WATCHING ON THE RHINE
VIOLET R. MARKHAM
“_That which was to be done by war and arms in Latium has now been
fully accomplished by the bounty of the gods and the valour of the
soldiers. The armies of the enemy have been cut down.... It now remains
to be considered how we may keep them in the observance of perpetual
peace.... Ye can therefore ensure to yourselves perpetual peace so far
as the Latins are concerned, either by adopting severe or conciliatory
measures. Do ye choose to take harsh measures against people who have
surrendered and who have been conquered? Ye may destroy all Latium....
Do ye wish to follow the example of your forefathers and augment the
power of Rome by conferring the citizenship on the people you have
beaten? Materials for extending your power by the highest glory are at
hand.... But whatever determination ye wish to come to, it is necessary
that it be speedy. So many states have ye in a condition of suspense
between hope and fear._”
_Livy viii. 13._
WATCHING ON THE
RHINE
BY
VIOLET R. MARKHAM
AUTHOR OF “SOUTH AFRICA PAST AND PRESENT,”
“THE SOUTH AFRICAN SCENE,” ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1921,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
FOREWORD
“Here then will we begin the story: only adding thus much to that which
hath been said, that it is a foolish thing to make a long prologue and
to be short in the story itself.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE APPROACH 11
CHAPTER II
COLOGNE AND THE OCCUPATION 20
CHAPTER III
THE KÖLNER DOM 42
CHAPTER IV
ON THE DOM PLATZ 54
CHAPTER V
BILLETS 65
CHAPTER VI
CHRISTMAS IN COLOGNE 76
CHAPTER VII
THE BERGISCHE LAND 83
CHAPTER VIII
IN SEARCH OF A FISHING 95
CHAPTER IX
WHO PAYS? 104
CHAPTER X
CERTAIN CITIES AND THE SAAR BASIN 119
CHAPTER XI
FROM METZ TO VERDUN 139
CHAPTER XII
IN ALSACE 156
CHAPTER XIII
SOME ELECTIONEERING IMPRESSIONS 172
CHAPTER XIV
HATRED 206
CHAPTER XV
THE GERMAN VIEW OF ENGLAND 223
CHAPTER XVI
WATCHMAN--WHAT OF THE NIGHT? 247
WATCHING ON THE RHINE
WATCHING ON THE RHINE
CHAPTER I
THE APPROACH
_July 1919_
Four A.M.: the slowly moving engine comes to a standstill with a jolt
which wakes me from the uneasy half-sleep of a train journey. I lift a
corner of the blind and look out. It is the grey hour before the dawn,
when night still wrestles with morning for the possession of the coming
day. A ruined building lit up by a station flare stares at me stark and
desolate. In the quarter light a long street of battered houses is also
dimly visible. Lille! We have come through the worst of the devastated
area in the night, but the hall-mark of the invader lies stamped on the
big industrial town, the very name of which is associated henceforth
with suspense, with anguish, with triumph. The military train begins
to move again cautiously over temporary bridges and a permanent way
not as yet permanently repaired. We are far removed from the days when
continental expresses and sleeping-cars swept in a few hours from one
capital to another. The miracle is to be in this slow-moving train at
all which links the British base in France with the occupied German
area. Ruined houses look in through the window, phantom buildings of
which nothing but the outer walls remain. Yet, as I strain my eyes in
the dim light, I see something else; something which was not visible
when I last visited a devastated area in March--here and there a house
already rebuilt, stacks of bricks neatly piled, rubbish sifted and
cleared, stones laid in order for the mason’s hand. Yes, there has been
“cleaning up” during the last five months--the most tragic cleaning up
which can ever befall a nation. And clearly France, with her amazing
energy and recuperative powers, has already flung herself into the task
of repairing the desolate places. It is a grim and mighty task which
awaits our Ally.
Stricken though the towns, the land, desolate, barren, uncultivated,
has a pathos all its own. As we move ever eastwards and the dawn comes
up in the sky, the nakedness of the fields invaded by coarse grass
and weeds symbolises the sufferings of France. But in the growing
light evidences appear in the fields of the same brave spirit which is
reclaiming the towns. Here and there a half-destroyed farmhouse has
been patched up, and a thin cloud of smoke rises from the battered
chimney. Across the silent fields a team of horses is being led out to
work; a woman drives out her cows or is seen surrounded by clamorous
poultry. France may be sorely wounded, but the spirit of France cannot
be destroyed. France, for all her losses, has hope in her heart, and
amid the desolation of war, hope, like some beautiful flower, blossoms
once again.
Eastward, always eastward, for we are bound through the lands of the
conquering victim to those of the humbled oppressor. With every mile
the visible signs of war grow less, though houses and buildings along
the railway show marks of gunfire long after the land has regained its
normal aspect. First and last, districts through which the railways
pass have suffered most both in advance and retreat; a fact to which
the scarred stations bear witness.
