Hello. My name is Makov. I’m 31 years old. When my great grandfather named Igor passed away on my father’s side, he left a box with a big journal made of animal hide in the dusty wooded attic of our multi generational summer family home nestled in the northeastern forests of my home country, Russia. After his service in World War 1, he decided to write about his experiences in a journal to help him cope with is trauma.
I always knew from my father that the journal entries recounted Igor’s time at war, but I never expecting anything like what I read. Some pages tell of the unspeakable savagery that man can produce…but not from the common enemy at the time. Something much worse. Another group. Deep within the confines of untouched forests that was now finally disturbed by the war machines of the outside world.
Anyways, It was finally time for us to say goodbye to this temporary summer home of ours. We needed the money. I gently placed the journal with the rest of my stuff and moved into my dorm room of Moscow State University. It’s our 10th day of class and I brought the journal for show & tell. It was my chance to share my great grandfather’s story. I of course translated this particular journal entry for anyone who chooses to read. As this is the long, long entry in question.
“The lamps are going out all over Europe; we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.”
-Edward Gray, 1925
Bieszczady Mt. Range, Polish-Austro-Hungarian Border, January, 1915
I remember it all. Every detail. A rough Blizzard began to form over the The Northwestern Carpathian Mountains on the evening of the 5th. The sun was a blurry blob of white light on the fading outskirts of the incoming storm clouds to the north like a renaissance painting. The Austro-Hungarian Empire is doing their damndest in the war against us. My name is Igor. It was around two and a half weeks since me and my battalion accidentally stranded the Village in Łupków Pass due to a heavy bombardment of artillery fire from the enemy, causing us to veer off from camp.
Me and what little was left of my battalion, 30 men, sat by two crudely made fires in the frosted pit of a valley in the middle of the eastern edge of the range. Every tree was without leaves. Our breath clear as day and our wool coats blanketed with bits of frost. Sun shining on or damaged fleece caps. Our skin pale as paper. Horrible dark circles around our eyes. And our scratched up Federov Avtomat rifles propped up on the grey logs that we were sat upon.
Sitting across from me, was a man named Yetsky. He was a man of wisdom and jokes who kept the moral high in an evil world. Everything was taken from him, yet he remains stedfast for the battalion’s sake. It was the only thing he lived for anymore. He had his Madsen machine gun laying across his lap. His arms inside of his wool winter coat. His ammo box beside his feet filled to the brim with bullets. Picking one 6.5 mm up at a time and putting it in a mag with care.
“Tell me something brother, why do you treat that damn gun like it’s your infant child?” I asked with a smug dry lipped smile. Yetsky gave me a quick offended glance and returned to his work. “It is not my fault that you are soulless, brother! If you want to stay sane in this frozen hellscape, you have to take care of everything you own as if you love them like they are your children” Yetsky said in a half-smiley half-focused manner. I thought to myself. That may be the most eye opening piece of wisdom I have heard during this damned war.
Nighttime was pitch black with layers of clouds and warping winds of snow. Save for the bonfire I made for my brothers in arms. It faintly flickered against the tree lines in the mountains. The fire was twisting and churning in the winds of that blizzard, blowing embers in every possible direction. We struggled to set up our wool tents in that violent freezing force of mother nature. Fortunately, we were somewhat successful in our task. Although, Yetsky, in his hypocrisy, had a torn apart tent that has seen better days. He shuffled and struggled through a foot of snow over to my tent carrying everything he owned on his back. The glare of the fire shining the left half of his body in the darkness. He had a desperate and jokingly pitiful look on his face. Lips dried and coated in frost. I of course let him in.
He stumbled inside and fell to the floor of my tent after setting himself free of the thick layer of snow. “Do not mind my clumsiness, brother!” Yetsky wheezingly joked. We laughed together. We both sat there cross legged for a minute before I pulled out two mahorka cigarettes from my Infantry bag to light for the both of us. I also lit my my dirt covered weak excuse of a lantern and set it between us. It was a desperate attempt to feel an ounce of collective peace in this world of hell both man-made and natural. Yetsky starred at the cigaret in his hand as if he were pondering something.
