POLISH WAR TRAGEDY.

Taranaki Daily News, 23 October 1915, Page 10 (Supplement)

POLISH WAR TRAGEDY.

AN OFFICER WHO WENT OYER TO THE ENEMY. HOW HE MET HIS DEATH. Tho darkest national tragedy in this world-war is that of the Poles. There one sees a distinct ethnological entity, a people -whose tongue is the most musical and cultivated of all the Slavic languages, with a fine literature showing names like that of Henry K. Sienkicvicz, of universal fame, advanced in all the arts. Paderewski being a line example of the most gifted of all the Slavs, of high valor, of a quality both distiwt and elevated. Yet the curse of destiny has brought it about that this people of altogether about 22,000,008 has been split up into three unequal parts—roundly, 12,000,000 o£ them under Russian rule, about 7,000,000 under Austrian, and about 3,000,000 under German rule. And what the results of even the present giant upheaval will be so far as the Poles are concerned not even the wisest can foretell.

Meanwhile every day tragedies on a minor scale are happening among the Poles which, for the-most part, will never see page and printers' ink. Yet many ar»! worth the telling. Here is one in point. 1 tell it just as it was told to me without the slightest attempt at coloring the facts. Let the reader judge for himself.

Among the Russian prisoners taken at Tarnow, Galicia, some three, weeks ago by the Austrian army was a fine, digni-iied-looking man, a general who had not yielded without first using his sword. He was general S R , a (Pole by race and language, but a brave, undaunted soldier of the Czar He is now recovering from his injuries in one of the resolve hospitals of Vienna, and later on will he taken as prisoner of war to one of the great camps in Bohemia.

General R had the misfortune to be forced to condemn liia favorite nephew to death. He presided at the courtmartial which sealed the young man's fate, and his was the deciding voice that doomed the young man to immediate execution; for the nephew, .Tan R , had committed treason. Although serving in one of his uncle's own regiments as first lieutenant, he had gone over to the enemy—to the Polish Legion fightin;/ under the banner of the Hapsburgs. This he had done in the middle of the night, and in his shabby quarters, a tlioi't distance back of the trenches, there was found a slip of paper on which were a, few lines addressed to his uncle, the general, saying he found himself "forced to choose between two and that toward Poland came first." Then he had added a word or two to the general himself imploring him to follow his example "and help free Poland from the Muscovite yoke." ' All this happened early last December; the general's trenches were held for five months longer. Back of his positions were woods, impenetrable, deep in snow, and into them he was frequently obliged to send skirmishing parties to attack the real of the Polish Legion of Austria, who made frequent raids. The rumor somehow spread in the regiment to which Lieutenant R had belonged that lie was with these legionaries, and that he c\cn directed a number o-f- ; thc raids and sudden attacks. The Russians were bitter, and many prisoners were given short shrift. One Russian soldier named Destyatuk, who had belonged to the "rottee" (squad) formerly commanded by Lieutenant R- . swore he had recognised his former officer in the ranks of the enemy on one occasion. The general, his uncle, never heard any of these rumors, however. One night late in March, when the snow still lay thick and a gale was blowins, the very company to which the deserter belonged was surprised. The men hud changed their quarters only the day before, having lost many in the trenches, and one had been sent to the rear. This particular raid was singularly bold, rapid and desperate. The Russians were surprised in their sleep, and before they could gather for a stand they were badly beaten. But at last there came succor, and then there was hard fighting, chiefly with the bayonet, on account of the uncertain light. With half the little force slairi, the Russians finally got a small hand of their foes into the church, and there, after a hand-to-hand struggle, took some prisoners.

Among the prisoners was Jan R , or what was left of him. A bayonet thrust had split his cheek and cut his lips. His blouse hung about him in tatters. In this condition he was taken before his uncle, the Russian general. The general looked his nephew over, but said Mcthing. At once (it was but six in the morning) he summoned a court-martial. There were five—he himself was chief. The accused was called in, then the witMesses. Among them was the man who had bayoneted his former lieutenant, and two others who identified him, The facts were plain, indisputable. Jan Si was questioned. He admitted everything in a thick voice, for the thrust had lacerated his tongue—hut without flinching. Two of the five in the court-martial were in favor of having the prisoner taken to headquarters, some ten miles off: two others, including Captain F , wanted sentence pronounced and executed at once. The decision rested with Hie general. He said that inasmuch as responsibility regarding operations in the woods had been confided to him he was >'n favor of immediate sentence. The two captains nodded their heads. Jan R had been a gallant office)-, a good comrade, hut this was a plain ease. So the general in a cold, inflexible voice pronounced sentence. Then he said, as an afterthought- "Have you some wish to express?" Jan R took one step forward, leaned hard on the table, and said: "1 have a little boy, Piotr. six year-: old. I ask, I command, I implore, tliut he be brought up as a Pole—to remember to love his people and his native land, and to he informed how his father ended. That is my last wish. My everlasting curse on you, uncle, if it If not carried out." Then they took him away behind the house. His uncle leaned' against the wall and shaded his eyes, hut he said nothing. This had been his favorite nephew. Ue sank into a chair and hid his face in both hands. He waited. Outside six men were digjring a grave in the sandy soil. Jan sat motionless near by, his head on his breast, gazing at afaded photograph of his little bov. At last he lifted up his head. He stood up, removed his torn blouse, and that showed Ins shirt in shreds as well. He slowly moved to the wall and put his back against it. The sergeant of the firing squad came up with a handkerchief. Jan motioned him away. Then the old general, waiting, heard the shot that meant his nephew's death.—Winnipeg Telegram.