By the time the sun is shining brightly we have passed beyond the
outer fringes of desolation and are again in a prosperous-looking
land. The sight of Maubeuge recalled many an anxious moment during the
great German invasion of 1914. Outwardly the town appeared to have
suffered but little. As we crossed the Belgian frontier a general view
of the country as seen from the carriage windows conveyed the same
impression. The soil was well cultivated, the houses in good order.
There are no evidences of the presence of a hostile army beyond the
occasional destruction of a bridge blown up during the German retreat.
The spiritual yoke of an enemy occupation for four and a half years
must have been intolerable, but material damage was clearly confined to
the first and last days of the war. And Belgium has the matter in hand.
She is at work, working, working all the time. From countless buildings
the Belgian flag waving in the sunshine proclaimed the glad tidings
of a land released from its invaders and restored to its original
place among nations. The little valleys of the Ardennes, the factory
chimneys of Liège, seem at one in telling the same tale of liberty
regained. There is an indescribable air of gaiety among the people on
the roadside, a sense of laughter and merry-making. Aerschot, Dinant,
Louvain would, of course, tell a different tale, but in southern
Belgium it would seem that the grip of the invader was of a different
quality from his strangle-hold on France.
Still eastward, and now with a thrill of indescribable emotion we find
ourselves at Herbesthal, the German frontier. Before us in the sunshine
lie the broad fertile plains of the people whose rulers have deluged
the world with blood and tears. One remembers with bowed head the
many million lives laid down before we handful of British folk could
journey thus far into the country of the enemy who had challenged our
very existence. With the memory of shattered and devastated France
before our eyes, we think with sternness no punishment can be too
severe in expiation of the crime under whose consequences the world is
staggering to-day. A train-load of German prisoners, homeward bound,
runs into the station. They cheer, not very loudly or energetically,
it is true, but nevertheless they cheer as once again they touch the
soil of the Fatherland. From the windows we catch sight of eager,
excited faces among the shabby men in their faded uniforms. Insensibly
the heart softens. They too have gone through hardship and suffering,
just ordinary men glad to be home again, eager to see wife and child
and sweetheart. And then, as the train rolls forward, suddenly on the
threshold of the enemy’s land comes the remembrance of those noble
words, one of the few great utterances which illumine the darkness and
the passions of war, “Patriotism is not enough, I must have no hatred
or bitterness in my heart.”
The hands of brutal men could not touch the serenity of Edith Cavell’s
soul. On the threshold of a cruel death her spirit had soared above
the hideous welter of passion and brutality all around. She saw these
things in the light of eternity; saw also the ultimate good of life
express itself, not in the narrow terms of race, but in abiding
spiritual values. The demand for vengeance which followed on her
death has to a large extent obscured the greatness of her message.
Yet Edith Cavell indicated expressly that vengeance was not the way.
No individual during the war has thrown a ray of light more clear on
the turmoil of the struggle. But the path she trod is not an easy one,
and many who honour her name shrink from a task of self-conquest so
great as what she indicates.... No hatred and no bitterness: and we are
English people crossing the German frontier for the first time after
the war.... What has Edith Cavell to say to each one of us?
Aix-la-Chapelle--Aachen--with its memories of Charlemagne, King of the
Franks, lies some ten miles within the German frontier. Few outward
signs of its venerable history survive in the busy manufacturing centre
of to-day. The cathedral, founded by Charlemagne, where the ashes of
the great monarch lie buried, rises--an incongruous and protesting
relic--among factories, tall chimneys, and all the ugly apparatus of
modern industry. Aachen is in Belgian occupation, and we stare from
our carriage windows at a mixed throng of Belgian soldiers, British
Tommies, and German civilians, with whom the station is crowded.
It is a little difficult to express in words the conflict of feelings
in your mind as you enter Germany. You are certainly prepared for
something dramatic. It is almost with a shock you realise that German
civilians are not equipped with hoofs and horns or other attributes
of a Satanic character. After all, they look just like any one else:
tidy, well-dressed, self-respecting people--the typical German crowd of
old days. But certainly you expected to see some outward and visible
signs of military occupation, apart from the familiar sight of khaki
soldiers; visions of a Germany bristling with guns; of burgomasters
and high officials walking about with halters, actual or metaphorical,
round their necks; of a sullen, conquered people casting looks of
hatred on conquerors who move among them in no small peril of their
lives. If such is the anticipation, it proves to be ludicrously remote
from the reality. The outstanding fact in the occupied territory,
and one which fills an English visitor with ever-growing amazement,
is the complete acquiescence of the Germans in the situation. Life
is astonishingly normal. Khaki soldiers have replaced grey-coated
soldiers. Otherwise everything seems to go on exactly as before. These
amazing people, outwardly at least, do not appear to mind that their
country is occupied by hostile armies. The Germans on the Aachen
platform were moving about and talking in a placid, undisturbed manner.
