THE STARRY BANNER
The boys were all up early on the day when the Olympic games were to
begin. They were thrilling with excitement like that of young soldiers
on the verge of their first battle. Here at last was the goal of their
ambition, the day they had looked forward to through weary months of
effort, the end of their journey from one continent to another, the
final port after the long voyage overseas. Here they were to pit
themselves against the best the world could offer. From here the cable
was to flash to waiting friends at home the news of victory or defeat.
And they solemnly vowed it should not be defeat.
Berlin was awake, too. The great city, rising like a giant refreshed
after sleep, was full of stir and movement. The very air seemed
electrified with a sense of something great impending. From early dawn
the streets had resounded with bugle calls, as the troops that were
to take part in the great review preceding the games took up their
position. Staff officers in their gorgeous uniforms were dashing to and
fro, and the pavements echoed back the measured tread of the infantry
and the clatter of the cavalry. Flags and bunting fluttered everywhere.
Excursion trains brought in enormous crowds from other cities to swell
the swarming population of the capital. A general holiday had been
proclaimed and all Berlin was out of doors.
And these vast crowds were swayed not only by enthusiasm but by hope. At
last the German eagle was to have a chance to scream. The Fatherland had
not fared any too well at previous Olympic meets. The first prizes that
had fallen to German athletes had been few and far between. It was not
that they lacked pluck and brawn. This they had in plenty. But they had
not made a specialty of field and track events and they had been forced
to stand aside and see England and America make almost a clean sweep at
every meet.
But in the four years that had elapsed since the last games they
had thrown themselves into the strife with all the thoroughness and
earnestness that were their national characteristics. Not if they could
help it would they fail of winning in their own capital with the whole
world looking on. Sport had become a national craze, and training, like
everything else with the Germans, had been reduced to a science.
The Emperor himself had rushed into the movement with his well-known
dash and vigor. He was determined that "where Germany sat should be the
head of the table." He had issued orders to his army officers that
whenever they espied in the ranks a promising candidate he should be
given every opportunity for development; and in more than one case he
had relieved him altogether from military service in order that he might
devote himself to his specialty. He had hung up costly trophies to be
battled for and had attended many of the meets in person. His own son,
Prince Friedrich Wilhelm, was a winner in the elimination sprints, and
would be one of the Olympic contenders. Everywhere there was a spirit of
deadly earnestness such as had brought Germany to the fore in so many
fields of learning and music and commerce. There were rumors flying
about of marvelous records made in practice, of wonderful "phenoms" to
be uncovered when the time came. And Reddy voiced what was coming to be
a general opinion in the American quarters, that "It's them blamed
Dutchmen we've got to beat."
Not that this scared Uncle Sam's boys in the slightest degree. They
sniffed the battle from afar like young war horses, and the prospect of
stiff competition only added zest to the coming strife. The fiercer the
struggle the more glorious the victory. As Bert put it: "They didn't
want a procession; they wanted a race." All foes looked alike to them
and they faced the issue with a buoyant confidence that was not mere
bravado, but based on indomitable courage and self-reliance. If they
were beaten--and it stood to reason that in some events they would
be--their opponents in every case would have to earn the victory and
they would surely know they had been in a fight.
The fight idea was emphasized by the great military review that passed
before the Emperor. The crack regiments of the finest army in Europe,
marching with the precision of clockwork, made up a parade miles in
length. Every arm of the service was represented--the grim Krupp
artillery rumbling along like thunder, the solid ranks of the infantry
moving as one man, the splendid Uhlans and Hussars, superbly mounted. It
was a shrewd move on the part of the Emperor--whom Dick described as
"the best advertising man in Europe"--thus to impress visitors from all
parts of the world with the martial pomp and power of the German Empire.
While these were to be games of friendly rivalry, and admitting that
"Peace hath its victories no less renowned than War," he figured that it
would do no harm to give a quiet hint that, whether in peace or war, the
Fatherland was prepared to meet all comers. And the shower of cheers
that greeted the troops along the line of march attested the pride felt
in their army by the entire nation.
After the review came luncheon, at which the Kaiser entertained the
Committeemen of the various nations, and shortly afterward the tide set
in toward the Stadium, where the opening exercises were to be held that
afternoon.
A murmur of admiration rose from the spectators as they poured in the
gates of the magnificent structure. The builders had fairly outdone
themselves. It was a crystallized dream. The most brilliant architects
in Germany had been summoned to its construction and given a free hand
in the matter of expense. As a result, they had erected the finest
building in the world designed for athletic sports. Arranged in the form
of an ellipse, it extended like a giant horseshoe over fifty acres. The
arena itself was open to the sky, but the seats, rising tier on tier in
endless rows, were under cover. The massive walls, made of granite, were
adorned with statues of German heroes, and high over all towered a
colossal figure of Germania. The entrances were flanked by mighty towers
and beneath the seats was an enormous corridor with dressing rooms,
shower baths and every appliance for the comfort of the athletes. In the
center of the vast arena was the field for the throwing and jumping
competitions, and circling this was the running track for the racers.
