Seite - 117 - in The Forest Farm - Tales of the Austrian Tyrol

Numbers 51 to 65 all came back. Number 66 did not reappear. The sergeant came for his things. Then, at last, Number 67 was called. I walked with the utmost composure—rather too fast than too slow—into the lions’ den. What was there so extraordinary? Three or four gentlemen in black coats, with shiny buttons, silver collars, clattering swords and warlike moustaches. The blades were smoking cigars. My first thought was, could they be bribed with a civil “Good morning”? But I had heard from the men before me that the gentlemen had not said so much as “Thank you” to this greeting. We were just “things.” And who is going to exchange greetings with a Number 67? So I bit my teeth together and held my tongue and sported my most defiant air. I was at once put against an upright post. One of the officers, with a soft pressure of the hand, pushed my chest out and my knees in and said: “Sixty-four and a half!” Another seemed to write it down. “Chest sound. Muscles might be more developed.” “Give him another year to run about in,” said a third. “Go and dress yourself!” That was the whole proceeding. I hardly know how I got back to the front room. As I went out by the steps, the soldiers on duty stuck their bayonets in my way: that means a request to the lucky ones for a tip. It did not need the bayonets: everyone gives, for it is the moment when he is free to leave the fatal building, with its often harsh consequences, and return to his dear home. Those who are “kept” are mostly also allowed to go home once more and there await the muster-call; but they remain in custody on the day itself, until the gentlemen are finished with the inspection. Then they are drafted into the regiments and made to take the military oath; and then they are—soldiers. We waited for them in the Bruck taverns. They were received with loud shouts and cheered with wine and song; and, if many a “kept” one felt like falling in the dumps because his glad young life in the green mountains was over to-day and because he had to march away, perhaps to a foreign country, perhaps to the distant battle-field, and because he, who was as fond of life as another, had to risk his young blood, the hurrahs of his boon companions soon roused him to fresh tavern joys; and, at last, all began to feel as though this were but one long day, without an end to it, sinking into the night and the night into wine. But hours come and pass away; and so do drinking-bouts. The next day we separated; and to Krieglach-Alpel went what from Krieglach-Alpel came. Of