CAMBRAI TO WÜRZBURG.
I.
I had been four months in hospital when my name was put down on the
list of "transportables," and a place was reserved for me in the "Zug
Lazaret."
These trains were made up according to the output from the different
hospitals along the front, chiefly from Lille, Douai, Cambrai, and
St Quentin.
After the pressure of traffic consequent on the rush back from the Marne
had subsided, a regular hospital-train service was inaugurated, and
trains direct to Munich were run once a week.
When I expressed some fears to Dr Schmidt as to how I would be treated
on my journey, he laughed, saying something about German culture, and
that one must not believe all the tales one hears about the Germans. At
any rate, he assured me I had nothing to fear, for instructions had been
given to pay every attention that the nature of my wound required, and I
was to travel by a special Lazaret with a comfortable bed and plenty of
good food from a restaurant car.
In the light of subsequent experiences I am sometimes rather suspicious
of my friend's kindly intentions. The German idea of humour is so
different from any other. I often wonder if Dr Schmidt had been "pulling
my leg" in his clumsy German way.
However, when the motor ambulance came to fetch me at 10 A.M. on the
6th of January, I started off on my journey quite free in my mind from
painful anticipations. I pictured to myself a comfortable hospital
train, with perhaps a German Schwester to look after the worst cases,
and if not a made-up bed, at least a stretcher on which I could rest my
paralysed limbs.
On arriving at Cambrai station I found that the "special hospital train"
consisted of ordinary 3rd-class corridor coaches, which were packed with
French and English wounded. I was helped along the train by two kindly
German soldiers, and lifted up into a 2nd-class carriage, where I was
warmly greeted by a French Army doctor, like myself _en route_ for a
German prison.
One side of the carriage had been made up as a bed, and the nice white
sheets looked most inviting. However, my satisfaction with what I
supposed to be the arrangements for my comfort was short-lived. I had
scarcely time for more than a few words with the French doctor when
a German officer, a lieutenant, appeared at the door. His message was
brief and easy to understand. I was to get out.
In spite of my protests, this officer attempted to make me climb down on
to the platform, but as this was quite beyond my powers, he allowed me
to crawl along the corridor. At the far end of the train was a 3rd-class
corridor coach of the usual Continental type, with hard wooden seats,
the partitions running only half-way to the roof. This coach was full of
wounded French and English soldiers, among whom I recognised several who
had been in hospital with me, but I was not allowed to speak to them.
At the end of the coach was a compartment, one side of which had been
transformed into a bed by nailing up a board against the seat, which was
covered with straw.
I was assisted on to my bed of straw by a German N.C.O., who, along with
three other soldiers, all with loaded rifles and fixed bayonets, took up
all the remaining room in the carriage. It was evident that I was to be
efficiently guarded.
I took no notice of my escort, but kept an eye on the platform, as I
wished to get a hold of some German officer of high rank, in order to
protest against my removal from the 2nd-class carriage. Presently an
inspecting officer, a captain, I think, came along the train.
I explained to this officer that the wound in my head was only newly
healed, that I was still quite paralysed on one side, and that Dr
Schmidt had arranged (as I thought) for my proper accommodation on the
journey.
I requested permission to be allowed to travel along with the French
officer from whose company I had been somewhat rudely shifted.
The German officer, standing on the platform, listened to what I had to
say, and when I had finished he got on to the footboard, looked through
my carriage window at the wooden bed, the straw, and the three sentries,
and then I got my answer: "Das ist schön für einen Engländer."
This was my first lesson in German Kultur. I thanked the contemptuous
German most heartily, and I fancy that my exaggerated politeness
somewhat annoyed him.
Although I did not appear to be taking any notice of my sentries,
I could not avoid catching the eye of the man opposite, who kept on
glaring at me with a most objectionable persistency.
I looked at him in my most benevolent manner, but made no attempt at
conversation.
When presently the others got up and went out into the corridor, this
man's conduct became most alarming. He was evidently under stress of
some strong emotion. Suddenly his whole manner changed. Laying a finger
on his lips with a warning gesture, he bent towards me and said in a low
tense voice, "Moi aussi je hais les Allemands."
In spite of the hatred in his voice and the bitter look which
accompanied the words, I did not show much eagerness to follow up this
somewhat startling opening for conversation. I was rather afraid of some
trap. One had heard stories of prisoners on the way to Germany being
taken out of the train and shot on the accusation of having spoken of
the Fatherland in an unbecoming manner or on some similar trumped-up
charge. All attempt at further conversation was, however, put a stop to
by the return of the other sentries.
The soldier opposite, whether friend or foe I knew not, remained silent
and motionless in his corner, although from time to time he favoured me
with a malevolent stare, while his companions took hardly any notice
of me at all. It was some time before another opportunity occurred
for private conversation. However, at some country station the three
soldiers got out to get a drink of coffee, leaving me alone with the
mysterious sentry. Again his manner changed, and again bending forward,
he hissed with a hatred in his voice that seemed very genuine, "Moi
aussi je hais les Allemands."
And then in atrociously bad French my "friendly" enemy threw light on
his mysterious behaviour by explaining that he was a Pole, and was
under orders to join at Valenciennes some reinforcements that were being
hurried up to Arras. "I have to go on," he said; "I cannot help myself,
but I will never aim straight at the French or English."
I suggested that he might perhaps manage to get taken prisoner, but
he answered that it would be most difficult, as all Poles were kept
separate from their fellow-countrymen and closely watched.
Any shirking in the firing line would mean instant death at the hand of
some Bavarian comrade.
He begged me not to betray by any word or sign that we had conversed
together, because he was looked upon with suspicion by the other
soldiers, and for that reason had feigned intense hatred of the English.