Nothing had been overlooked, nothing neglected. The builders had been
able to profit by the mistakes or omissions of other nations where meets
had been held and they had reared a structure that was the "last word"
for beauty and utility.
Through every entrance in one unending stream poured the crowds of
spectators. Thousands upon thousands, they packed the tiers of seats
until they overflowed. And still they kept coming.
The Emperor sat in the royal box, surrounded by his family and a
glittering staff. At a given signal the bands started up the "Wacht am
Rhein." The vast multitude rose to their feet and stood with uncovered
heads. Then the choral societies took up the famous hymn, "A Strong
Fortress Is Our God." The noble music swept over the field and stirred
all German hearts with deep emotion.
Then from the pavilions, each delegation carrying its national flag,
came the athletes, four thousand in number. They marched in serried
ranks down the field and lined up in front of the royal enclosure.
Bronzed, supple, straight as arrows, they made a magnificent picture.
The Crown Prince introduced them in a body to his father in a few
well-chosen words, and the Emperor made one of his characteristic
speeches in reply. At its conclusion he waved his hand, the ranks
disbanded, a hurricane of cheers rent the air, and the greatest of
Olympic meets was on.
For ten days the struggle went on with varying fortunes. Every event was
fiercely contested. Nothing could be counted on certainly in advance.
Many "good things" went wrong, while others who had only been supposed
to have an outside chance carried off the prize. With every day that
passed, it became more evident, as the pendulum swung from side to side,
that the result would be in doubt almost to the last. They fought like
wildcats, ran like deer and held on like bulldogs. It was a "fight for
keeps" from start to finish.
In the rifle and revolver competitions, the Americans swept the boards.
At every range and every target they were invincible. Crack shots from
all over Europe tried in vain to rival their scores. They were from the
land of Davy Crockett and there was nothing left for their opponents but
to follow the example of the historic coon and "come down."
In the hundred yard dash, the Americans ran one, two, three. There was a
separate lane for each runner so that no one could interfere with
another. The timing was by electricity and did away with any possibility
of mistake. The crack of the pistol started the watch and the breaking
of the tape at the finish stopped it. The system did away with all
disputes and helped immensely in promoting the friendly feeling that
prevailed throughout the games.
Five points were given to the winner in each event, three to the second
and one to the third. So that no matter which nation won the first,
another might win the second or third or both, and thus keep within
striking distance in the general score.
From the first day, the American score began to climb. But the Germans
and Swedes and English were climbing, too, and it became clear that it
was not to be, as in previous meets, a walkover for the Stars and
Stripes.
In the field and track events--what we understand in this country by
athletics--the Americans were vastly superior. The broad jump was
theirs, the pole vaulting, the hurdles, the four hundred metres and
fifteen hundred metres runs. Drake won the discus throw and Snyder
hurled the hammer further than it had ever gone before.
But there were other features in which we had but few representatives,
and in some none at all. The archery shooting went to England. The
javelin casting with both hands was won by a gigantic Swede. The
horsemanship contest was carried off by officers of the German cavalry.
France took the lead in fencing and Canada captured the long-distance
walk. The horizontal bar work of the Germans was far and away the best,
and her beef and brawn gathered in the tug of war. In the bicycle race
Italy came in first, and we had to be content with second and third.
All these events swelled the foreigner's score, and although America
captured the Pentathlon and Decathlon for all round excellence, her lead
on the tenth day was threatened by Germany and Sweden who were close
behind.
"'Twill be no two to one this time," Reddy grumbled. "'Tis glad I'll be
if we come out ahead by the skin of our teeth. We can't seem to shake
them fellers off. They hang on like leeches. I'm thinking, Wilson,
'twill be up to you to grab that Marathon, if we're to go back to God's
country with colors flying and our heads held high."
And Reddy was so true a prophet that when at last the momentous day came
for the Marathon race, the German boar was gnashing his tusks at the
American eagle. Only two points behind, he came plunging along, and
victory for either depended on who won the Marathon.
The day before the race a package was delivered to Bert at his hotel. It
bore the American postmark and he looked at it curiously. Within was a
letter from Mr. Hollis and a little roll of bunting. Bert unrolled it.
It was a torn and tattered American flag bearing the marks of flames and
bullets. Across it had been stamped in golden letters: "We have met the
enemy and they are ours."
"I've had it a long time in my historical collection," Mr. Hollis had
written. "It's the identical flag that Perry flew in the battle of Lake
Erie. I've had his immortal words stamped on it. It saw one glorious
victory won for America. I want it to see another. I loan this to you to
tie in a sash about your waist when you run the Marathon. I'm banking on
you, Bert, my boy. Go in and win."
Bert touched it lovingly, reverently. A lump rose in his throat. "I'll
wear it," he said, "and I'll win with it."