The outset of the whole affair dates from one intensely cold day in the
middle of December, 1916. I had slipped into an obscure _café_ in a
small street in Liége as much in search of tranquility of mind as with
the object of getting a comforting glass of hot coffee. With thousands
of other Liégois I was trembling under the reign of terror caused by
the daily slave-raids, which, ever since their inception a fortnight
before by order of that arch-criminal, the Kaiser, had raised a mighty
cry of anguish from the stricken city.
It was with a sigh of relief that I found the place was empty. Taking
a seat at one of the little marble-topped tables, as near to the
meagrely-heated circular stove as I could get, I prepared to snatch a
brief spell of quietness from that day of sudden alarms and haunting
fears.
But I had no sooner taken my first comforting gulp of the steaming hot
liquid, served by a careworn woman in widow's weeds, than an incident
occurred which sent a cold thrill to my heart. The _café_ door opened,
and in walked a German soldier, dressed as a _feldwebel_. After taking
in the interior with a quick glance he clanked straight up to the
stove, rubbed his hands vigorously, and, calling for a "_Café bien
chaud_," in excellent French, sat down opposite to me with a formal
"_Bonjour!_"
I responded to his greeting with all the indifference I could summon
up, but, eyeing him suspiciously, my inner self uttered the word
"_Pincé_." There could be no doubt about it; I had "got dropped on"
at last. Immediately my mind became once more engrossed with thoughts
of the loathsome beast I had pictured the Huns to be--a huge octopus,
faced by defeat and death, which had begun to suck the last drop of
blood out of my unfortunate country by sending tens of thousands of
men, women, and children into captivity. Now, at last, one of its
tentacles had writhed my way and was about to seize me up! My heart was
filled with a fierce hatred of the _feldwebel_ sitting opposite me.
A cynical smile seemed to lurk in his eyes--that look of inexorable
cruelty which I had seen so often on the faces of the Huns as they
went from house to house, dragging sons and daughters from the arms of
their aged parents and driving them off into exile with the butt-ends
of their rifles. These daily and nightly scenes, terrifying though they
were had fascinated me. Should I make a clean breast of it and drag the
mask from the rascal's smiling face, or spring at his throat and shake
the life out of him?
Whilst I was in the midst of these conflicting thoughts the _feldwebel_
drew forth a packet of cigarettes and, having pulled one half out held
it towards me with a well-assumed air of good fellowship.
"Have a smoke?" he said. "It's a jolly cold day, _mon ami_. One's glad
to be indoors to-day--even in a badly-warmed place like this. Mine's a
particularly icy job, I can tell you."
I accepted his cigarette with the feelings of a condemned man who has
been granted his last smoke.... "_Merci!_" I muttered. Then, becoming
suddenly bolder, I added, not without a touch of scorn: "Yes; your
job _must_ be particularly cold these nights, going from house to
house between twelve and one in the morning. How many did you rake in
yesterday?"
"House to house? How many did I rake in?" repeated the _feldwebel_,
reflectively, as he lit his cigarette. His smile quickly developed into
a laugh, which would have exasperated me beyond measure had he not
hastened to add: "Ah! I see. _Eh bien_, my friend, you're quite on the
wrong track. My job is on the water, thank goodness. I've nothing to do
with the raids. I've not sunk so low as that yet--and I don't intend
to, either. You're a Belgian, aren't you?"
"Yes," I replied, still somewhat defiantly. "And you're a German, I
suppose?"
"_Malgré moi_--in spite of myself. As the saying goes: 'The cowl does
not make the monk.' I'm an Alsatian--Baldens by name."
The man was frankness itself. His open manner and the declaration of
his nationality disarmed me at once. Whatever my first suspicions may
have been, there was no gainsaying the sincerity of his attitude, the
cordiality of that phrase, "_mon ami_," with which he interlarded
his confidences, for we had not been in conversation more than ten
minutes before both he and I dropped into the confidential tone of old
acquaintances.
"Quite an excusable mistake on your part, when one comes to think of
it," continued Baldens. "Well, as I was going to tell you, I'm on the
water--that is to say, on the tug-boat _Anna_, stationed on the canal
leading into the Meuse at Devant-le-Pont-lez-Visé. Ugh! it's cold work
when the wind's blowing from the north or east! There are four of
us on board, including the captain, and we've been in charge of the
_Anna_ ever since she was seized by the German Government. They're an
uncongenial lot, and the captain's the worst of the three. If I were to
tell you how deep my love is for France you'd be able to realize, _mon
ami_, what my feelings are when I'm with those three Boches on a dark
night on board the _Anna_. Many times, when on guard, I've thought of
parting company with them. But that's easier said than done."
Baldens, the patriotic Alsatian, obliged to serve as a non-commissioned
officer in the German army, proceeded to enlarge on his devotion to
_la belle France_ and, growing still more confidential, told me of his
dreams of attempted escape from Belgium. To make a long story short, he
and I finally put our heads together, and, over many hot coffees and
innumerable cigarettes, hit on a plan by means of which we hoped to
gain our liberty and assist a number of others to gain theirs. How we
managed it I will now explain.