LITTLE COMRADE
_A TALE of the GREAT WAR_
BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
Author of “The Marathon Mystery,” “The Destroyer,” etc.
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1915
COPYRIGHT, 1914,
BY
BURTON E. STEVENSON
COPYRIGHT, 1915,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published March, 1915_
THE QUINN & BODEN CO. PRESS
RAHWAY, N. J.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY 1
II. THE FIRST RUMBLINGS 18
III. “STATE OF WAR” 38
IV. THE MYSTERY OF THE SATIN SLIPPERS 52
V. ONE WAY TO ACQUIRE A WIFE 59
VI. THE SNARE 80
VII. IN THE TRAP 102
VIII. PRESTO! CHANGE! 130
IX. THE FRONTIER 151
X. FORTUNE FROWNS 172
XI. THE NIGHT ATTACK 196
XII. AN ARMY IN ACTION 214
XIII. THE PASSAGE OF THE MEUSE 234
XIV. THE LAST DASH 249
XV. DISASTER 267
XVI. A TRUST FULFILLED 285
LITTLE COMRADE
CHAPTER I
THE THIRTY-FIRST OF JULY
“LET us have coffee on the terrace,” Bloem suggested, and, as his
companion nodded, lifted a finger to the waiter and gave the order.
Both were a little sad, for this was their last meal together. Though
they had known each other less than a fortnight, they had become fast
friends. They had been thrown together by chance at the surgical
congress at Vienna, where Bloem, finding the American’s German lame and
halting, had constituted himself a sort of interpreter, and Stewart had
reciprocated by polishing away some of the roughnesses and Teutonic
involutions of Bloem’s formal English.
When the congress ended, they had journeyed back together in leisurely
fashion through Germany, spending a day in medieval Nuremberg, another
in odorous Würzburg, and a third in mountain-shadowed Heidelberg,
where Bloem had sought out some of his old comrades and initiated
his American friend into the mysteries of an evening session in the
Hirschgasse. Then they had turned northward to Mayence, and so down the
terraced Rhine to Cologne. Here they were to part, Bloem to return to
his work at Elberfeld, Stewart for a week or two in Brussels and Paris,
and then home to America.
Bloem’s train was to leave in an hour, and it was the consciousness of
this that kept them silent until their waiter came to tell them that
their coffee was served. As they followed him through the hall, a tall
man in the uniform of a captain of infantry entered from the street.
His eyes brightened as he caught sight of Bloem.
“_Ach_, Hermann!” he cried.
Bloem, turning, stopped an instant for a burlesque salute, then threw
himself into the other’s arms. A moment later, he was dragging him
forward to introduce him to Stewart.
“My cousin,” he cried, “Ritter Bloem, a soldier as you see--a great
fire-eater! Cousin, this is my friend, Dr. Bradford Stewart, whom I had
the good fortune to meet at Vienna.”
“I am pleased to know you, sir,” said the captain, shaking hands and
speaking excellent English.
“You must join us,” Bloem interposed. “We are just going to have coffee
on the terrace. Come,” and he caught the other by the arm.
But the captain shook his head.
“No, I cannot come,” he said; “really I cannot, much as I should like
to do so. Dr. Stewart,” he added, a little hesitatingly, “I trust you
will not think me discourteous if I take my cousin aside for a moment.”
“Certainly not,” Stewart assured him.
“I will join you on the terrace,” said Bloem, and Stewart, nodding
good-by to the captain, followed the waiter, who had stood by during
this exchange of greetings, and now led the way to a little table at
one corner of the broad balcony looking out over the square.
“Shall I pour the coffee, sir?” he asked, as Stewart sat down.
“No; I will wait for my companion,” and, as the waiter bowed and
stepped back, Stewart leaned forward with a deep breath of admiration.
Below him lay the green level of the Domhof, its close-clipped trees
outlined stiffly against the lights behind them. Beyond rose the
choir of the great cathedral, with its fretted pinnacles, and flying
buttresses, and towering roof. By day, he had found its exterior
somewhat cold and bare and formal, lacking somehow the subtle spirit
of true Gothic; but nothing could be more beautiful than it was now,
shimmering in the moonlight, bathed in luminous shadow, lace-like and
mysterious.
He was still absorbed in this fairy vision when Bloem rejoined him.
