failed in the job, his life must be saved, he must be nursed back to health, until he was well enough to be stood up against a wall and shot.

- - -
During this commotion, his left eye rolled about loosely upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he shot great clots of stagnant blood, caring not where they fell. One fell upon the immaculate white uniform of the Directrice, and stained her, from breast to shoes. It was disgusting.

- - -
To attempt to kill oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy to die with honour upon the battlefield, was something he [Médecin Major] could not understand.

- - -
It was difficult to get the man under the anæsthetic. Many cans of ether were used, which went to prove that the patient was a drinking man. Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before or since the war could not be ascertained.

- - -
Then the Médecin Major did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic eye.

- - -
Very many yards of gauze were required, with gauze at so many francs a bolt. Very much ether, very much iodoform, very many bandages - it was an expensive business, considering.

- - -
Here lay Félix, asleep. Poor, querulous, feeble-minded Félix, with a foul fistula, which filled the whole ward with its odour. In one sleeping hand lay his little round mirror, in the other, he clutched his comb. With daylight, he would trim and comb his moustache, his poor, little drooping moustache, and twirl the ends of it.

- - -
His [Hippolyte] dirty, filthy jokes filled the ward, provoking laughter, even from dying Marius.

- - -
"Sales embusqués!" (Dirty cowards) he cried angrily. "How long is it since I have been wounded? Ten hours! For ten hours have I laid there, waiting for you! And then you come to fetch me, only when it is safe! Safe for you! Safe to risk your precious, filthy skins! Safe to come where I have stood for months! Safe to come where for ten hours I have laid, my belly opened by a German shell! Safe! Safe! How brave you are when night has fallen, when it is dark, when it is safe to come for me, ten hours late!"

- - -
An assistant, with heavy, blunt scissors, half cut, half tore the trousers from the man in agony. Clouts of black blood rolled from the wound, then a stream bright and scarlet, which was stopped by a handful of white gauze, retained by tightly wrapped bands. The surgeon raised himself from the task.

"Mon pauvre vieux," he murmured tenderly. "Once more?" and into the supine leg he shot a stream of morphia.

- - -
And all the while the wound in the abdomen gave forth a terrible stench, filling the ward, for he [Marius] had gas gangrene, the odour of which is abominable.

- - -
Marius had been taken to the Salle of the abdominal wounds, and on one side of him lay a man with a fæcal fistula, which smelled atrociously. The man with the fistula, however, had got used to himself, so he complained mightily of Marius. On the other side lay a man who had been shot through the bladder, and the smell of urine was heavy in the air round about. Yet this man had also got used to himself, and he too complained of Marius, and the awful smell of Marius. For Marius had gas gangrene, and gangrene is death, and it was the smell of death that the others complained of.

Two beds farther down, lay a boy of twenty, who had been shot through the liver. Also his hand had been amputated, and for this reason he was to receive the Croix de Guerre. He had performed no special act of bravery, but all mutilés are given the Croix de Guerre, for they will recover and go back to Paris, and in walking about the streets of Paris, with one leg gone, or an arm gone, it is good for the morale of the country that they should have a Croix de Guerre pinned on their breasts.

- - -
Opposite Marius, across the ward, lay a little joyeux. That is to say, a soldier of the Bataillon d'Afrique, which is the criminal regiment of France, in which regiment are placed those men who would otherwise serve sentences in jail. Prisoners are sent to this regiment in peace time, and in time of war, they fight in the trenches as do the others, but with small chance of being decorated. Social rehabilitation is their sole reward, as a rule.

- - -
One morning, very early, the night nurse looked out of the window and saw a little procession making its way out of the gates of the hospital enclosure, going towards the cemetery of the village beyond. First came the priest, carrying a wooden cross that the carpenter had just made. He was chanting something in a minor key, while the sentry at the gates stood at salute. The cortège passed through, numbering a dozen soldiers, four of whom carried the bier on their shoulders. The bier was covered with the glorious tricolour of France. She glanced instinctively back towards Marius. It would be just like that when he died. Then her eyes fell upon a Paris newspaper, lying on her table. There was a column headed, "Nos Héros! Morts aux Champs d'Honneur! La Patrie Reconnaissante." It would be just like that.

- - -
At the end of the summer, they changed the troops in this sector, and the young Zouaves were replaced by old men of forty and forty-five. They looked very much older than this when they were wounded and brought into the hospital, for their hair and beards were often quite white, and besides their wounds, they were often sick from exposure to the cold, winter rains of Flanders.