This was the explanation of the malevolent stare at me. At this point
the other sentries returned, and no further opportunity for conversation
occurred.
My newly-found friend was evidently worrying over his miserable lot. He
took out a well-thumbed Feldpostkarte, and as he read one could see that
his thoughts were far away with the wife and children from whose side he
had been dragged to fight for the hereditary enemies of his country.
I shall not easily forget the sadness of the man's face,--a young face
with very dark, dog-like eyes. There was nothing smart about him; he was
indeed rather more dirty than even a travel-stained soldier from Poland
had any right to be. As I looked at him I thought of the countless
numbers of German soldiers whose lives had been sacrificed in vain
efforts to capture the French position at Arras. And this man was to be
one more. His fate was perhaps the hardest of all. For him there would
not even be the soldier's last consolation of duty done. As the train
drew up at Valenciennes the soldiers in my carriage began to put on
their equipment, and when the train had stopped they all got out. My
Polish friend went out last, and as he left the carriage he turned round
and bade me with his eyes a silent and almost appealing farewell.
Valenciennes is an important junction, forming a central point from
which the railway line branches off to both the French and the English
front. Moreover, the principal base hospital had been transferred
here from Cambrai early in October, so I was not surprised to find the
platform crowded with Red Cross attendants, stretcher-bearers, doctors,
railway transport officers, and soldiers representing all parts of the
German Empire. Now that my Polish friend and his two comrades had gone
I was left alone with the fat _unterofficier_, who took the first
opportunity that was offered of exercising his authority over me.
It was a very mild evening for January, and as I soon got tired of
watching the crowd of German soldiery, whose presence in France is an
outrage that cannot be fully realised by merely reading about it in the
papers, I leant out of the window on the opposite side of the train. The
contrast was striking. Not a soldier was in sight, and the little French
town, as far as one could see from my carriage window, seemed abnormally
quiet. To make complete the illusions of peace, a grey-headed French
railway employee in his blue blouse came sauntering down the line.
When he reached my carriage and saw the British uniform, he cordially
wished me good-evening, and asked where I had been wounded. I did not
get further in the conversation than to return the "bonsoir" when my
sentry rushed across the carriage, threw up the window, and in a voice
meant to be most terrifying thundered out that "to speak out of the
window was 'verboten.'"
I said I was sorry, but did not know it to be "verboten." This
inoffensive remark produced a regular parade scolding, accompanied by an
interesting exhibition of eye-rolling, which forms an important part of
German military discipline.
The lecture ended up with a dramatic pointing of the finger to an
enormous high-up stomach and "Ich verbiete." I said "All right."
This seemed about to cause another storm, so I hurriedly translated it
into "Ist gut."
My guardian, still rumbling, went out into the corridor; I opened the
window again, and the train moved slowly out of the station.
The train did not stop again till we were well over the Belgian
frontier.
I did not see any frontier marks, nor did we stop at any frontier
stations. A rough calculation, however, of the distance we had gone from
Valenciennes showed that we must have reached Belgium about 6 A.M.
As the train was now going very slowly, I was able to observe the
countryside with more attention, and I was eagerly looking out for some
landmark that might enable me to recognise the road along which we had
marched on our way up to Mons nearly five months before.
Our first stop in Belgium was at a small country station, the name of
which I have forgotten. This place must have been just on the fringe of
the fighting during the last week of August. It was here that began the
trail of the Hun.
The station was a complete wreck, and in the adjoining village only one
house seemed to have escaped destruction. Temporary shelters had been
rigged up with corrugated iron all along the platform, at the end of
which was a wooden Red Cross dressing-station.
These dressing-stations have been set up at every station, however
small, all along the line between the German frontier and the front,
and form a striking example of German organisation and efficiency.
They consist of two small rooms, one of which can be used as an
operating-room, and is stocked with first-aid appliances and a small
pharmacy. The whole building can be taken down and set up elsewhere in a
very short time.
The country now presented a melancholy sight, and as the railway line
itself had been much damaged, the speed of the train was reduced to a
crawl over the numerous temporary wooden railway bridges.
In Belgium the railway line was always strongly guarded, while in France
I hardly noticed any troops except at the railway stations. From the
moment we entered Belgium it was evident that a great number of soldiers
were billeted in the villages and towns, or rather in the huts that had
been constructed amidst the ruins. In fact, the German soldiers seemed
in this district to have taken the place of the Belgian population, as
between the frontier and Mons I do not remember seeing a single Belgian.
Of course, at this time I did not know that thousands of Belgians had
fled to England, nor had I heard anything more than vague rumours of
German atrocities, such as the burning of Louvain and the indiscriminate
murder of the civilian population in many parts of Belgium. I was
therefore somewhat at a loss to understand why the railway line was so
very much more carefully guarded in Belgium than it was in France, and
why the civilian population seemed to have almost disappeared.
As we began to enter the mining district in which the town of Mons is
situated, I looked out of my prison window with renewed interest at the
more dominant features of the landscape, which I could now recognise
quite distinctly.
At one place the line followed for a short time the very road along
which we had marched on the 22nd August, the day before the battle of
Mons, happy in our ignorance of all that was to come.
It was along this same straight road lined with tall poplar trees that
the grey-clad German soldiers had been rushed on in motor-cars, that the
hundreds of machine-guns and light artillery had hurried with the hope,
that was so nearly realised at Le Cateau, of destroying what was left of
the little British army. Further on the line skirts the now famous Canal
de Condé.