Even in the half-light of the terrace, Stewart could see that he was
deeply moved. His face, usually glowing with healthy color, was almost
haggard; his eyes seemed dull and sunken.
“No bad news, I hope?” Stewart asked.
Without answering him, Bloem signaled the waiter to pour the coffee,
and sat watching him in silence.
“That will do,” he said in German; “we will ring if we have need of
you.” Then, as the waiter withdrew, he glanced nervously about the
terrace. It was deserted save for a noisy group around a table at the
farther end. “There is very bad news, my friend,” he added, almost in a
whisper. “There is going to be--war!”
Stewart stared for an instant, astonished at the gravity of his tone.
Then he nodded comprehendingly.
“Yes,” he said; “I had not thought of it; but I suppose a war between
Austria and Servia _will_ affect Germany more or less. Only I was
hoping the Powers would interfere and stop it.”
“It seems it cannot be stopped,” said Bloem, gloomily. “Russia is
mobilizing to assist Servia. Austria is Germany’s ally, and so Germany
must come to her aid. Unless Russia stops her mobilization, we shall
declare war against her. Our army has already been called to the
colors.”
Stewart breathed a little deeper.
“But perhaps Russia will desist when she realizes her danger,” he
suggested. “She must know she is no match for Germany.”
“She does know it,” Bloem agreed; “but she also knows that she will not
fight alone. It is not against Russia we are mobilizing--it is against
France.”
“Against France?” echoed the other. “But surely----”
“Do not speak so loud, I beg of you,” Bloem cautioned. “What I am
telling you is not yet generally known--perhaps the dreadful thing
we fear will not happen, after all. But France is Russia’s ally--she
will be eager for war--for forty years she has been preparing for this
moment.”
“Yes,” agreed Stewart, smiling, “I have heard of ‘_la revanche_’; I
have seen the mourning wreaths on the Strassburg monument. I confess,”
he added, “that I sympathize with France’s dream of regaining her lost
provinces. So do most Americans. We are a sentimental people.”
“I, too, sympathize with that dream,” said Bloem, quickly, “or at least
I understand it. So do many Germans. We have come to realize that the
seizure of Alsace and Lorraine, however justified by history, was in
effect a terrible mistake. We should have been generous in our hour of
triumph--that way lay a chance of friendship with a people whose pride
remained unbroken by disaster. Instead, we chose to heap insults upon
a conquered foe, and we have reaped a merited reward of detestation.
Ironically enough, those provinces which cost us so much have been
to us a source of weakness, not of strength. We have had to fortify
them, to police them, to hold them in stern repression. Even yet,
they must be treated as conquered ground. You do not know--you cannot
realize--what that means!” He stared out gloomily into the night. “I
have served there,” he added, hoarsely.
There was something in his tone which sent a shiver across Stewart’s
scalp, as though he had found himself suddenly at the brink of a
horrible abyss into which he dared not turn his eyes. He fancied he
could see in his companion’s somber face the stirring of ghastly
memories, of tragic experience----
“But since France has not yet declared war,” he said at last, “surely
you will wait----”
“Ah, my friend,” Bloem broke in, “we cannot afford to wait. We must
strike quickly and with all our strength. There is no secret as to
Germany’s plan--France must be crushed under a mighty blow before she
can defend herself; after that it will be Russia’s turn.”
“And after that?”
“After that? After that, we shall seize more provinces and exact more
huge indemnities--and add just so much to our legacy of fear and
hatred! We are bound to a wheel from which we cannot escape.”
Stewart looked dazedly out over the lighted square.
“I can’t understand it,” he said, at last. “I don’t understand how such
things can be. They aren’t possible. They’re too terrible to be true.
This is a civilized world--such things can never happen--humanity won’t
endure it!”
Bloem passed a trembling hand before his eyes, as a man awaking from a
horrid dream.
“Let us hope so, at least,” he said. “But I am afraid; I shake with
fear! Europe is topheavy under the burden of her awful armaments; now,
or at some future time, she must come tumbling down; she must--she
must--” he paused, searching for a word--“she must crumble. Perhaps
that time has come.”
“I don’t believe it,” Stewart protested, stoutly. “Some day she will
realize the insane folly of this armament, and it will cease.”
