Alien Souls/Morituri

, Third Bulgarian Infantry.

, First Turkish Cavalry.

, Second Battery Turkish Horse Gunners.


 * —Represents a battlefield in Macedonia. It is the early dawn of morning. The sky is pink and silver and orange, and as far as the eye can see, there are the shadowy, grim outlines of dead soldiers, Turks and Bulgarians, dead horses, broken wheels and dismounted gun-limbers. A thick, humid haze rises from the slimy ground, and there is the acrid smell of battle,—blood and powder and putrescence and dirt. In the far distance are heard the crunching wheels of commissariat wagons, the heavy grumble of artillery, and once in a while the sharp hissing of musketry fire.


 * —November, 1912.


 * —Plotkine and Touati, both badly wounded.

Oh, Holy Kyrill and all the dear Saints—this is insufferable. I can't stand it.

You'll have to stand it, comrade.

Who's there?—a friend?

No. I am of the First Turkish Cavalry. I am Captain—but never mind my name. I do not suppose a ceremonious introduction is necessary under the circumstances.

Come over and give a chap a bit of help, will you?

I am awfully sorry, but …

Oh, you're wounded yourself, are you?—Can you move?

Not as much as I'd like to. A piece of shrapnel struck me, and one of my legs is shattered—it's only just making a bluff at hanging together by a shred of skin.

I got mine through the chest—right chest. (Short pause.) You talk jolly good Bulgarian. (Another pause.) I say, comrade, there must be a Turkish ambulance corps kicking about here somewhere. I can't speak a word of Turkish—and talking hurts me so—my chest—you know. Don't you think you could call them?

Quite unnecessary, captain. There's nobody here, nobody who could help us. The column marched away long ago. You see, we two are lying in a sort of hole in the ground. That's why they didn't notice us. Oh, well—Allah's will—

God's curse on it,—so we are lost—what?—helpless?

Yes, captain. You're perfectly right.

But couldn't we help each other?—somehow?

I don't think I can do a thing. I am very weak, you know. I've lost so much blood. You see, it took me nearly all night to crawl six feet—a little bit away from my brother—

From your brother?

Yes. He's dead, too. He was such a nice, brave young lad. But you see, this confounded heat—and then this wretched humidity—and so he's been getting rather smelly. Nothing against him, you know, nothing against him. But I had to move—and you see, it took me all night crawling—crawling—

And I can't move at all, not at all. Even when I try to breathe hard, the air whistles through my lungs as if there's a draft somewhere in my chest. And a ton of rock seems to lie on my legs. I can't turn my head. I can't see you. Can you see me?

Oh, yes. I am looking at you.

Then tell me: how far distant are we from each other?

I should judge about three yards. But for all it would help you or me it might as well be three thousand miles.

(Both are silent for several minutes; Plotkine sighs.)

I am hungry. Got anything to eat about you?

Yes. A few dried dates. Here, look out. I'll throw them over so that you can reach them with your left hand.(He throws over a handful of dried dates to Plotkine, who takes them and eats.)

Thanks awfully. (Laughs.) You aim better than did your artillery at the Tschataldja lines.

I beg your pardon.

(Long silence.)

So you think there's no hope for us, captain.

Only a miracle would help us.

I shall pray to my Patron Saint.

Well—if it gives you any pleasure—

(Plotkine prays fervently for a few minutes. Then there is complete silence. They do not exchange a word for over half an hour.)

Ho there, comrade! Are you dead already?

No, not yet.

It must be getting on towards noon.

I think you're mistaken. It's hardly half an hour since I had the pleasure of making your acquaintance—and that was early in the morning.

Which one of us is going to cash in first, do you think?

I think I'll go out first. You see, the chances are that I'll get gangrene very soon now.

I say, captain. You speak very excellent Bulgarian. Where did you learn it?

I?—Oh, I lived in Sofia for two years—studied there at the Polytechnicon.

You don't say so! Then you must know Professor Nyachnioff?

I certainly do.

Isn't that odd? You know, I married his daughter—little Lisaveta.

Oh, I remember her. I saw her once when I called on her father. She was a very charming girl.

Yes, isn't she? She is an angel, I tell you. And how she loves me—you've no idea, captain. If she knew that I'm lying here, dying—why, the poor little kiddie—she'd cry her eyes out—I tell you, she'd  kill herself.

