Chapter XXIX
The Last Battle
In the autumn of 1953 the Greatest War was drawing to a close. There were no armies left. The armies of occupation, cut off for the most part from their homes, were dwindling away and gradually vanishing like water in the sand. Self-appointed generals marched from town to town, or rather from heap to heap of ruins, at the head of five men, one a drummer, one a thief, one a schoolboy, one a man with a gramophone, and one of whom nobody knew anything. They went about collecting contributions or arranging benefit performances "in aid of the wounded and their widows and orphans." No one knew by now how many warring camps there were.
Amid this universal and indescribable collapse the Greatest War drew to its close. The end came so unexpectedly that no one nowadays can tell just where the last so-called decisive battle was fought. Historians are still at variance as to which engagement marked the close and extinction of the world-conflagration. Certain of them (such as Dührich, Assbridge, and more particularly Moroni) are inclined to the view that it was the battle of Lintz. In these extensive operations sixty soldiers were engaged, representing eleven hostile camps. The conflict broke out in the large saloon of the Rose Inn, the immediate cause being the waitress Hilda (as a matter of fact it was Marena Ruzickova of Novy Bydzov). Giuseppe, the Italian, proved victorious and carried Hilda off; but since she ran away next day with a Czech called Vaclav Hruska, this too was not a decisive battle.
The historian Usinski records a similar battle at Gorochovky, Leblond a skirmish at Le Batignolles, and Van Goo a fight near Nieuport; but it would seem that local patriotism influenced them more directly than genuinely historical motives. In short, no one knows which was the last battle of the Greatest War. Nevertheless, it can be determined with considerable certitude from documents that are striking in their agreement, i.e. the series of prophecies that appeared before the Greatest War.
For example, a phophecy printed in Swabian characters had been preserved since 1845, foretelling that in a hundred years "terrible times will come, and many armed men will fall in battle," but that "in a hundred months thirteen nations would meet in the field under a birch-tree, and slaughter each other in a desperate struggle," which would be followed by fifty years of peace.
In the year 1893 the Turkish prophetess Wali Schön (?) predicted that "five times twelve years would pass ere peace would reign over the whole world; in that year thirteen emperors would make war upon each other and would meet in battle under a birch-tree. Then there would be peace, such a peace as there had never been before and never would be again."
The vision of a certain negress in Massachusetts is also quoted, dating from 1909, when she beheld "a black monster with two horns, a yellow monster with three horns, and a red monster with eight horns, fighting under a tree (birch-tree?) until their blood besprinkled the whole world." It is interesting to note that the total number of horns is thirteen, apparently symbolical of the thirteen nations.
In 1920 the Very Reverend Dr. Arnold foretold that "there would be a great Twenty Years' War in which the whole world would be involved. One great Emperor would perish in that war, three great Empires would fall, ninety-nine capital cities would be destroyed, and the last battle of that war would be the last battle of the century."
To the same year belong "The Vision of Jonathan" (printed in Stockholm): "War and pestilence will lay waste nine-and-ninety countries, and nine-and-ninety kingdoms will vanish and rise again. The last battle will last nine-and-ninety hours, and will be so bloody that all the victors will be able to find room in the shade of one birch-tree."
A German popular prophecy dating from 1923 speaks of the battle on the Birkenfeld (Birch field).
More than two hundred similar prophetic documents of the period between 1845 and 1944 have been preserved. In forty-eight of these the number "thirteen" occurs; in seventy of them the "birch-tree" appears; in fifteen merely the "tree." It may therefore be concluded that the last battle took place in the neighbourhood of a birch-tree. Who took part in the struggle we do not know, but there were altogether only thirteen men left alive out of the various armies, and they presumably lay down after the battle in the shade of a birch-tree. That moment saw the end of the Greatest War.
It is, however, possible that the "birch" is brought in symbolically, instead of a place-name. There are one hundred and seven places in the country of the Czechs alone containing the Czech word for birch, such as Brezany, Brezovice, and Brezolupy. Then there is the German Birke and names like Birkenberg, Birkenfeld, Birkenhaid, Birkenhammer, Birkicht, Birkental, etc.; or the English Birkenhead, Birchington, Birchanger, and so on; or the French Boulainvilliers, Boulay, etc. Thus the number of towns, villages, and localities where the last battle in all probability took place is narrowed down to a few thousand (as long as we confine ourselves to Europe, which certainly has a prior claim to the Last Battle). Individual scientific research will establish where it occurred. Who won it cannot possibly be determined.
But perhaps after all—the fancy is alluring—there did stand near the scene of the last act of the world-tragedy a slender silvery birch. Perhaps a lark sang above the battle-field and a white butterfly fluttered over the heads of the combatants. And look, by this time there is hardly anyone left to kill! It is a hot October day, and one hero after another steps aside, turns his back upon the battle-field, eases himself, and lies down longing for peace in the shadow of the birch-tree. At last the whole thirteen of them are lying there, all the survivors of the Last Battle. One lays his weary head on his neighbour's boots, another rests his on the first man's back, undisturbed by his breathing. The last thirteen soldiers left in the world as asleep beneath a birch-tree.
Towards evening they waken, look at each other with suspicion, and reach for their weapons. And then one of them—history will never learn his name—says, "Oh, damn it, boys, let's chuck it!"
"Right you are, mate," says the second man with relief, laying aside his weapon.
"Give us a bit of bacon, then, fathead," the third one asks with a certain gentleness.
The fourth man returns, "Crikey, I could do with a smoke. Hasn't anybody got a?"
"Let's clear off, boys," urges the fifth. "We're not going to have any more of it."
"I'll give you a cigarette," says the sixth, "but you'll have to give me a bit of bread."
"We're going home, boys . . . think of it . . . home," the seventh one cries.
"Is your old woman expecting you?" the eighth man asks.
"My God, it's six years since I slept in a proper bed," sighs the ninth.
"What a mug's game it was, lads!" says the tenth man, spitting disgustedly.
"It was that!" the eleventh replies, "but we've done with it now."
"We've done with it," repeats the twelfth man. "We're not such fools. Let's go home, mates!"
"Oh, but I'm glad it's all over," concludes the thirteenth, turning over to lie on the other side.
And such, one can well imagine, was the end of the Greatest War.