“I wish I could believe so,” said Bloem, sadly; “but you do not
know, my friend, how we here in Germany, for example, are weighed
down by militarism. You do not know the arrogance, the ignorance,
the narrow-mindedness of the military caste. They do nothing
for Germany--they add nothing to her art, her science, or her
literature--they add nothing to her wealth--they destroy rather than
build up--and yet it is they who rule Germany. We are a pacific people,
we love our homes and a quiet life; we are not a military people, and
yet every man in Germany must march to war when the word is given. We
ourselves have no voice in the matter. We have only to obey.”
“Obey whom?” asked Stewart.
“The Emperor,” answered Bloem, bitterly. “With all our progress,
my friend, with all our development in science and industry, with
all our literature and art, with all our philosophy, we still live
in a medieval State, ruled by a king who believes himself divinely
appointed, who can do no wrong, and who, in time of war at least, has
absolute power over us. And the final decision as to war or peace is
wholly in his hands. Understand I do not complain of the Emperor; he
has done great things for Germany; he has often cast his influence for
peace. But he is surrounded by aristocrats intent only on maintaining
their privileges, who are terrified by the growth of democratic ideas;
who believe that the only way to checkmate democracy is by a great war.
It is they who preach the doctrine of blood and iron; who hold that
Cæsar is sacrosanct. The Emperor struggles against them; but some day
they will prove too strong for him. Besides, he himself believes in
blood and iron; he hates democracy as bitterly as anyone, for it denies
the divine right of kings!” He stopped suddenly, his finger to his ear.
“Listen!” he said.
Down the street, from the direction of the river, came a low,
continuous murmur, as of the wind among the leaves of a forest;
then, as it grew clearer, it resolved itself into the tramp, tramp of
iron-shod feet. Bloem leaned far forward staring into the darkness; and
suddenly, at the corner, three mounted officers appeared; then a line
of soldiers wheeled into view; then another and another and another,
moving as one man. The head of the column crossed the square, passed
behind the church and disappeared, but still the tide poured on with
slow and regular undulation, dim, mysterious, and threatening. At last
the rear of the column came into view, passed, disappeared; the clatter
of iron on stone softened to a shuffle, to a murmur, died away.
With a long breath, Bloem sat erect and passed his handkerchief across
his shining forehead.
“There is one battalion,” he said; “one unit composed of a thousand
lesser units--each unit a man with a soul like yours and mine; with
hopes and ambitions; with women to love him; and now marching to death,
perhaps, in the ranks yonder without in the least knowing why. There
are four million such units in the army the Emperor can call into the
field. I am one of them--I shall march like the rest!”
“You!”
“Yes--I am a private in the Elberfeld battalion.” He spread out his
delicate, sensitive, surgeon’s hands and looked at them. “I was at
one time a sergeant,” he added, “but my discipline did not satisfy my
lieutenant and I was reduced to the ranks.”
Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert.
How vividly they typified the waste of war!
“But it’s absurd,” he protested, “that a man like you--highly-trained,
highly-educated, a specialist--should be made to shoulder a rifle. In
the ranks, you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant.”
“Not so much,” corrected Bloem. “Our ideal soldier is one whose
obedience is instant and unquestioning.”
“But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient--in the
hospital corps, perhaps?”
“There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men
must fight! Besides, I am suspected of having too many ideas!”
He sat for a moment longer staring down at his hands--staring too,
perhaps, at his career so ruthlessly shattered--then he shook himself
together and glanced across at his companion with a wry little smile.
“You will think me a great croaker!” he said. “It was the first
shock--the thought of everything going to pieces. In a day or two, I
shall be marching as light-heartedly as all the others--knowing only
that I am fighting the enemies of my country--and wishing to know no
more!”
But Stewart did not answer the smile. Confused thoughts were flying
through his head--thoughts which he struggled to compose into some
order or sequence.
Bloem looked at him for a moment, and his smile grew more ironic.
“I can guess what is in your mind,” he said. “You are wondering why we
march at all--why we offer ourselves as cannon-fodder, if we do not
wish to do so. You are thinking of defiances, of revolutions. But there
will never be a revolution in Germany--not in this generation.”
“Yes, I was thinking something like that,” Stewart agreed. “Why will
there be no revolution?”
“Because we are too thoroughly drilled in the habit of obedience. That
habit is grooved deep into our brains. Were any of us so rash as to
start a revolution, the government could stop it with a single word.”