The effect of the German shell fire was very noticeable along the banks
of the canal. Most of the houses within a hundred yards of the water had
been totally destroyed, so that the ground between the railway line and
the canal was now fairly open. On the right side of the line the damage
had not been so considerable; still, even on that side fully fifty per
cent of the houses were roofless. As far as a limited view from the
railway would allow me to judge, I do not think the upper part of the
town was much knocked about. Most of the German shelling on the 23rd had
been directed on the British positions along the canal, and any damage
that was done in the town itself was probably caused by the British
guns' attempt to check the German advance through the town later in the
afternoon.
The lower part of the town of Mons reminded me of the streets of
Pompeii. The silent ruins had been abandoned even by the German
soldiers. Here and there some rough attempt had been made to provide
shelter, and we passed a few miserable women and children who were
standing grouped in the doorways of their shattered homes. We entered
the station of Mons at about 7 P.M. Here, as far as could be seen,
everything seemed quite normal, and no traces were visible of the storm
that must have raged all around during that eventful August day when
British troops had paid their flying visit to the town.
The platform side of the train was quite deserted, so I turned my
attention to the other window, and was presently accosted by a German
railway soldier. I at once surmised from his opening remark and
evil-looking face that he was intent on "prisoner baiting." I naturally
pretended not to understand, and he thereupon became most annoyed. The
expression of his humorous thought was that "the English were all going
to Berlin, and the verdammte English would verdammt well stay there for
ever." I shook my head and said "nicht verstehe."
Then followed a sort of pantomime repetition of the same idea slowly
spoken in simple words. Again I shook my head. Then a brilliant idea
struck him: "Parlez vous Français?" "Oui," said I. But all the French
he could muster consisted of "A Berlin." This was yelled out in a loud
voice with great enthusiasm.
I then constructed a sentence in very bad German to the effect that our
train was not going to Berlin but to Munich. This got rid of him, as
he evidently thought it was hopeless to make the thick-headed Engländer
understand his subtle German humour, and off he went shouting "A Berlin,
A Berlin!"
The fat N.C.O. who had been standing in the corridor during this
interview now came into the carriage, and I asked him if there was any
dinner going, and was told that it would be brought along presently. It
was not long before a party of soldiers appeared carrying two dixies of
soup, a plateful of which was handed up.
It was thin vegetable soup, tasteless and stone cold. This was the
"dinner from a restaurant car" that Dr Schmidt had told me about! My
appetite would not rise to more than a spoonful of it, and I do not
think even Oliver Twist would have asked for more. Fortunately my kind
French friend at Cambrai had provided me with a parcel of food, and
I thought the time had come to take stock of its contents. I asked
my corpulent attendant to reach me down the parcel, in which I found
several "petit pains," some ham, and a large lengthy German sausage,
upon which, as it rolled out of the paper, my guardian cast a swift but
appreciative eye. I thought it might be a good idea to try and bribe
him into a good temper, and ventured to ask for the loan of a knife! My
request having been complied with, I sheared off a large piece of the
sausage and stuck it on the end of the knife as I handed it back to its
owner.
A grateful grunt showed that my offering to the stomach had found a weak
spot in the enemy's armour, and from that moment we were comparatively
friendly. After I had eaten some bread and ham I asked for something
to drink, and was told that nothing was to be had except the thin cold
soup. I had saved one or two cheap cigars from the hospital, and I
settled down as best I could to smoke one of them.
I have forgotten to mention that there was a Red Cross attendant on
the train, whose occupation consisted in slouching in the corridor and
staring out of the window. He was a short, thick-set man, one of the
dirtiest-looking I have ever seen in uniform. He wore a once white
linen overall and a Red Cross badge on his arm. I do not know if he was
qualified for Red Cross work, as he made no attempt or offer to help me
or any of the other wounded men. Shortly after leaving Mons I began to
feel symptoms of a bad headache coming on, and so I asked my guardian if
there was a doctor on the train and if he could give me some aspirin. My
request was passed on to the Red Cross attendant, who said he would go
and ask the doctor.
It was now dark, and the train stopped at many small stations, at each
of which numbers of soldiers were billeted. Some of them always came
up to my carriage to show off their knowledge of English. One or two
of them were very rude, but the majority were merely interested and
addressed me quite politely, sometimes in fluent English. One man I
remember, who spoke just like an Englishman, said that he had been
twelve years in England with a German band and knew all the coast towns.
This fellow said he was very sorry "that England had made this War," as
no Germans would like to go back there any more.
At several stations other German bandsmen spoke to me out of the
darkness, and sometimes they climbed up on to the footboard and
attempted to enter into discussions as to who started the War. England,
of course, was declared to be the aggressor and originator of all the
trouble, and some surprise mingled with hatred was expressed at her
action in thus attacking, for no apparent reason, a pacific industrial
country like Germany. Of course I was not in a position to argue the
point, and generally contented myself with asking whether they thought
we had prepared an Expeditionary Force of 70,000 men to attack 7,000,000
Germans.
These men belonged for the most part to the Landsturm, and one of them
told me they had been in billets for over two months. They seemed quite
cheerful at the prospect of going nearer the firing line.
Conscription is, from the Germans' point of view, simply organised
patriotism, although ignorant opponents of National Service are fond of
sneering at the German conscript and assert that he will only fight when
forced on with revolvers. I wish that some of our stay-at-home sneerers
could have seen these crowds of German conscripts and heard the singing
and laughter. If cheerfulness be one of the first qualities of a
soldier, these people possessed it to a very high degree.
At one station a soldier who was, I think, rather full of beer, hung on
to the footboard outside my window and attempted to be offensive in a
mixture of German and English. His peroration was coming to an end as
the train began to move, but he clung on and delivered his final shaft:
"England is the enemy and will be punished." However, his own punishment
was near at hand, for when he attempted to jump off the train, which was
running fairly fast, he made a false step and fell heavily on the back
of his head, and, as it seemed to me, right under the wheels of the
train.