- - -
Rochard died to-day. He had gas gangrene. His thigh, from knee to buttock, was torn out by a piece of German shell. It was an interesting case, because the infection had developed so quickly. [...] which showed that the Germans were using very poisonous shells. At that field hospital there had been established a surgical school, to which young men, just graduated from medical schools, or old men, graduated long ago from medical schools, were sent to learn how to take care of the wounded.

- - -
The various students came forward and timidly pressed the upper part of the thigh, the remaining part, all that remained of it, with their fingers, and little crackling noises came forth, like bubbles. Also the bacteriologist from another hospital in the region happened to be present, and he made a culture of the material discharged from that wound.

- - -
They could not operate on Rochard and amputate his leg, as they wanted to do. The infection was so high, into the hip, it could not be done. Moreover, Rochard had a fractured skull as well. Another piece of shell had pierced his ear, and broken into his brain, and lodged there. [...] The Médecin Chef took a curette, a little scoop, and scooped away the dead flesh, the dead muscles, the dead nerves, the dead blood-vessels. [...] Afterwards, into the deep, yawning wound, they put many compresses of gauze, soaked in carbolic acid, which acid burned deep into the germs of the gas gangrene, and killed them, and killed much good tissue besides. Then they covered the burning, smoking gauze with absorbent cotton, then with clean, neat bandages.

- - -
And there was a full inch of German shell in Rochard's skull, in his brain somewhere, for the radiographist said so. He was a wonderful radiographist and anatomist, and he worked accurately with a beautiful, expensive machine, given him, or given the field hospital, by Madame Curie.

- - -
No one in the ward was fond of Rochard. He had been there only a few hours. He meant nothing to any one there. He was a dying man, in a field hospital, that was all.

- - -
"My husband," she explained, "has a little estaminet, just outside of Ypres. We have been very fortunate. Only yesterday, of all the long days of the war, of the many days of bombardment, did a shell fall into our kitchen, wounding our son, as you have seen. But we have other children to consider, to provide for. And my husband is making much money at present, selling drink to the English soldiers. I must return to assist him."

- - -
The foremost bearer kicks open the door with his knee, and lets in ahead of him a blast of winter rain, which sets dancing the charts and papers lying on the table, and blows out the alcohol lamp over which the syringe is boiling. Someone bangs the door shut. The unconscious form is loaded on the bed. He is heavy and the bed sags beneath his weight. The brancardiers gather up their red blankets and shuffle off again, leaving cakes of mud and streaks of muddy water on the green linoleum. Outside the guns roar and inside the baracques shake, and again and again the stretcher bearers come into the ward, carrying dying men from the high tables in the operating room.

- - -
Meningitis has set in and it won't be long now, before we'll have another empty bed. Yellow foam flows down his nose, thick yellow foam, bubbles of it, bursting, bubbling yellow foam. It humps up under his nose, up and up, in bubbles, and the bubbles burst and run in turgid streams down upon his shaggy beard. [...] he cried and sobbed all the while the General decorated him, and protested that he did not want to die.

- - -
Pathetic little photographs they were, of common, working-class women, some fat and work-worn, some thin and work-worn, some with stodgy little children grouped about them, some without, but all were practically the same. They were the wives of these men in the beds here.

- - -
There was much talk of home, and much of it was longing, and much of it was pathetic, and much of it was resigned. And always the little, ugly wives, the stupid, ordinary wives, represented home.

- - -
Women can come into the War Zone, on various pretexts, but wives cannot. Wives, it appears, are bad for the morale of the Army. They come with their troubles, to talk of how business is failing, of how things are going to the bad at home, because of the war; of how great the struggle, how bitter the trials and the poverty and hardship. They establish the connecting link between the soldier and his life at home, his life that he is compelled to resign. Letters can be censored and all disquieting, disturbing items cut out, but if a wife is permitted to come to the War Zone, to see her husband, there is no censoring the things she may tell him.

- - -
You speak of the young aviator who was decorated for destroying a Zeppelin single-handed, and in the next breath you add, and he killed himself, a few days later, by attempting to fly when he was drunk.

