The Two-Headed Eagle

“What’s he doing?” I whispered to Meyerhofer.

“Making sure that the poor sod’s fit to undergo capital punishment.”

“What happens if he isn’t?”

“I suppose they just take him to the prison hospital, then bring him back here and shoot him when he’s feeling better.”

The medical profession having done its bit for the victim’s well-being, it was the turn of the Catholic Church, as embodied in the young Feld- kurat, complete now with crucifix and purple penitential stole. This ap­peared to be causing problems. Bauma

“Tenente,” he said to me, smiling, “I’m afraid that the mental stress of preparing to be shot has caused me to forget how to speak German. Would you be so good as to tell these people that I’m an agnostic and a Freemason, and that I certainly don’t require the ministrations of this reactionary black-frock.” I translated these remarks for the benefit of the chaplain and Major Bauma

“How dare you, you grovelling miserable Italian serpent! You’re under military law now and if I say you’ll get benediction you’ll damned well get it! Is that clear? Herr Feldkurat, absolve this bastard and give him the last rites at once so that we can get on with shooting him.”

“But Herr Oberst, the prisoner refuses to make confession . . .”

“DO AS YOU’RE DAMNED WELL TOLD!”

So di Carraciolo was hastily absolved and smeared with unction in nomine patris et filii et spiritu sancti. Then the chaplain was curtly dis­missed to make way for a sergeant bearing a metal disc on a loop of string. It was the top of a ration tin. He hung it around the Major’s neck so that it lay over his heart as an aiming-point for the firing squad. Our fellows should have been in the air a good quarter-hour already, to draw away the hunt. Where were they? Meyerhofer said that they had certainly seen the message canister as he dropped it.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted.

“Herr Leutnant, Herr Major, if you please. It’s the prisoner again: he wants to speak with you both.” I walked over once more to di Carraciolo, tied to the stake but still unblindfolded. Bauma

“What is it now, damn and blast you? Herr Leutnant, tell this insub­ordinate Italian swine to stop wasting my time and to stand to attention when he addresses me.”

I conveyed these remarks to di Carraciolo.

“Please tell the Maggiore,” he said, “that I have not been granted a last request.” I relayed this to Bauma

“Himmeldo

“I only asked to be granted a last request. It is the custom I believe for condemned prisoners . . .”

I felt at this point that things were getting out of hand: Bauma

“There’s nothing about it in military regulations.”

“No, Herr Major, but it is still the custom. Oberleutnant Meyerhofer and I are here to represent the k.u.k. Fliegertruppe and the Imperial Navy respectively, and we feel that it would be unfortunate if our reports on these events had to make reference to such an omission.”

“Oh very well then, damn you. Give the bugger his request, but quick about it: I’ve got prisoners waiting to be questioned back at the barracks. What does he want? ”

“To make a last speech if you please, Herr Major.”

“Speech? Speech be damned: I won’t allow it . . .”

“But Oberleutnant Meyerhofer and I must respectfully insist, Herr Major. It is also the custom that a condemned man should be allowed a speech from the gallows—or from the stake in this case. So if he can combine that with his last request time will be saved and everyone will be happy.”

Bauma

“In Italian I think, Herr Major.” Carraciolo nodded his assent.

“Herr Oberleutnant,” Bauma

“Obediently report that no, Herr Major. They’re all Ruthenes.” “Carry on then. But make it snappy, and no sedition, do you understand?” So, lashed tightly to his post, di Carraciolo proceeded to make his last oration. Of those present I suppose that only I understood the full import of the ringing phrases as they resounded across that barren, empty plateau high up there on the ridge of the karst, as the young soldiers of the firing squad fidgeted uneasily and the waking birds twittered among the pine trees: la Patria; Italia; il Risorgimento; the sacred flame of patriotism; the liberation of the last unredeemed fragments of Italy from under the rule of Francisco Giuseppe—“that blubber-lipped old hangman,” as the Major was pleased to describe him. By now Major Bauma

If only you knew, I thought; if only you knew. But keep on, my Italian friend: the longer you spout the more time there’ll be. But where have they got to, damn them? It’s nearly 6:40 already. Suddenly Bauma

“All right, that’s enough of that now, do you hear? You’ve had your say and breakfast’ll be getting cold.”

“But Herr Major . . .” I protested.

“Shut up. Feldwebel—tie on the blindfold and let’s get on with it.” My heart was pounding. No time left now: two minutes at the most. As the blindfold was being bound about his eyes Carraciolo burst into song: the “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” from Verdi’s Nabucco. Even after making allowance for the distressing circumstances, I considered that as an opera singer he was quite a good sculptor. At last everything was ready.

“Execution party, load and make safe!” The bolts of ten rifles rattled. “Execution party, safety catches off—take aim!” The rifles were lev­elled as the Oberleutnant stood with his sabre raised. I could see that his hand was shaking. Then a car horn honked from the edge of the exercise ground. It was a motor lorry lurching up the road with as much speed as a motor lorry could manage in those days when laden with soldiers. It stopped as the Oberleutnant hesitantly lowered his sabre and signalled to his men to order arms.

“Oh God, what is it now?” said Bauma

As the officer marched up from the lorry and saluted I saw that he and his men were wearing the peakless high-fronted forage caps of a Hun­garian cavalry unit. “Herr Major,” said the young Hauptma