My sentry, who under the influence of sausage had become quite
communicative, remarked that the man was drunk and deserved all he got.
Symptoms were now developing of a serious headache such as I had
experienced once before in hospital. On asking the Red Cross attendant
if he had taken my message to the doctor, I was told that it would have
to wait till the next stop, and by the time we got to Charleroi I was in
the fast grip of an acute neuralgic attack.
Entrance to the platform at Charleroi had evidently been _verboten_,
for there was no one on the platform, although a great crowd of soldiers
could be seen at the far end of the station, which was brilliantly
lighted with electric arc lamps.
I again asked my sentry to get me some relief. He was quite sympathetic,
and I think began to realise that I was getting rather bad. He told me
that the Red Cross attendant had gone to the doctor and would be back
before long. The very great pain was made worse by the knowledge that
the two or three tablets of aspirin, for which I had waited so long,
would afford instant relief. At last the Red Cross attendant came along
the corridor and made some sign to the sentry, who went out to speak
to him. They talked for a long time, and seemed to be arguing about
something. Every minute was more painful than the last, and then, to my
relief, the sentry came back. I stretched out my hand for the aspirin.
"Nichts," he said, "the doctor sends a message--'tell the Englishman not
to smoke cigars and he will not have a headache.'"
Looking back now on this incident I am inclined to acquit the German
doctor of all blame, although at the time I was full of wrath at what
I supposed to be callous indifference and cruelty, surprising even in a
German member of the medical profession. The most likely explanation
is that the dirty Red Cross attendant had never taken my message to the
doctor at all.
The only thing now was to get some sleep while the train was at rest,
as I knew that when the jolting began again sleep would be quite
impossible.
My desire for rest was not, however, to be satisfied, for the sentry
leant out of the window on my side of the carriage and started a
conversation with somebody on the platform. I was surprised to hear
that he was talking to a woman, and on looking up to see who it was, a
pleasant voice bade me "Good-evening" in perfect English.
A pretty, young Red Cross nurse stood there at the window. The sight of
her, the kindness with which she spoke, the sympathetic look, were for
a moment as unreal to me as the memory of a dream. "Is there anything I
can do for you?" she said; "I hope you are not very badly wounded." As
soon as she knew of my headache she went running along the train, and
was back almost at once with three large tablets of aspirin. "I am
so glad to be able to help you," she said; "I promised my friends
in England that I would do all in my power to help the poor English
wounded."
I could not find words to thank her then, and I cannot find them now.
Never did I need kindness more, and never was a kind deed more kindly
done.
Before the train started off again the good sister came back to ask how
I was feeling, and wished me well on my journey.
The relief to the pain was almost immediate, and in spite of the
renewed joltings, and the hard bed which afforded small comfort to a
semi-paralysed man, I slept soundly for the rest of the night.
II.
The day had not long dawned when I awoke so cramped and stiff that I
could hardly move, but still refreshed by much-needed sleep, and above
all free of the previous night's headache. My sentry, who had also
slept well, was good enough to ask how I felt, and said we were going to
Aachen, but he could not or would not say if this was to be our ultimate
destination.
We reached Aachen about 8.30, and a more miserable morning could not
be imagined. It had evidently rained hard all night, and the downpour
showed no signs of abating.
Looking out at the pretty little town half hidden in the mist that hung
over the wooded hills, I was wondering if this was to be our journey's
end, when I saw what looked like two British officers walking along
the station road. There was no mistake about the British warm coats! Of
course they were Germans, who doubtless found the British uniform more
suited than their own to the steadily drenching rain.
Our journey was not, however, to finish here, for soon the sentry, who
had been standing in the corridor, came back and said that we had to
change and get into another train.
When lifted down on to the platform I was too stiff to walk even with
the crutches, and had to be taken across the station on a stretcher.
There were several other stretcher cases--about ten or twelve--but the
majority managed to hobble along by themselves.
We were a most miserable-looking party; all the men, both British and
French, were dressed in French uniforms, and one or two, whom I spoke
to, said that they had had no food since leaving Cambrai.
The train into which we were now being packed was of a more antiquated
type than the one we had left. A very narrow corridor ran down the
centre of the coach, the narrow wooden seats on each side being made to
hold four people. It was with great difficulty that I crawled along the
corridor through the crowd of wounded soldiers, mostly French, who, too
miserable, too hungry and too cold for speech, were trying to huddle
together as well as their wounded condition would allow.
The corridor led into a carriage with four very narrow wooden seats,
which were occupied by four British soldiers and one stout sentry. This
was to be my accommodation for the rest of the journey. I pointed out
to my sentry, who had followed me from the other train, that it was
impossible for me to travel otherwise than lying down, and that even
for able-bodied passengers the carriage was overcrowded. Also I demanded
anew to be allowed to travel with the French doctor, whom I now saw
being escorted along the platform to the rear end of the train. My
protest was of no avail, and on inquiring who was the officer in charge
of the train, I was told it was the doctor who had refused the aspirin,
so concluded that further expostulation would be useless. My luggage,
consisting of a small canvas portmanteau and a brown paper parcel with
the sausage, &c., was now brought along, and took up what small space
remained in the carriage.
We were now five wounded men and two very corpulent sentries, and the
problem of how to divide the available space presented some difficulty.
Two of the men, like myself, were unable to travel in a sitting
position. We had four seats, one of which was more than occupied by the
two sentries. The other three had to be given to those who could not sit
up, and so the remaining two men had to lie on the hard floor.
