There is a favorite disciplinary method of the military based upon basic, elementary psychics. It is invoked by all, from the drill sergeant to the general officer. The principle is the antithesis of mob psychology, and goes upon the presumption that man is a gregarious being.
At the first rumor of incipient disorder, soldiers are assembled at attention, and any man holding to minority views is commanded to step forward (usually three paces) from the ranks and expound his convictions.
Great heroes and those capable of the highest, unparalleled courage, quail at this test, for it is one thing to rebel in company, or in the secret counsels of one's inner conscience; quite another to stand out stark alone and unsupported against the strong arm of the military, the harsh, punitive, martial law of an intolerant warring nation, that can brook no infringement of combat discipline.
Therefore, when the colonel had finished, no one accepted his invitation to stand forth and declare his opposition, and the meeting was dismissed with an order to load packs and proceed to the railway.
The next day, the fury of the Bolshevik offensive which swept the Vaga, and strove to realize Moscow's boast of annihilation for the Expedition, burst at Verst Four Forty Five where this "mutinous" company took the brunt of the attack and never wavered during the ceaseless, storming battles that followed, until, at the end of the third day, the enemy sullenly retired, repulsed and defeated, and another company relieved the exhausted American line.
And often before had these same men proved their mettle. There was no finer company in the regiment than this, and no more gallant officer than its commander. It is not the nature of the American to become "cannon fodder" without a question. Theirs was only the voice of sanity raised in this madman's war; yet when they saw that all in Russia were in the same plight, that no one knew the reason why, that all were caught in the same meshes of inextricable folly, they were soldiers, and played the soldier's part unfalteringly until the untried Russian conscripts came in May.
Many Russians had been killed as enemies; so like these simple peasants in soldier uniform that came to relieve the contested lines in May; so like the bearded host under whose foul-smelling roof the American dwelt. They did not seem soldiers; so spiritless, so immobile, so unmoved by firing emotions in this civil war wherein foreign defenders had died for Russia. If they felt any gratitude, it was covered beneath an exterior of impenetrable, Slavic lethargy, that defied all effort to disrobe. Life had been a thing of rote with these moujiks, as constant as the law of seasons and of stars, and the violent change from opaque darkness to the dazzling light, left them blinded, befuddled, groping for moral support. Before they had commenced to grasp the tremendous significance of the Revolution, swift came the Bolsheviks, crashing to earth every vestige of law, stability, the social structure, property rights.
Now followed these foreign invaders, warring upon the Bolsheviks and speaking with high sounding, noble phrases of saving Russia, as they burned moujik homes and turned moujik women and children out upon the cold snows. It was too much for the poor serf's imagination. From fatalistic refuge he looked out on a howling storm-tossed universe and abandoned all hope of comprehension.
Nitchevoo. There was no reason left on earth. All had gone crazy; all were stark, raving madmen in a madman's world!
So did the curtain fall on this lurid melodrama and its fretful Railway scene, and now that the heyday of the fight was done, disquieting reflections took possession of the Americans. Their dead had died for a scant few miles on this Railway battle ground, but what the paltry little gain meant now not one could tell, nor why the fearful price was paid, and ever came distracted thoughts of the futility of it all, thoughts like howling, evil genie that ever recurred to haunt and taunt those that came away.