Yetsky opening his mouth in silence for a full 10 seconds and began to tell a story. “…..When I was but a young man, Me, my step-mother, and my father lived on a farm in the middle of a field somewhere in the woods. My step mother was practically an indentured servant of sorts….and my father was hellbent on being an independent hard working farmer. So much so, that he isolated himself from all human connection. It felt as if I were abandoned in a way.
“He had kept himself around, yes, but he did not pay any mind to me or my mother. He became a violent drunken fool most nights. Throwing furniture and yelling obscenities. The night before I enlisted, He already had drank a whole bottle of vodka. Ranting about how I would become a “man’s man” in the imperial army. He stumbled out into the field of cattle in the middle of the night with his revolver…and he started to shoot at them. Some straight in the head, some scattered off into the darkness bleeding to death. All while he was screaming “MAN’S MAN”.
“My step mother slipped away away that night…leaving me there. I cannot say I blame her. She needed to escape before he laid a finger on her……Individualism ends up destroying everything. But most importantly, It will end up destroying you as well. That is why I reside with this wonderful band camaraderie”. Touching Wisdom. As always. We finally lay down in our sleeping bags made of hide. The tent flapping violently in the wind. We Shivered until dozing off.
We were suddenly awoken in the dark early morning by a guttural howl somewhere distance. Both of us now sitting upright. It somehow slightly overpowered the sound of the deafening blizzard. It also sounded….wrong. It did not sound like a wolf. It did not sound like a bear. It sounded mostly human, but not quite. Yetsky Looked at me with a stare of mere curiosity. I did the same. At this current point in time, we were not scared of anything. We all had experienced our fair share of crippling grief and trauma the likes of which the common man cannot fathom.
“what do you think that is?” I asked in a low tone. “Ahh. I am sure it is nothing but a feral wolf.” Yetsky quickly dismissed in a raspy voice. “Well regardless, we should see to alerting our comrades before sunrise so we can continue our journey back. Unless we want to be ravaged by a pack of wolves” I firmly stated. “Ha! Yes sir!” Yetsky said sarcastically with a half hazard salute. We both exit the tent. Pushing the wool flaps aside into the unforgiving storm of darkness. Lanterns held up in one hand. Rifles resting in the other arm.
To our very little surprise, our fellow comrades also heard it and already sought to gathering their gear. As we expected, nothing of importance happened for another hour. We were now traveling in a single file line in the middle of a now much less violent blizzard through the valley. A comrade of ours named Chekov usually was last in line. Yetsky was second to last and I was the third. Over halfway through the valley, Chekov suddenly heard a quick sound of someone running through the thick snow behind him, fading in and out very quickly. We all halted and turned around quickly. Rustling our gear and fabrics.
I heard a quick little grunt some distance in the front of the line. Like a dog…but someone mimicking a dog. We could all barely make out a figure in the dark morning gloom of snow thirty feet infront of the group. One of us realized that our comrade Romanov wasn’t in line. He regularly got lost due to his clumsiness. “ROME? Is that you? Stop fumbling about like a bastard and get back in formation.” I called out.
The figure did not move. Save for the tricks our eyes play on us when we see something in the cloudy dark, Shifting and forming. That shape of a man darted away back into the darkness. Immediately after, Rome caught up behind Chekov through the fog. “I saw it too!” Romanov said with comical exhaustion. We always had a certain protocol set forth whenever we should encounter another person that is not our own. They will automatically be assumed to be the enemy.
We all halted and crouched in one swift motion of adrenaline. Rifles being cocked and pointed in each direction like a pattern. Shouting back and forth over the wind. Snow sticking to the top of our rifles. A dark figure suddenly dashed out from behind some nearby boulder with what seemed to be a spiked club. The figure darted by and quickly and violently whacked the back of Romanov’s neck with a liquidy crunch.
