My First Battle: A Sergeant's Story

Adam Mickiewicz
MY FIRST BATTLE
A SERGEANT'S STORY
They envy Attila, who fought a thousand battles, and in the thousandth still felt that, which he called gaudia certaminum, that is, the delight in the slaughter. Oh, that old general was a lecher of blood. As far as I am concerned, holding the rank of light artillery sergeant, I confess, that I was truly in love with war, but only during the first week of my military career, and that only one single time I tasted Attila's delight. For this reason my honeymoon and first battle will never leave my memory.
The first battle has the most particular similarity to first love. How many hopes! how many illusions! before this ceremonial action, which resolves the fate of nations, any recruit feels obliged to play at least a role… as a hero of history or a romance.
It finally comes to the trial and you stand before it with impatience and a certain anxiety, experiencing once mortal terror, then again a crazed joy; now fear pierces you, now the pride of the triumphant picks you up.. In one hour you pass through crowds of emotions, and you collect keepsakes for your whole life! but in order to feel it in full force, you must have the heart of a virgin, the heart of a recruit.
Someone said that every man can compose a good romance, telling only the simple story of his first love. This insight encouraged me to describe the first battle, in which I was. You need to know that this battle is only an episode of a famous war, that in it we achieved a great victory, and that in its time it won us the admiration of the European people. Admittedly, these are times long past, because people have well forgotten both about our defeats and about our triumphs. In spite of this, the Polish soldier will never forget about the Battle of Stoczek.
It came to my mind right away, that a Krakus' uniform at my age and height would suit me better, and so my true calling manifested itself: God had made me a Krakus!
So I turned in the direction of the cavalry barracks; but halfway across the road I fell into the immeasurable crowd who captured me into itself and bore towards the tollbooths. The people pressed to meet the newly approaching rows. A stranger figure rode at the front; it was it is an old Capuchin in habit and on a horse, in one hand a lance and the other blessing people with a cross, who kissed his legs. Behind the Capuchin followed a thousand archers from the Augustów forests. They had slung double-barrelled guns and badger skin bags with claws and bared teeth, whitening on green jackets. Another thousand villagers, armed with crooked scythes and axes, brought up the rear of the procession. Never had the entrance of the most beautiful regiments, even the entrance of Prince Józef at the head of victorious legions, aroused such enthusiasm, as this, with which the people of Warsaw greeted badger skin bags and bark clogs. Now there wasn't applause, or smiles, but shouts, thundering hurrah! and blessings, mixed with loud crying. Because the people, surprised by their own instincts, could seize the noble and beautiful side of the image. At the sight of these priests, of these farmers who had left monastic cells and their forests, in order to beat the enemies of the homeland, people understood the whole horror of danger, and also comprehended with complete trust that it was the only means of defense.