- - -
These were decent girls at the beginning of the war. But you know women, how they run after men, especially when the men wear uniforms, all gilt buttons and braid. It's not the men's fault that most of the women in the War Zone are ruined. Have you ever watched the village girls when a regiment comes through, or stops for a night or two, en repos, on its way to the Front? Have you seen the girls make fools of themselves over the men? Well, that's why there are so many accessible for the troops. Of course the professional prostitutes from Paris aren't admitted to the War Zone, but the Belgian girls made such fools of themselves, the others weren't needed. [...] they are all ruined and not fit for any decent man to mate with, after the war.

They are pretty dangerous, too, some of these women. They act as spies for the Germans and get a lot of information out of the men, and send it back, somehow, into the German lines.

- - -
Antoine learned that a marvellous operation had been performed upon the boy, known as plastic surgery, that is to say, the rebuilding, out of other parts of the body, of certain features of the face that are missing.

- - -
This surgical triumph was his son. Two very expensive, very good artificial legs lay on the sofa beside the boy. They were nicely jointed and had cost several hundred francs. From the same firm it would also be possible to obtain two very nice artificial arms, light, easily adjustable, well hinged. A hideous flabby heap, called a nose, fashioned by unique skill out of the flesh of his breast, replaced the little snub nose that Antoine remembered. The mouth they had done little with. All the front teeth were gone, but these could doubtless be replaced, in time, by others. Across the lad's forehead was a black silk bandage, which could be removed later, and in his pocket there was an address from which artificial eyes might be purchased. [...] Antoine looked down upon this wreck of his son that lay before him, and the wreck kept begging:

"Kill me, Papa!"

- - -
They dispensed with chloroform and gave him spinal anæsthesia, by injecting something into his spinal canal, between two of the low vertebræ. This completely relieved him of pain, but made him talkative, and when they saw he was conscious like that, it was decided to hold a sheet across the middle of him, so that he could not see what was going on, on the other side of the sheet, below his waist.

- - -
After a short while, however, his remarks grew less coherent, and he seemed to find himself back in the trenches, telephoning. He struggled hard to get the connection, in his mind, over the telephone. [...]

"All right now! It is the good God at the telephone!"

A drop of blood spotted the sheet, a sudden vivid drop which spread rapidly, coming through.


Mais:
http://www.medicalarchives.jhmi.edu/papers/lamotte.html
http://encyclopedia.1914-1918-online.net/article/medicine_and_medical_service

domingo, 14 de maio de 2017

Trincee

Carlo Salsa, Trincee: la verità oltre ogni "celebrativismo"

"Noi dobbiamo dire che cos'è la guerra, non le chitarrate romanzesche e le favole della storia: ed ecco dunque un contributo alla verità."

Trincee - Confidenze di un Fante è un libro poco conosciuto, tornato alla luce dopo essere stato censurato nel 1924, anno in cui fu per la prima volta pubblicato; la narrazione pacata, ironica e cruda della guerra del Carso - la più tragica e debilitante - non poteva convivere con i miti roboanti proposti dalla retorica fascista. Carlo Salsa, come scrive nell'Introduzione, era consapevole di come la letteratura di guerra fosse giunta ad un punto di saturazione; infinite erano le narrazioni riguardo a questo evento epocale, e l'argomento era ormai una "pratica sdrucita", stomacante, pronta a "far inorridire le belle signore golose di letteratura alla moda".

Nonostante questo, Trincee si staglia immediatamente nella memoria del lettore, consegnando senza alcun filtro l'immagine fisica e morale di quindici mesi trascorsi nel Carso, tra uomini che sembrano inquietanti spaventapasseri o statue di cera pronte a squagliarsi nel fango, giovani fanti resi invisibili da buche buie e sporche in un cimitero di morti insepolti e di sepolti vivi. Lo stile incarna quasi un paradosso: il libro è gelido nelle totalità ma espressionista ed inventivo nella scrittura; il distacco e l'impersonalità, del resto, erano forse gli unici espedienti per poter esprimere una tale galleria di orrori, che non ci risparmia nulla.

Da questa implacabile galleria è opportuno isolare almeno un quadro, ovvero quello del ritorno in Patria del protagonista durante la prima licenza. Salsa giunge a Milano con la divisa logora e un fardello pieno di stracci e si accorge di vagare per la città nello smarrimento più totale, come se vedesse le cose per la prima volta. Eppure, in patria nulla è cambiato; la gente passeggia indifferente per le vie, i teatri annunciano i loro spettacoli, i pescecani si arricchiscono con la guerra e pranzano eleganti nei locali.

