The Revolution.
And now the war was over--bar the shouting.
I remember the soldiers had strange emotions at the sudden ending to
fifteen months' activity. At times they would be excited, and at others
disappointed. It seemed like the feeling of the London 'busman who left
off work for a week's holiday, but found himself on a 'bus next day
asking the driver to "let him hold the ribbons for a bit."
The war fever had got into our blood, and the camps, instead of being
orderly in arrangement, became moving masses of wandering soldiers.
Discipline snapped as the news of Peace passed through the ranks. Some
soldiers would cheer--they had loved ones awaiting their return. Others
took it as a matter of little concern--they, no doubt, had cut all ties
in enlisting, and, perhaps, wondered if their old places had been kept
open for them.
Troops still poured in from the south, adding to the demoralisation.
I remember that the commandant of my air corps rose with me in the
'plane and surveyed the wonderful scene.
Around Liege troops were moving in a wonderful mass, not unlike the
mixed crowd that one sees in a city street after a procession has passed
along, but with the crowd increased a thousandfold.
Yet it was not a disorderly crowd. It seemed a crowd of good fellowship.
The German soldiers in the west had fought against the British and found
them brave enemies. The revulsion of feeling made them friends. The
tension of hate snapped.
It has ever been thus. With a quarrel over, the greatest haters become
the warmest friends.
For two days the armies at the Meuse fraternised.
Our soldiers learnt much from their former enemies. They found, through
some papers that had slipped the eyes of the censors, that the
Socialists of Germany were in revolt.
I could then understand the excitement of my religious friend, Brother
Wilbrid, on the Rhine road, and his anxiety to get back to Berlin
without loss of time.
It appears that the first public indication of the insurrection took
place as far back as December 2, 1915, when a party of fifteen Socialist
deputies in the Reichstag, led by Karl Leibknecht, refused to vote for
the second war credits. Four of these members were from Berlin. One,
Stadthagen, represented a popular workmen's suburb in Berlin, while
another, Geyer, represented a workers' suburb in Leipsic. The Socialists
of Bremen, Stuttgart and Hamburg endorsed the Socialist Deputies'
refusal by a majority of two to one. Not only were the Socialist party
rising in revolt, but the Moderates, under Bernstein, were opposed,
because the war was entered into by Socialists exclusively as a war
against Russia, whilst the authorities had cleverly turned the reason as
a war against England. Though the Socialists may have hated England, the
war proved that they were used as a cat's paw. So riots broke out in
Berlin, Stuttgart and Hamburg.
In Berlin, down the Unter der Linden, a mighty mob of workers marched
and stoned the Government offices. The military police dispersed them.
Fate helped the revolt.
At the surrender of the German armies, thousands of German soldiers,
rather than surrender, had retreated along the roads leading into
Germany, sullenly shouting the news of the defeat.
Bad news travels fast, and to the German people, who had been kept in
ignorance of reverses, the news came with stunning effect.
Only a few days before had the authorities at Berlin announced to the
Socialists that ultimate success was certain, and bade the people be of
good cheer. Now, like a crash, came the news of defeat with the
additional disgrace of being brought by retreating soldiers of the
Empire!
Then the revolution crashed on Germany. It was a riot that rolled round
the earth.
I remember it was a week after our arrival at Liege that the armies of
the Allies began their march to the Rhine. They had not yet reached
German soil, and the Peace terms would not be disclosed till the Allies
were in Germany.
To my delight, the French army of the Argonne was given the post of
honor. It must have been a wonderful sight to see the Air Squadron of
twelve aeroplanes moving backward and forward over the heads of the
moving columns. Nap accompanied me in my 'plane, and I remember I kept
somewhat in advance of the rest to catch the first sight of Cologne
Cathedral.
It came upon the horizon, its two great spires piercing the sky
unscathed. How unlike the Churches of Rheims, Ypres and the other cities
of France and Belgium. Germany well knew the value of its historical
buildings to protect them, even at the price of peace. We flew low to
give a more spectacular effect to our advance.
Soon the great piers of the familiar Rhine Bridge came into sight as the
order was given to descend on a plain to the west of the river.
That night the army bivouacked on the outskirts of Aix la Chappele, but
sleep did not come to my eyes. At times I desired to fly ahead to
Cologne and tread the familiar ways--but strict regulations tied all
troops to the camp lines.
I comforted myself that to-morrow I would reach Cologne and someone
would be pleased to see me.
Next day we crossed the Rhine, circled the city of Cologne, and parked
our 'planes in the gardens I had left but three weeks previously.
The Allied troops were marched through the city and encamped two miles
beyond it. A regiment of French soldiers were deputed as military police
to take possession of the city; and within an hour, from the poles of
the official buildings, French, Belgian, Russian and British flags
fluttered, and an order was issued that all arms must be handed in.
I remember the happy feeling as Nap and I hastened through the city to
Goche's house.
I was in my uniform and felt I would cut a smarter figure before my
sweetheart, than I did in the ragged "cast-offs" I wore as a prisoner.
I walked on air when I entered the familiar street and saw, in the
distance, the house I knew so well. The street was silent. I reached the
house, pulled myself together and knocked at the door. Happiest of
thoughts coursed through my mind. What a wealth of news I had to tell
her!
The door slowly opened, and Grandpa Goche's whitened and aged face came
to the light. His under jaw seemed to shiver in terror. He gave the
impression that he was expecting some dreadful calamity. As he
recognised me, his jaw fell and he retreated into the room, sank into a
chair, gripped its arms with shaking clutch, looked at me with hollow
eyes and said: "Ja wohl."
"Where is Helen?" I asked.
"Forgive me," he said, "forgive me," shaking his head. "They came to me
and asked for the Englishman that escaped--'the English dog' they called
you. I told them I knew not, but as I hated you and hated her, for I
knew she cared for you, I told them she could tell, as she saw you
leave. Then they took her," and he bowed his head in his hands, "took
her away----"
"Where, where?" I almost shouted at him.
"To Berlin, a week ago," was all he said.
[Illustration: "In Berlin."]