Although all these men had been very severely wounded, and were still in
great pain, they had no thought for themselves, but insisted upon doing
everything that they could to settle me as comfortably as possible. My
bag was put at the end of a corner seat, and, making a pillow with my
greatcoat, I was able to get into a half sitting, half lying, and by no
means comfortable position, but the best that could be done under the
circumstances.
A British Tommy's cheerfulness is irrepressible. The knocking about
may have been severe, the situation may be desperate, and the outlook
depressing, but you will nearly always find the British soldier cheerful
in spite of all.
I remember an old monastic exhortation written in the eighth century
entitled, "De octo principalibus vitiis," where sadness is bracketed
along with pride, covetousness, lust, and the other familiar vices,
while cheerfulness is placed high on the list of virtues. I can now
appreciate the old monks' valuation of cheerfulness, and for the lesson
I have to thank those wounded soldiers in the railway carriage at
Aachen.
They were as cheery as soldiers on furlough. For nearly four hours the
train waited just outside the dripping station, and we spent most of the
time laughing! In fact, we were so hilarious that I think our sentries
got suspicious; at any rate they were considerably bewildered at our
strange conduct. We none of us had much to laugh at. The most helpless
man in our carriage was a young fellow of nineteen in the K.O.S.B.'s,
whose leg had been broken just above the shin, and a piece of the bone
knocked away. This man was subsequently exchanged, and we journeyed home
to England together. Two other men had bullet wounds in the thigh which
were still septic; and the fourth, an Irishman from Carlow, had been
very badly wounded in the face, having lost the sight of one eye, was
also deaf in one ear and shockingly disfigured.
The rain still poured heavily down, and we were still, at 12.30 P.M.,
outside Aachen station.
At last a man who looked like a soldier of high rank, but was merely the
station-master, came in, escorted by a German private, to count us. He
informed our sentries that we were about to start for Mainz, and
before going out the German soldier snatched the French képi from the
disfigured Irishman and gave him his German round soft cap in exchange.
It is a cheap and very common method of obtaining a war trophy.
It was now time to make inquiries about lunch, and we were told we would
get nothing till we got to Mainz at seven o'clock.
Every one of us had been supplied by the kind French people at Cambrai
with bread and cold meat, chocolate and biscuits, so that we were able
to make quite a decent meal. Still I made a point of always asking
the Germans for food before using our own. It was with the greatest
difficulty that we at last got something to drink. Our sentries did not
show any ill-feeling, and it was not their fault that nothing was given
us; it was simply that no arrangements had been made. At about four in
the afternoon we each got a cup of what was meant for tea, and this was
the first liquid we had had since the previous morning.
The sentries were provided with coffee and sandwiches at every station,
which was always brought to the carriage by women dressed in uniform.
They belonged to an association which has been formed for the purpose of
supplying soldiers on transport duty with hot drinks.
I inquired of one of these ladies if there was not an association for
supplying prisoners of war with food and drink, and was rewarded with a
solemn serious negative.
The train did not get on very fast, and we stopped a good many times
just outside the stations--waits lasting sometimes over an hour.
Although the amount of data regarding the internal conditions of a
country which can be obtained from a carriage window on a journey such
as we were making is certainly not extensive, still I noted a good many
interesting points.
Civilians, of course, were few and far between. At the stations and in
the public places, and as far as I could see in the streets, nearly
all were in uniform, young and old. Some of the older men wore very
quaint-looking garments. I have seen more civilians on the platform
of one English country station than I saw at all the German stations
together between Cambrai and Würzburg.
Railway work, such as unloading coal, &c., from the trucks, was being
done by boys of twelve to fifteen, working in gangs of about six, doing
the work of two or three men. _All_ the railway engine-drivers and
employees I saw were men obviously above military age.
The stations are all under military control, and transport work is
carried on by soldiers.
Troop trains passed incessantly. The men, who I should say were about
twenty years old, were cheerful and always singing, just like our
own troops are fond of doing, only the Germans sing much better! They
shouted out greetings to the wounded Germans on our train, and looked
with curiosity at the French and British soldiers. When the troop train
happened to draw up opposite us, sometimes a fist would be shaken in the
air, accompanied by what sounded like very bad language. But the general
spirit shown by these young German troops towards our train-load of
wounded prisoners was that of contempt and pity of victors for the
vanquished. The men were splendidly equipped, and many regiments
carried a long spade strapped on to the back of their kit, the iron head
stretching high above the helmet. I remember starting to count the troop
trains, but I cannot find any note of the number in my diary. I should
put the number we saw in one day at from fifteen to twenty.
In the public squares of the smaller towns, and even outside some of
the country villages, groups of youths, almost children, were being put
through elementary military exercises.
The train stopped at one small countryside station, and I got a very
good view of some German troops having a field-day. They were preparing
to advance on the village through some woods, and the sight reminded me
of the German attacks on our trenches at Mons.
Nothing that I could observe from my carriage window spoke more
eloquently of the efforts Germany was making than the goods traffic
which passed along the line or lay shunted at the stations.
The very trucks themselves were eloquent of war and of Germany's success
in war. Belgian rolling stock was very much in evidence, and it was
depressing to see the well-known French vans with the inscription,
"hommes 40, chevaux 12," familiar to all who have travelled in France.
There were also a few strange-looking waggons, either Russian or Polish.
Nearly all the goods trains were carrying war material. Long trains were
standing on the sidings with Red Cross ambulances on every truck.