“A single word?”
“Yes--‘_verboten_’!” retorted Bloem, with a short laugh. Then he
pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “I must say good-by. My orders
are awaiting me at Elberfeld.”
Stewart rose too, his face still mazed with incredulity.
“You really mean----”
“I mean,” Bloem broke in, “that to-morrow I go to my depot, hang about
my neck the metal tag stamped with my number, put on my uniform and
shoulder my rifle. I cease to be an individual--I become a soldier.
Good-by, my friend,” he added, his voice softening. “Think of me
sometimes, in that far-off, sublime America of yours. One thing
more--do not linger in Germany--things will be very different here
under martial law. Get home as quickly as you can; and, in the midst of
your peace and happiness, pity us poor blind worms who are forced to
slay each other!”
“But I will go with you to the station,” Stewart protested.
“No, no,” said Bloem; “you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin.
Good-by. _Lebe wohl!_”
“Good-by--and good luck!” and Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his.
“You have been most kind to me.”
Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head; then turned
resolutely and hastened from the terrace.
Stewart sank back into his seat more moved than he would have believed
possible by this parting from a man whom, a fortnight before, he had
not known at all. Poor Bloem! To what fate was he being hurried! A
cultured man graded down to the level of the hind; a gentleman set to
the task of slaughter; a democrat driven to fight in defense of the
divine right of kings! But could such a fight succeed? Was any power
strong enough to drag back the hands of time----
And then Stewart started violently, for someone had touched him on the
shoulder. He looked up to find standing over him a tall man in dark
blue uniform and wearing a spiked helmet.
“Your pardon, sir,” said the man in careful English; “I am an agent of
the police. I must ask you certain questions.”
“Very well,” agreed Stewart with a smile. “Go ahead--I have nothing to
conceal. But won’t you sit down?”
“I thank you,” and the policeman sat down heavily. “You are, I believe,
an American.”
“Yes.”
“Have you a passport?”
“Yes--I was foolish enough to get one before I left home. All my
friends laughed at me and told me I was wasting a dollar!”
“I should like to see it.”
Stewart put his hand into an inner pocket, drew out the crackling
parchment and passed it over. The other took it, unfolded it, glanced
at the red seal and at the date, then read the very vague description
of its owner, and finally drew out a notebook.
“Please sign your name here,” he said, and indicated a blank page.
Stewart wrote his name, and the officer compared it with the signature
at the bottom of the passport. Then he nodded, folded it up, and handed
it back across the table.
“It is quite regular,” he said. “For what time have you been in
Germany?”
“About two weeks. I attended the surgical congress at Vienna.”
“You are a surgeon by profession?”
“Yes.”
“You are now on your way home?”
“Yes.”
“When will you leave Germany?”
“I am going from here to Aix-la-Chapelle in the morning, and expect to
leave there for Brussels to-morrow afternoon or Sunday morning at the
latest.”
The officer noted these details in his book.
“At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Is there a good one near the station?”
“The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very
good. It is starred by Baedeker.”
“Then I will go there,” said Stewart.
“Very good,” and the officer wrote, “Kölner Hof, Aachen,” after
Stewart’s name, closed his notebook and slipped it into his pocket.
“You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all
strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason.”
“Yes,” assented Stewart, “I understand. I have heard that there is some
danger of war.”
“Of that I know nothing,” said the other coldly, and rose quickly to
his feet. “I bid you good-night, sir.”
“Good-night,” responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until
it disappeared.
Then, lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral,
nebulous and dream-like in the darkness, and tried to picture to
himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by
the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe’s
grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business?
Above all, who would feed the women and children?
And where would the money come from--the millions needed daily to keep
such armies in the field? Where could it come from, save from the sweat
of inoffensive people, who must be starved and robbed and ground into
the earth until the last penny was wrung from them? Along the line of
battle, thousands would meet swift death, and thousands more would
struggle back to life through the torments of hell, to find themselves
maimed and useless. But how trivial their sufferings beside the slow,
hopeless, year-long martyrdom of the countless thousands who would
never see a battle, who would know little of the war--who would know
only that never thereafter was there food enough, warmth enough----
Stewart started from his reverie to find the waiter putting out the
lights. Shivering as with a sudden chill, he hastily sought his room.