Their indifference to the British and Belgian soldiers appeared to be
absolute. A picture rose before my eyes of an English station occupied
by German troops: would equal apathy and indifference have been shown
under such conditions? In this as in many other respects the German
psychology is a riddle to which no answer seems forthcoming, and it is
a riddle the perplexity of which will be found to deepen with every
hour spent in the occupied territory.
Between Aachen and Cologne the train runs through a district rich in
natural resources, both mineral and agricultural. We pass many large
factories of modern construction in which, thanks to smoke-saving
apparatus, the dirt of our own industrial districts has been avoided.
Those factories are not idle. It is true not every large chimney is
smoking, but some chimneys in every group show that work is going on.
The Rhineland industries are to a large extent independent of imported
material, and the activities in this district cannot be taken as an
index to the rest of Germany. Similarly with the soil. Agricultural
experts tell us that taken as a whole the soil of Germany is naturally
poor. Only immense scientific care and attention made it possible in
pre-war days for the land to yield 85 per cent. of the nation’s food.
But here in the Rhineland the quality of the crops must strike the most
casual traveller. With the thin English harvest in mind, I can only
marvel at these bumper crops--the thick yellow corn, the potatoes, the
roots, the mealies, the general impression of agricultural prosperity.
The land is in perfect order. Every twig looks as though it had been
put in splints. Whatever else has suffered, prisoners’ labour, or
labour of some kind, has kept the land clean and in order. Compare the
large areas of devastation in France with this fat, smiling country
bearing no visible signs of any kind of war, and the bitterness in many
French hearts seems very natural. It is difficult to associate stories
of want and starvation with a rich country like this. Yet it was quite
clear that at the last Germany was brought to her knees by hunger.
The surface impression of prosperity in one particular district may
be misleading--the reality may prove on closer acquaintance to be of
grimmer stuff!
Already a hundred questions beset my mind as Cologne Cathedral comes
into sight. There is something typically German about the unwieldy
appearance of the Kölner Dom crowned with its preposterous spires. Many
years had passed since I was last in Cologne. As the line ran through
the clean, well-built suburbs, I remembered vaguely an hotel on the
Dom Platz, and a general impression of tall, robust men drinking beer
and eating large meals. From a dusty shelf in memory’s cupboard came
the recollection of some careless remark made to an English friend--I
hoped there would never be war between England and Germany, because
judging by the physique of the men, war with them would be no trifling
affair....
The train has drawn up in the fine Haupt Bahnhof. Two W.A.A.C.
administrators, courteous and businesslike, examine tickets and visas.
A large German standing meekly, hat in hand, before the fair-haired
English girl stamping his pass is eloquent as to some lessons taught by
the Occupation. Amazing is the scene which breaks on the traveller on
emerging from the railway station. Khaki-clad soldiers swarm in every
direction. Soldiers, soldiers; they overflow the railway station, the
square, the Hohenzollern bridge. The Dom rises grim and protesting
from a sea of khaki. Government lorries lumber down the streets; the
square in front of the Excelsior Hotel, where a modest Union Jack
over the door proclaims the presence of G.H.Q., is crowded with cars.
Every branch of the service is here in force. Uniformed women on whom
the Boche gazes with peculiar annoyance are common. Selected W.A.A.C.
administrators are carrying on responsible work of various kinds.
Searching German women passengers whose clothes are found to be
stuffed with sausages must have its humours as well as its drawbacks.
The W.R.A.F. is here as a force. Army nurses in red and grey and the
blue of the V.A.D.’s vary the monotony of the prevalent mustard colour.
Here and there one sees the blue headdress of a British Empire Leave
Club worker, the girls who do much for the entertainment of Thomas
Atkins in a foreign town. Y.M.C.A., Church Army, and half a dozen other
organisations are all to the fore. Atkins must be a much-amused man
with so many willing workers to cater for his needs. This is the Army
of Occupation as it came up from the fields of victory over 200,000
strong. Large numbers of troops are quartered, not only in Cologne, but
throughout the occupied area and the bridgehead. But demobilisation
has already laid its hand on this great force. The sluices are drawn
and civilian life will shortly reclaim the lads who crowd the town
and area. It is a wonderful sight to have seen, a wonderful moment
in history to have experienced. The German goes about his work in
the middle of this English crowd apparently as unconcerned as his
fellow-countrymen at Aachen and Düren. But what at heart is he thinking
of it all? What actions and reactions are likely to result from this
strange assembly of people thrown together by the compelling force of
the sword on the banks of the Rhine?