You think so?

Don't you believe it? I tell you she'll kill herself when she reads my name in the list of those killed in battle. You'll see.

Pardon, comrade, but I don't think I'll see. Also, I don't think we'll be in the list of casualties. We'll be amongst those who are reported missing; don't you think so?

God! that's right. The poor little girl—that'll make it worse for her. There she'll go on hoping for months and months. (He cries.)

Did that relieve your feelings, captain?

Oh, my body just feels paralyzed. I tell you, I can't even move my fingers any more. Damn this war! What are we fighting about, anyway? Just because you confounded Turks insist on having Macedonia.

No—because you are trying to steal it from us.

Yes—as you wish. Makes no difference now. It's all the same. Gracious Heavens, Tsar Ferdinand had enough territory, God knows. What does he want this infernal desert for? I tell you, when I was a child, hopping and playing about the ryefields, I had no idea I'd have to die here, in this desert. And poor little Lisaveta will also die—she loves me so much, the dear little girl. (Pause.) Why, there is no sense in all this—this fighting—this dying— Tell me, where is the sense of all this?

You Christians are forever asking questions, and then you either get no answer at all, or you get several answers to the same question—which is worse. We have war—well—and we are soldiers—and so of course we die. What's there extraordinary about that?

Yes—but we die because of this confounded Macedonia—this damned desert-where nothing grows—

Well, captain, even a desert will grow wheat if you give it enough manure—and just look about you; look at yourself and at me—smell our dead comrades. Oh, there'll be enough manure, enough stinking dung for a good, rich crop. (Laughs.) Everything for which one dies is good. And then, there are so many human beings in this world. What do we count, you and I? Just think how many millions will come after us.

I have no children. And what possible good is it to Bulgaria if I die here? The priests will babble as before, the tschinovniks will steal as before—and the comrades who return home will brag about their heroic deeds and their decorations. Nobody will think of me. My parents are dead—and Lisaveta will kill herself—

Yes, yes, she'll kill herself. But, captain, now's your time to think of your former life, to think of all life meant to you, of all you've accomplished—

What?—I should think of what my life meant to me? Of my advancement in the army, I suppose, what?—new uniforms—parties given for Lisaveta—an accolade by Tsar Ferdinand. Why, it's all over, man—and when I think of it, it seems all so horribly prosy, so horribly cheap and indifferent. Does it console you to think about your old life?

Yes. I think that I've always done my duty, in life and in death. Also I've obeyed my Faith. That's enough.

All for Turkey. All for the Crescent, what?

No. All for myself. If I learned anything, it was for myself. If I achieved anything, it was for myself. And thus it was for Turkey and for my Faith, even thus. What more could I do?

And—your wife?

The day I left for this war, I asked her to buy her widow-dress.

Do you think she'll kill herself—like Lisaveta?

No. She'll marry again. You see, we have no children. And now so many of us Turks died in this war—so we need more children, more sons—to fight again—a few years hence—to die again—perhaps to win—

Oh, you wish to reconquer what you have lost?

Of course.

Yes, I see; you love your country. And I love mine. But must we die on the battlefield to prove our love?

It's the best proof.

No. It's the last proof.

The last proof only for ourselves. There are others will come after us.

Oh, Mary, Mother of Jesus, pray— (He dies.)

Oh, captain, captain— (Pause.) Oh, he's dead. I knew when he asked me, that he'd go out before I would. A shot through the chest—of course. But why should I have told him? (Smiles.) And I don't think Lisaveta will kill herself. (Pause.) After all, it's quite indifferent one way or the other. (Laughs.) Queer people, these Christians—

(Lance-Corporal Nadj Haniech appears from the distance; Touati hears his footsteps, and calls to him.)

Ho, there!—

Coming, coming—

No use trying to get me to the hospital, corporal. But I am suffering. I also would like to smoke—got a cigarette about you?

Yes, captain. (He gives a cigarette to Touati and lights it.)

Just wait until I've finished my smoke and then—(points to Haniech's revolver)—you don't mind, do you? You see, I am suffering—and I can't be saved—

(Haniech nods his head, squats on his heels near Touati, and loads his revolver, while Touati finishes his cigarette.)