CHAPTER I

Transcriber's Note

Italic font is indicated by _underscores_.

Bold text is indicated by +plus signs+.

Superscripted letters are indicated by a preceding ^ sign.

WITH THE GERMAN

ARMIES IN THE WEST

+--------------------------------------------------------------+

| |

| _BY THE SAME AUTHOR_ |

| |

+--------------------------------------------------------------+

| |

| THROUGH ASIA |

| |

| CENTRAL ASIA AND TIBET TOWARDS THE HOLY CITY OF LHASSA |

| |

| TRANS-HIMALAYA |

| |

+--------------------------------------------------------------+

[Illustration: MILITARY POLICEMAN MAKING NOTES]

WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST

: BY SVEN HEDIN :

AUTHORISED TRANSLATION FROM THE SWEDISH

BY H. G. de WALTERSTORFF

WITH 119 ILLUSTRATIONS AND 4 MAPS

LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD

NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMXV

_SECOND EDITION_

WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH, ENGLAND

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

TO THE ENGLISH EDITION

Long before my book dealing with my personal recollections from the war

theatres of France and Belgium had been translated into English, it was

made the subject of a criticism in the _Daily Telegraph_ of February

15th.

The author, Mr. William Archer, complained that I have not once

introduced into my narrative any harsh and condemnatory utterances

regarding Germany’s conduct of the war. The fact is that I have had

no occasion for such utterances. My self-imposed task was, as I have

repeatedly made clear, merely to describe what I saw with my own eyes

and as much as possible to refrain from citing the experience of

others. During the two months that I spent on the German western front,

I did not see _a single instance_ of cruelty to prisoners or wounded,

let alone ill-treatment of the civil population and its goods and

chattels. The Germans maintained the same incorruptibly severe and just

discipline that existed, according to the testimony of history, in the

Swedish armies which Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. led to victory

during the epic period of my own country.

But even in peace time not a day passes but that crime is committed

even in the most civilised countries. How, then, can one expect that it

shall disappear in a war? I therefore by no means deny that there have

been isolated instances of offences and cruelty in an army of several

million men. But I have not _seen_ them and need not therefore embark

upon the subject. I have a shrewd suspicion that criminal statistics

generally will testify in favour of the Germanic peoples--as compared,

for instance, with the Slavs and the Latins.

Mr. William Archer has something to say about my “outspoken contempt

for England.” Here he is mistaken. I have no feeling of hatred towards

England and have never entertained any feelings of ill-will towards its

great and admirable[1] people. It is only the part which England has

played and plays in this world-wide crisis that I abhor and deplore.

The earth is large enough to hold both England and Germany, and England

would have gained more by keeping neutral in this war. The hatred of

England which pervades Germany is new--it began on the 4th August,

1914. Prior to that date it did not exist. Whether England’s policy

has gained the sympathy and approval of the neutral countries is not

for me to judge. One can respect and admire a nation for its splendid

qualities and for its colossal contribution to the advancement of the

world, and yet not admire its policy at a given juncture. This is the

nature of the feelings I now entertain for England, and I deeply regret

that her guiding statesmen were not able to avert a situation which

must inevitably bring misfortune upon their country. Did the English

_people itself_ desire this war? That question will be answered in the

early future.

[1] The more literal translation would be “excellent and admirable,”

or “capital and admirable”; the term is difficult to render to a

nicety.--Translator.

Mr. William Archer is surprised that I do not speak about the Battle

of the Marne. Here I will remind him once more of what I say in the

introduction to the book, to wit, that it was not my intention to write

the history of the war. I have simply described the happenings at which

I myself was present.

In conclusion Mr. William Archer says: “It would be curious to know

whether Dr. Hedin now feels so confident of Germany’s triumph as he

did in the golden prime....” As to that, after the events which have

occurred _since_ “the golden prime,” especially on the eastern front,

my faith in Germany’s victory is more unshakable than ever.

It is very kind of Mr. William Archer to say that German culture is not

in danger. I really think that he is right. The Germans have shown that

they are men, capable of defending their culture against I might almost

say the whole world, and I pity those who thought that by their united

forces they would be able to reduce Germany to a second or third rate

power.

SVEN HEDIN

Stockholm

_25th February, 1915_

For the hospitality, the confidence and the comradeship which have been

shown to me in the German armies at the Western Front, I tender my most

heartfelt thanks.