We passed countless numbers of trains loaded with broad wooden
planks and stout larch poles, doubtless intended for the erection of
earthworks. Most instructive was the sight of one long train of about
thirty trucks loaded with private motor-cars of all sorts and sizes,
which had been hurriedly painted with grey stripes and some sort of
notice indicating Government service. Once we passed a train with heavy
artillery on specially constructed waggons, and we saw several trains of
ordinary field artillery. These trains of troops, munitions, motor-cars,
coal, and a hundred other weapons of war that were hidden from view,
the whole methodical procession of supplies to the Front, were most
suggestive of power, of concentration, and organisation of effort. Most
impressive was this glimpse of Germany at war. It is difficult to convey
the impression to those who have not seen Germany in a state of war. Men
who have been at the Front see little of the power which is behind the
machine against which they are fighting.
I do not think many people in this country, even in high places, have
yet understood how great, as to be almost invincible, are the military
and industrial resources of Germany.
The strength given by unity of purpose, by self-sacrifice of individual
to national requirements, by organisation of disciplined masses, is the
strength of Germany, behind which is the all-prevailing spirit of the
motto, "Deutschland über Alles," the Fatherland above all things,
and before all things. The end justifying the means in the name of
a perverted patriotism, whose end is self-glorification, whose means
include among other horrors the murder of an innocent and defenceless
civilian population.
This German patriotism, a monstrous caricature of the noblest of
virtues, is the only ideal which the brutal materialism of Prussia can
still pretend to claim for its own.
Chivalry, honour, and a fair name, the ideals for which men will
cheerfully die, Germany has destroyed and buried in the wreckage of
Belgian homesteads.
In my carriage-window conversations with German soldiers, to whom it
might have been dangerous to express myself as frankly as I have just
done here, I always felt that I was dealing with people possessed by an
"idée fixe." Evil, as long as it was German evil, was right.
Pride has brought these people to believe that all law, religious and
ethical, should be subservient to the interests of the Fatherland. The
German pride is something quite apart from the common conceit with
which all men and all nations are afflicted, for the foolish British
bumptiousness, which of late years has not been so much in evidence, due
to ignorance and want of intercourse with Continental nations, does
not strike deep enough into the national character to affect the moral
sanity of the race. But German pride working through several generations
has apparently destroyed all sense of right and wrong. It has become,
therefore, impossible to convince the German people of wrong-doing.
I once ventured to say, in answer to one man who was very indignant
with "England's treachery" (he was a kultured man and addressed me as
a "hireling of La Perfide Albion"), that at any rate we had not invaded
Belgium in breach of a solemn treaty. I fully expected to be chastised
for my boldness, but my remark did not arouse any indignation. I was
told quite simply that "even if there was any truth in my statement the
necessity of Germany was supreme and above all."
Deutschland über Alles.
At most of the stations we stopped at, men used to come into our
carriage out of curiosity; some of them were rude and insulting, but
very often they were eager to enter into conversation.
At one place an _Unterofficier_, who understood a little English but did
not speak it, kept on repeating in German that England had made the War
and tried to catch Germany unprepared, and that we were mobilised for
war in July. I did not answer him, but turned round to the wounded
soldier next me and said to him, "When did you mobilise?" All the men
answered in chorus, "On the 5th August." "I don't know when you Germans
mobilised," I said, "but you were fighting in Belgium on the day we
mobilised."
In most of their conversations the question of who was going to win was
not raised, for the Germans consider that they have won already, and
they have no fears of being unable to maintain the territory they have
conquered.
The prevailing sentiment towards England was contemptuous. I remember
some soldiers at one place reading the news to my sentry out of a German
paper, and one of the items was "Kitchener has organised an army of one
million men." This statement caused considerable laughter, and when the
sentry returned to our carriage I asked him where the joke lay. England,
he then explained, for years had employed a small number of paid men to
do whatever fighting was needed, and the nation could not now be drilled
and made soldiers of, as they were not animated by the martial, manly
spirit of Germany, and those few that did volunteer--he used the word
with contempt--would require at least a year's training.
From such conversations as these, and from reading the German papers, I
am convinced that the strongest ground of confidence the Germans possess
is their contempt of England's military power. The Germans know far
better than we do the weakness of our voluntary system. They know that
if the full power of the British Empire was brought against them, defeat
would in the long-run be inevitable. But they believe, and I think
rightly believe, that this can never come to pass without organisation
and discipline of the whole country. No disaster to the German arms on
the field of battle would have an effect on the morale of the German
people such as would result from the knowledge that the English had
recognised the principle of National Service.
But as long as England remains "le pays des embusqués," German opinion
will not be influenced by speeches on England's grim determination made
in Parliament or leaders written in our morning papers: Germany knows
that grim determination is shown not in words, but in deeds.
The day when England consents to the great sacrifice and faces the stern
discipline of conscription, the present unshakable confidence of the
German people will be changed into apprehensive despair.
I have interrupted the thread of my story to reply to those people who
keep on telling us that we have done splendidly, that no one else could
have done what we have done; that our voluntary army of one or two or
three million men, whatever it may be, is the most wonderful creation
of all history; and so on to the Navy and its great deeds. The litany of
praise is familiar to all, and a good deal of it is true.
But the point to be considered is not what we have done, but what we
have left undone, since nothing less will suffice than the maximum
possible effort.
III.
I forgot to mention that either at Mons or Charleroi, I am not sure
which, a sheet of paper containing all the latest war news, some printed
in English and some in French, was handed to all the prisoners on the
train. I have kept this interesting document, the heading of which is as
follows: "A short account of facts from Official German and Foreign War
Reports. 'This english [_sic_] is also published in German and
Spanish.' Free of charge from the Publisher, Mrs von Puttkamer, Hamburg,
Paulstrasse 9/11."