The back of his neck had been ripped open a quarter way causing his head to snap to the side and then dangle forward unnaturally. Like the head of a doll being partially torn away. His body fell forward like a mannequin being pushed over. Stiff as stone. Blood spurting and running from his neck. Face down in the snow. shaking and convulsing. His arms straight like a pencil and his hands wildly contorted.
Yetsky let out a primal scream that I only heard in the battlefield. He swiftly lifted up his Nagant pistol and fired 4 shots in the direction that the figure had ran in. The loud cracks muffling my left ear. He then holstered it. A faint splatter can be seen bursting from the figures head, dropping straight down into the snow. Five more shadowy figures emerged from deep within the fog. “IGOR. RUN.” Yetsky hissed. Arrows of fire reigned down from the upper tree lines. He ran and dove behind a rock, Madsen in arm, and mounted up his Madsen on top in a sharp motion and started firing. Continuous thundering pops filled the night with ear piercing noise. Big muzzle flashes followed.
We all began to dart away in the direction we were heading in. Yetsky, now standing, is firing from his elbow. Causing his recoil to worsen while running. We did the best we could in that grueling foot of white. Cracking off shots into the grey abyss around us. Hoping we could fend off whoever or whatever “they” were. We all knew then and there that these were not Austrian or Hungarian soldiers. These…things..were something else entirely. They were roaming agents of chaos with no banner nor creed to know of.
Luckily, we were able to fend them off for a little while. It was a bright and cloudy morning when we all dropped to our knees in unison just outside of the valley. Stopping between the valley and the hilly snow covered forest ahead. Some men stared off into the distance with half wide eyes. Some men silently cried in a ball on the ground. Me and Yetsky sat still with our legs sprawled out for a long moment with drained blank expressions of cold compartmentalization, dirt and grime cover our faces. clenching our teeth. We had no choice but to think of the navigation plans for the path ahead.
I slowly got up from where I sat and stumbled forward for a second. Trying to gather my bearings. Yetsky used his Madsen to hoist himself off of the ground in a janky fashion. He then wrapped it on his back right beside his pack with his sling. After we got ourselves together, we set forth again. Walking through the forest. There were trees that were close together. As if it were a maze.
Snow gently swirling doing from the branches it had landed upon. All was quiet. Accept for the distant wind and the sound of snow crunching beneath our boots. There was a small little clearing up ahead blanketed in frozen weeds. And just above those up close weeds, was smoke from a fire in the distant tree line. I lifted up my frost covered binoculars. The smoke was rising up between two tall beech trees. Some of us acted excited, some of us were reluctant to continue further, and some of us were too exhausted to react. But we had no choice. We continued.
The cloud of smoke slowly edging closer. We later found ourselves 25 feet from the rising smoke that we could see just above a short but steep incline we were hiking up. When we got close enough, we raised our rifles up while we slowly approached. Taking in every detail. The slight warmth filling the air. The smell of burnt rotten meat and wood getting stronger. Two large brown tents started creeping up into view from the top as we kept closing in. The bolt of my rifle got so close to my right eye that it became blurry in my vision out of heart racing adrenaline.
We slowly peered over the top of the hill at a completely ransacked and devastated Austrian camp that was covered in pure death. On the ground, I had seen the mangled and gored corpses of Austrian infantrymen strewn about in a slimy spillage of meat. Intestines, tissue, and limbs chopped and scattered about the ground, coated in dirt and snow. Piles and piles of scattered bullet casings and damaged firearms.
I glanced at the trees above and saw upside-down hanging bodies that were flayed to the bone. Some men on the ground had been stripped of all their clothes and lay about like rag dolls with sliced open throats, forced acts of sodomy from large branches, and butchered stomaches. All I could do was stand there in the middle of it all and look on. “No man deserves a fate such as this. Even if they are the enemy.” Chekov muttered quietly In shock. I nodded toward him in sorrowful agreement. A moment of silence ensued.
