But before I leave Germany the spies get on my nerves. What was at
first amusing becomes a nuisance. I feel exactly as though I am in
prison. I acquire the habit of looking out of the corner of my eye
and over my shoulder. These spies are as annoying to their countrymen
as to me. The people detest them. They grow restless under such
suppression. Free conversation is impossible, except behind closed
doors. Between German spies and the spies of other countries supposed
to be at large, public conversation is at a standstill. Everywhere are
signs--"_Soldaten_"--"_Vorsicht bei gespröchen Spionengefahr_."...
In spite of the concealment of the wounded, the population begins to
understand its loss. One night I went to the station (at Berlin) to
see a big detachment leave for Wilmâ. They had all been in war before.
Their uniforms were dirty and patched. They sat on benches clinging
to a loved one's hand, or stood in listless groups. No one talked.
They were like tired children. They needed food and bed. The scenes of
farewell were harrowing.
Here was a young boy saying good-by to a mother and three aunts. He
was all they had--their whole life. Here a father saying farewell to a
wife and three sons, all under seventeen. Or a mother in deep mourning
taking leave of her last son, or a young wife with a baby in her arms
giving a last embrace.
As the train moved out of the station there were no shouts, no cheers,
no words of encouragement. Instead there was a deadly silence. The men
leaned out of windows, stretched despairing hands towards loved ones.
As the train pulled away the little groups broke into strangling sobs.
They were shaken as by a mighty tempest. Paroxysms of grief rent and
tore them. They knew the end had come. A man may go once into battle
and return, but not twice and thrice. Life held no hope. As I came away
I stopped before the big building which conducts military affairs. It
is known as the "House of Sorrow." On its rear wall is posted the list
of dead and wounded....
One evening at midnight as I cross the Thiergarten I pass a small
procession of new recruits. Midnight, my friend tells me, is the
favourite hour for seizing fresh food for cannon. There is something
sinister in choosing dark hours, when the city sleeps, for this
deed....