Eric J. Leed, in Terra di Nessuno, parla di un fenomeno che accomunò tutti i fanti: la "sentimentalizzazione della Patria"; i soldati, avendo perso qualsiasi punto di riferimento nella realtà alienante della guerra, avevano idealizzato i luoghi e le persone del passato, immaginando il volto della Patria chino su di loro, triste di un dolore empatico. Questa ultima àncora di salvezza si frantuma al contatto con un'Italia indifferente, in cui si conducono affari come al solito e si persegue ogni piacere; gli eroi del fronte si rendono conto di essere superflui in Patria, dove la visione di quei corpi sporchi e dalle vesti lacere provoca anzi una sorta di disgusto; era meglio ammirare gli ufficiali del genio, i generali o i coraggiosi automobilisti, ben vestiti e dall'aria intrepida. I fanti sembravano deboli e malati, troppo lontani dall'idea risorgimentale di guerra combattuta al sole, nello scontro aperto e dinamico di divise lucenti. La guerra moderna, quella statica e immobile, condotta contro un nemico invisibile da soldati nascosti come topi, non poteva essere accettata.

Che cosa farsene, allora, dei Comitati di soccorso, delle Case del soldato, delle bandiere tricolori e delle Associazioni patriottiche, delle cartoline illustrate e delle crocerossine commemoranti il povero soldato che moriva valorosamente per la patria? Che cosa farsene del vittimismo e delle celebrazioni edulcorate? Gli intellettuali del tempo urlavano nascondendosi dietro la comoda facciata delle loro riviste, e non erano diversi da quelli che avevano supportato l'entrata in guerra standosene poi a casa, facendo armare gli altri. Salsa se ne va da Milano quasi sollevato e il titolo del capitolo in cui la vicenda viene raccontata, "Oasi", si mostra ora in tutta la sua amara ironia: l'oasi si rivela un luogo di disillusione piuttosto che di salvezza:

"Portai in me il peso della mia solitudine e una enorme sensazione di vuoto: mi sembrò che la mia vicenda non dovesse essere dissimile da quella di certi zingari gocciolanti di stracci, che trascinano per tutti i paesi le loro baracche sconnesse e che si avventurano per tutte le strade sulle orme di un sogno impossibile."

Carlo Salsa si presenta come un anti-eroe e non ha paura di farlo, nonostante sappia benissimo quale sia la sorte di chi provi ad affermare la verità: "disfattista!" Luigi Santucci, nella Prefazione al libro, scrive come il diario apra il discorso della demitizzazione, dell'esigenza della "verità fuori d'ogni celebrativismo", fornendoci una meditazione che, purtroppo, è più che mai attuale, in quanto la guerra non è mai anacronistica. All'interno del diario, catturando il discorso di alcuni commilitoni, Salsa scolpisce un' immagine profetica e amaramente ironica:

"Qui ci verranno dopo la guerra a fare la gita di ferragosto. E diranno: se c'ero io! Ci saranno i cartelli-rèclame e gli alberghi di lusso! Passeggiate di curiosità come ai musei di storia naturale; e raccatteranno le nostre ossa come portafortuna."

Sono passati cento anni da quando la Grande Guerra è stata combattuta e le commemorazioni per questo centenario, così come avviene durante le varie "giornate della memoria", si sprecano. Si ha la sensazione, tuttavia, che ricordare non basti; prima di celebrare bisognerebbe comprendere, avvicinarsi il più possibile alla verità, o quantomeno provarci. Oggi più che mai, mentre discorsi lacrimevoli prendono il posto di indagini approfondite e spiegazioni chiare per paura di ripercussioni politiche e diplomatiche, sembra opportuno capire che la retorica, in questi casi, non serve ed è anzi corrosiva e fastidiosa.

"D'altra parte, è utile si sappia tutti cos'è la guerra. Abbiamo visto che una guerra non si fa per ragioni idealistiche. Gli idealismi servono soprattutto a guadagnare delle alleanze o cacciare innanzi i soldati. [...] E allora, se la guerra dev'essere una partita di interesse, si sappia cos'è."


Fonte:
http://www.loppure.it/carlo-salsa-trincee-la-verita-oltre-ogni-celebrativismo

Mais:
http://www.educational.rai.it/materiali/file_moduli/50959_635543498470218727.pdf
http://docs.google.com/file/d/1YYScSQ338zCFoODp29hxfwq4al0luy4B