This sheet, which purports to contain the war news for November, is
evidently a monthly concoction. I append some extracts:--
_Nov. 1._ "Turkey declares the 'holy War.' 2000 armed Bedouins
attack Egypt. As a result of bad treatment 17 Germans die in the
English Concentration Camp at Farmley."
_Nov. 5._ "Field-Marshal French meets with a bad accident. Conquered
English cannons placed for exhibition before the Hamburg Town Hall,
amidst the plaudits of the people."
_Nov. 6._ "As a counter measure all Englishmen in Germany between
the ages of 17 and 55 interned at Ruhleben by Berlin."
Then follows a long list of German victories on all fronts, with just a
passing reference to the loss of the _Emden_ and the fall of Tsingtau.
_Nov. 15._ "Storm of indignation from all Mohammedens over the
English attack against Akaba, the Holy City of Islam. Lord Roberts
dies in London at age of 82."
_Nov. 17._ "As a result of German submarines in the channel no more
English transport of troops takes place."
_Nov. 18._ "The Times says that it is becoming clearer every day
to prominent patriots of Germany, that it is not possible to beat
England. 'As I also belong to the leading men mentioned, I attach
great importance to it, to prove well founded the fact that, in my
opinion, England is already beaten, as an England that hides its
fleet in such a war as this, and does not venture to sea, has ceased
to be the England of old. It has once for all renounced its right
to speak when a question of the European balance of power is dealt
with.'--_Ballin._"
_Nov. 22._ "Successful fight of the Turks against English and
Russians at Schotel-Arab. 750 English troops killed and 1000
wounded. The Turks reach the Suez Canal."
_Nov. 25._ "The Turks controll [_sic_] the Suez Canal at Kantara."
The total number of prisoners claimed to have been captured in the month
of November works out at 268,508, and on one single day, the 14th Nov.,
10,000 guns and a quantity of ammunition were taken as booty.
Mrs von Puttkamer must have taken considerable trouble with this
singular document, and I cannot understand with what object it was
distributed broadcast among the prisoners. The only result of reading
such an obviously biassed account of the war was that, as we had no
means of discriminating between what was true and what was false, we did
not pay the least attention to any of it.
* * * * *
The three wounded men who had been over four months in bed, and whose
wounds were not yet healed, were now suffering a great deal of pain
from the cramped position, the jolting of the train, and from want of
nourishing food. They had tried to get some relief by lying on the floor
of the carriage, where they finally settled together in a heap.
The sentry, with whom I was by this time on the best of terms, began to
grow sentimental at the thought of meeting his wife and children, with
whom he was to spend a week's leave in the neighbourhood of Coblenz. I
tried to find out if he had heard of any talk about a proposed exchange
of prisoners, but he could not or would not give me any information.
Light was failing as we reached the Rhine valley. The train crawled
slowly under the shadow of the vine-covered cliffs, far to the west
the rain-clouds were drifting away as if driven by the last rays of the
setting sun, which they had hidden during the day. We had no light in
the carriage, and the blackness of the interior darkness was relieved
only by the twinkling lights on the distant banks of the Rhine. By the
time the train reached Coblenz the wounded men, though not asleep, were
in a condition of dormant torpor, while the sentries slept heavily,
dreaming, no doubt, of their soon-once-more-to-be-met buxom fraus.
At Coblenz most of the German wounded who had started with us from
Cambrai came to their journey's end, and the station was crowded with
Red Cross people who had come to meet them. There were no serious cases,
nearly all arms and a few superficial head wounds. Here also we saw the
last of our two fat sentries, and their place was taken by two men who
belonged to some very antiquated sort of Bavarian Landsturm, harmless,
inoffensive creatures both of them. They actually put their rifles up
on the rack, whereas the other sentries had clung tight to theirs on
the whole journey from Cambrai. We immediately got permission to smoke,
which had been refused us before, and I again made inquiries about
food and drink with the usual result. No arrangements had been made
for feeding prisoners, and as our own stock of food was getting low an
effort had to be made to get something done.
It was not long before the doctor in charge of the Coblenz ambulance,
tall and thin, with a black beard, came along inspecting the wounded. He
asked if there were any men who required to have their wounds dressed,
explaining that we would get to our destination the next day, and he
would not dress any one except if absolutely necessary.
The men said they preferred to wait, and I then pointed out to
the doctor that the accommodation for five badly wounded men was
insufficient, so that they had to lie on top of each other on the floor,
and that we had been given practically no food since we left Cambrai.
The doctor answered that no other accommodation was available, and he
expressed some indignation at our not having had any food, promising to
send some along at once. We got some nice hot coffee, a large piece of
German black bread, with a roll and sausage each, and made our first
meal at German expense.
After the train started on again the big sentry, who looked rather like
a Scotch Highlander, and came no doubt from the mountain forests
of Bavaria, produced a couple of night-lights, with whose slender
flickering the carriage was dimly lit up.
Our new sentries had no idea of discipline or duty whatever. They seemed
to look upon themselves as showmen travelling with a collection of
curious beasts, for at every station where we stopped people took it
in turns to come right into the carriage, and we met with considerable
annoyance and impertinence from many of them. One German, who said he
was shortly going to the front to kill some Engländer, tried to drag my
greatcoat from me, but this was too much for the sentry, who ordered him
to desist.
Owing to the constant entry of these unwelcome visitors it now became
impossible to think of sleep, for whenever I tried or pretended to doze
I was pulled up and asked to answer some impertinent questions.