SVEN HEDIN

Stockholm

_27th January, 1915_

CONTENTS

CHAPTER PAGE

I. On the Way to the Front 3

II. The Emperor William 44

III. On the Way to the Fifth Army 55

IV. A Day at Eclisfontaine 80

V. A Day at Dun 104

VI. Back at Main Headquarters 117

VII. To Sedan 125

VIII. In the Rear of the Fourth Army 145

IX. With the Fourth Army 161

X. Quiet Days 182

XI. To Belgium 196

XII. Antwerp the Day After Its Fall 217

XIII. More Days in Antwerp 233

XIV. Still in Antwerp 248

XV. _Via_ Ghent and Bruges to Ostend 263

XVI. Ostend Bombarded 275

XVII. Two More Days on the Channel Coast 284

XVIII. To Bapaume 296

XIX. An Excursion to the Front at Lille 306

XX. Trench Life 316

XXI. Sunday the First of November 332

XXII. English Prisoners from Ypres 348

XXIII. Farewell to Bapaume 362

XXIV. A Final Day on the Western Front 372

XXV. Home to Trelleborg 378

Index 391

ILLUSTRATIONS

Military policeman making notes _Frontispiece_

FACING PAGE

21-cm. mortars firing at Septsarges 70

A service wagon at Stenay 71

Field-marshal General von Haeseler and General von Mudra at

Eclisfontaine 96

Wrecked houses at Dun on the bank of the Meuse 97

A food column composed of commandeered farmers’ carts 112

Bank clerk from Blois. Prisoner at Dun 113

Road across bridge at Dun 114

Landwehr soldier, gaoler at Dun 115

The Crown Prince’s headquarters at Stenay 116

Street in Longuyon 117

Wooded height between Sedan and Donchery 130

Houses wrecked by shells at Donchery 131

Diagram showing organisation on lines of communication 142

German infantry 143

Infantry reservists on the fringe of a wood at Rouvroy 146

A dressing wagon had halted behind a few dark pines 147

A dressing wagon with hood 148

Four doctors breakfasting under cover of a shelter tent 149

Soldiers under cover of a haystack at Rouvroy 150

Officers’ car at Grandpré }

French prisoners carried wounded Germans to the railway station } 151

A chef de musique of the 11th Infantry Regiment, 17th Army Corps,

taken prisoner on September 26th, south of Vouziers. Slightly

wounded in the head 154

Chambon, thirty years old, French soldier from Perigueux in Dordogne

(17th Army Corps). Slightly wounded south of Vouziers 155

Feeding the wounded (the second from the left is Major von Plato) 156

A seriously wounded man carried from the train to the hospital at

Sedan }

The Uhlans proceed on their way } 157

A squadron of Uhlans halt outside Captain von Behr’s house to await

their baggage train 158

Protracted halt of an infantry ammunition column. Shelter tents have

been pitched 159

Colonel Fischer at his tripod telescope 161

A field kitchen or _Erbsenkanone_ (“pea-shooter”) 162

“A hero’s death” 163

Ammunition column halting beside a barn 164

Camp scene on a farm at Séchault 165

An ammunition column at Cernay 166

A company ready to start out, receiving its marching instructions 167

Bivouacking food column with horses and covered wagons 170

A field hospital at Condé effectively screened from observation }

Kitchen wagons “at work” near Condé } 171

Perot Julien, a 54-year-old peasant charged with plotting, but

released through insufficient evidence 172

Saisac of Toulouse, 11th Infantry Regiment (33rd Inf. Div., 17th

Army Corps). Prisoner at Vouziers 173

Olive, thirty years old. Infanterie Coloniale, 24ème (2nd Colonial

Inf. Div.). Native of Perpignan, Eastern Pyrenees. Prisoner at

Vouziers 174

Five Reservists from Bordeaux and Narbonne who fought in Alsace

and Champagne, and were captured the 26th and 27th September south

of Vouziers. They are busy peeling potatoes. At Vouziers the French

prisoners were allowed to cook their soup themselves in order to get

the proportion of meat and vegetables that they liked best 175

French prisoners at Vouziers waiting for their dinner 176

German airmen: Capt. Chamier, Lieutenants Count Rambaldi and

Bürger, and a fourth. The Iron Cross can be seen on the underside

of the left plane 177

A battery of light field howitzers in position 178

A salvo has just been fired. The guns are now being reloaded 179

Observer masked by twigs and branches 180

Scene on the road in front of the observation post 181

Pater Müller, Professor Zinsser and a Franciscan friar 188

French prisoners at Vouziers 189

French prisoners working at the railway station at Vouziers 196

Arms and knapsacks of dead and wounded--Vouziers 197

A doctor, Prof. Capt. Lepsius and a few _Sœurs de la Providence_

in the Convent grounds 205

A group of fugitives 212

On the way to Ghent and the Channel 213

Malines Cathedral, south aspect 220

A house at Malines “laid open” by shell fire 221

Marché aux Souliers a few days after Antwerp’s fall 224

Belgian prisoners at Malines 225

Food column on the way to the ferry, with the Cathedral tower in the

background, flying the German flag over the cross 228

Food column crossing the Grand’ Place 229

Marines with a “field kitchen” and a couple of calves 230

Fugitives returning to Malines from the south 231

In front of the Town Hall at Antwerp 234