All of a sudden, a large thick arrow had shot 25 feet from some brush in the far corner of the camp to my left, whizzing past my face, and plunged straight through the front of Chekov’s bottom jaw out the back of his lower head. splitting his jaw completely open. Chekov vomited up blood and his body immediately folded backwards to the ground like a contortionist gone limp. The bottom half of his white undershirt and imperial jacket pushed up above his waist from the gust of air while falling down. The bottom of his ribs were pushing against his skin due to the body’s folded position. Blood spurting and spilling from the impact. I quickly dived to the right and took cover behind a half circle wall of sand bags.
Gunfire erupted everywhere. I turned and found Yetsky huddled in with me, already having his Madsen gun mounted on the top, he began to fire self-loading 40-round magazines toward the brush. It sounded like train wheels and thunder echoing through the forest. Red mist shot out from inside the frozen brush. The snow on top of the sandbags started vibrating off onto the ground due to the force of his weapon’s fire rate.
I started looking all around wide eyed and spastically. Swiveling my rifle around like a madman. Searching for a way out or an advantage of any sort. Blurred movements of animal hide and fur moved behind trees. Hopping from heavy tree branch to heavy tree branch. Strange howls and screams came from the wood. Tree bark flying everywhere and rapid punctured holes in the tents from gunfire.
My Comrades were getting bombarded with all sorts of unholy projectiles crafted from log, branch, and stone. Pasty white men covered in animal fur lurched from branches and hacked my men with stone axes. The agonizing screams were too much to bear. A Young 18 year old comrade of ours, Yuri, bless his heart, threw an M1914 grenade twirling up into a tree with two of those figures in it. The grenade went off. There was a loud pop of an explosion that splintered apart the upper base of the tree and filled the air with debris of all kinds.
Bark, dust, wood chunks, and limbs with blood swirling out of them in mid air. The top of the tree began to fall. Sounds of splintering wood echoing. Despite my attempts to deter Yuri from the falling tree, a figure rushed behind him. As soon as Yuri turned around, he pulled the pin of another grenade and both him and the figure were crushed by the landing. The second grenade exploded. A loud crack reverberated the ground around me. A huge puff of wood particles spread throughout the small encampment.
There was silence. Complete silence. I heard Yetsky call out from the left. “IGOR. IGOR?”. I couldn’t call back. My voice was completely gone. Somehow, through the dust, Yetsky found me. He dropped his pack and ran towards me. He found me. He always found me. We wrapped our arms around each other. Rocking back and forth like the crib of a child. It was a primal embrace of human care and affection. Burrowing our faces into each others coats. We held each other tightly for a moment but what seemed like ages before tending to my injured comrades.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw 5 figures left retreating through the rubble and down the incline of which we came. It was a day of pure unadulterated hell to the highest degree. It was worse than any artillery shell, Trench Foot, or warfare gas made from some putrid german chemist. To this very day in 1929, I am still confidently certain that those malevolent bunch of berserkers sprouted from the seed of evil itself. The root of hatred. The Grandfather of it all. They were not some heroic indigenous souls protecting their homeland like the Americas or Africa. They were cut from a cloth unknown to history and time. Frenzied marauders that slaughter Russian and Austrian soldier alike with nary a motive to be found.
I sat there for an eternity. Too exhausted to move any more of my muscles. I began to fade into a deep sleep when I saw a cavalry of Hungarian troops moving into the camp. Anything that had occurred after was but a blur. Me and Yetsky stayed at a POW camp called The Mauthausen Camp for 4 years. Until it closed it’s gates 1918. While we were there, we had both caught the Typhus Disease. I overcame it. Yetsky did not make it beyond the confines of that prison. I held him while he passed away in his sleep. I held him dearly without a word. I hunkered down in the corner of some dirty cell with a group of Serbian POWS that were watching me. It was my Journey’s end. A cold and dark cell. With a dead friend. No victory. No defeat. Just suffering at the hands of the old familiar cruelty of war.