The type of German soldier that now began to predominate was of a far
different class to what we had met with before. It is probable that
the men we had conversed with between Cambrai and Coblenz had been to a
certain extent tamed by experience at the front, whereas the older and
more ignorant class of Landsturm, who at every station forced their
attentions upon us, spoke to us and about us as if we were dangerous
criminals, and on several occasions if it had not been for the sentries
we would have been roughly handled.
It was at Aschaffenburg, on the Bavarian frontier, that we had occasion
to be really alarmed at the hostile attitude of the crowd on the station
platform.
We reached Aschaffenburg at three in the morning, and were informed that
we were to stop there for five hours. There was nothing for it but
to try and get some sleep; this, however, was not to be allowed. A
curious-looking mob of men dressed in bits of all uniforms collected
outside our carriage and proceeded to go through a pantomimic exhibition
of hate. The leader of this mob was a nasty-looking ruffian, more than
half drunk, who kept calling on us to come outside and fight; also
threatening to come inside and cut our throats, and brandishing a big
pocket-knife, he looked quite up to doing it. However, the mob, which
was getting more and more excited, was eventually dispersed by an
officer, who rebuked them for insulting men who were defenceless and
disabled.
After the dispersal of this collection of ruffians, who looked as if
they had stepped off the stage of a comic opera, we still continued to
be plagued by a constant stream of visitors. One group of these soldiers
came in about five in the morning and behaved with great rudeness and
brutality. The wounded men had by this time settled on to the floor of
the carriage, all in a heap, and had fallen off to sleep.
The sentry was telling our visitors that one of the Engländer had been
shot in the face and was badly disfigured; whereupon a German soldier
pulled the poor fellow out of the sleeping mass on the floor and sat him
upon the seat, the others standing round pointing with their fingers at
the poor mutilated face with coarse jeering laughter. The young Irish
soldier sat patiently through it all--his blind eye was a running sore,
the torn cheek in healing had left a hideously scarred hollow, and
the mouth and nose were twisted to one side. His condition would have
stirred pity in the heart of a savage, and yet these Germans laughed and
jeered.
This scene comes back to me with a fresh bitterness when I see the
able-bodied young civilians in this country--they must number several
millions--who should be ashamed to be seen alive until the perpetration
of deeds such as these have been brought to account.
This poor fellow came from County Carlow. Is there a man in Carlow or in
all Ireland who could have witnessed this scene unmoved?
So much stronger is the impression of things seen than things heard
that, although I have second-hand evidence of far worse horrors--of
wounded men shot, of men of a well-known regiment kicked and beaten
along the road to a German prison--none of these things, no atrocity of
Louvain, no story of women and children tortured, has moved me so
much to a deep loathing of Germany as the pathetic sight of this young
Irishman and his heartless tormentors.
Reading this morning's _Times_, I find that Mr T. P. O'Connor used
in the House of Commons the following words: "The Irish people have
a loathing of the very name of conscription." I have no means of
ascertaining how far this be true, but whether true or not, I know that
if the Irish people could see this war as it really is, as the Germans
have made it, there is scarcely a man throughout the length and breadth
of Ireland who would not make any sacrifice in order that such horror
should be avenged.
From three to half-past eight we had waited at Aschaffenburg subjected
to a continuous round of insult, painfully cramped on the hard benches,
and half frozen with the cold of a frosty January morning, so that it
was a relief when the train at last moved on.
Our route now lay through the beautifully wooded hills of the Bavarian
Highlands, and the countryside reminded me in many ways of Speyside. The
air blowing from the spruce woods was most refreshing, and in spite
of the cold we were glad to have the pale winter sunshine streaming in
through the open windows.
Our train was now reduced to two coaches, which had been hitched on to
a local country train, and so we advanced more slowly than ever, and
stopped at the very smallest stations. We seemed at last to be getting
away from the omnipresent German soldier, for the wild-looking country
through which we were passing did not look as if there had ever been any
inhabitants, and on the station platforms an occasional soldier on leave
was the only reminder of war that could be seen.
The sentries, perhaps relieved at being in their native wilds, became
quite talkative, and we were soon on most friendly terms. As no
breakfast was to be hoped for from any of the stations, we agreed to
pool what provisions we could get together between us. I had nothing
but half of my German sausage, the other men had some bread, and the
sentries produced two bottles of cold coffee, so we were all able to
make quite a good meal.
This surprising atmosphere of cordiality was marred by a visit of
inspection. A very shabby _Unterofficier_ suddenly opened the door
leading into the corridor, and proceeded to pour a volume of abuse on
us all, finally settling upon me as being the only representative of the
enemy who seemed to understand what it was all about.
I did not indeed understand very much, but could gather that the
substance of his complaints was that we were too comfortable, and should
have been travelling in a truck! After this excited individual had
passed away, I asked the sentries what all the discourse was about, and
they said that the fellow enjoyed getting a chance to scold somebody,
as he was constantly in trouble with his superior officer, and got more
than the usual share of slanging that falls to the lot of the German
soldier.
On leaving Aschaffenburg we had been definitely assured that our
destination was Nuremburg, and for that reason, when at about 11 o'clock
the train entered the picturesque valley of the river Main, on the banks
of which the town of Würzburg is situated, I little thought that here
was the end of our journey, and here was to be our future prison home.
Hardly had we drawn up at the station when it became obvious that our
destination had been reached.
A number of Red Cross officials were on the platform, which was lined
with stretchers. There was no time for more than a hurried farewell, but
before leaving the carriage the young Irishman, whose name was Patrick
Flynn, begged me to accept the only thing he had to give me as a
souvenir, and pressed into my hand a Belgian five-centime nickel coin,
which I shall always keep in remembrance of the unselfish kindness with
which these poor wounded soldiers treated me on our long and painful
journey.
[Illustration: Festung Marienberg.]