Infantry halting in front of Antwerp Town Hall 235

Horses and vehicles being brought on board one of the pontoon

ferries. The vessels anchored in the fairway were used as pontoons

for the bridge which the Anglo-Belgian army threw across for its

retreat. When the last man had crossed, the bridge was blown up 236

The transport across the Scheldt }

A Belgian gun in the harbour } 237

Louvain Town Hall 240

Some houses only have the walls left standing 241

The interior of Malines Cathedral before the removal of the débris 244

Destruction wrought by “fat Bertha” in Fort St. Catherine 245

The Dutch frontier station at Putten on the way to Bergen-op-Zoom 252

Fugitives returning to Antwerp from Holland 253

Outworks at Dryhoek, blown up by their commandant 260

A German marine on the pontoon ferry at Antwerp 261

A petty officer with a few marines at a street corner in Ostend 274

Military policemen inspecting the damage outside the Majestic Hotel 275

The western end of dining-room at the “Majestic” seen from the }

street; one shell had crashed through the upper part of the window} 282

A Maubeuge gun doing duty at Middelkerke }

A “direct hit” on a house near the Hôtel Littoral 283

Half of Capt.-Lieut. Bess and the whole of the author on the way to

Blankenberghe 286

A self-igniting mine explodes 287

Dr. Schönfelder and the author on the dunes at Ostend 288

A traverse at Dorpfeld 289

Group beside one of the guns of Lieut. Haak’s battery.

(Furthest to the left are Capt.-Lieut. Bess and Lieut. Haak) 292

Gun crew getting ready to fire on a British destroyer 293

Hole made by a 42-cm. shell in Fort Talaert 300

At the entrance to Fort Talaert 301

The interior of Fort Lierre 304

Privy Councillor von Lumm beside the hole made by a 42-cm. shell 305

Streets at the Porte Douai which have suffered through the

bombardment 306

Hereditary Prince Friedrich of Hohenzollern and Duke Adolf Friedrich

of Mecklenburg 307

A 15-cm. howitzer battery 310

Of some houses there is only the skeleton left 311

Well-masked guns 314

Gunners studying the news 315

Soldiers reading the latest number of the _Bapaumer Zeitung

am Mittag_ 318

Two young ladies are the only civilians to be seen 319

Band playing beside Faidherbe’s statue 340

German soldiers beside the French general’s memorial 341

Tommy Atkins at Roubaix 348

The French waitress and her English customers 349

They were clothed in neat and practical field uniforms 352

Here and there was a slightly wounded soldier 353

The last houses of Kruiseik }

A shell crater in the road is being filled in by engineers } 354

Hussar patrol riding through Kruiseik 355

First came a German soldier with an English colonel on his left 358

Then came the convoy 359

The convoy halted just outside the village 362

An English officer on a stretcher placed across a cart 363

Group of officers at Bapaume: The Duke, the Prince, the Chief of

Military Police, Cleving, Baron Fleming and others 368

An enormous ammunition column had come to a stop at Barbas 369

Kitchen wagons 374

On the fore-carriage of a gun sits a soldier fast asleep 375

A group of soldiers with the Divisional Pastor in the centre 378

The last picture from the Western Front 379

MAPS

The country round Eclisfontaine and Varennes _between_ pp. 86 and 87

The country between Somme Py and Rouvroy _between_ pp. 152 and 153

The Belgian coast between Blankenberghe and Neuport _face_ p. 266

The country round Lille and Ypres 312

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

As I have been publicly criticized for undertaking the issue of the

English edition of this book, for the most part by people who have not

read it, I am taking the somewhat unusual course of giving a brief

explanation of my point of view.

In the first place, Dr. Sven Hedin’s book is essentially a record of

facts as he saw them. He is a trained observer, and there can be no

question of his veracity. Hitherto, for facts with regard to the German

Armies and their organisation we have had to rely on such accounts

as the German official communiqués chose to give us, which nobody

believes; or, as an alternative, on the accounts published in our own

press, which, owing to the strictness of the censorship, were mostly

gathered from accounts furnished by prisoners or our own soldiers. The

prisoners were naturally pessimistic and our men optimistic. Hence the

general impression formed has been that the German organisation had

gone to pieces, that their troops were short of food and clothes and

that their ammunition was poor.

How far this is from the truth these pages will show, and it is

surely desirable to publish a book that for the first time gives us

a comprehensive idea of the wonderful organisation against which we

are fighting. To my mind it is one of the things chiefly needed to

stimulate both our workers and our recruiting.

Again, is it not well to let the English nation know, for instance,

that those 600,000 troops which our gallant 120,000 successfully

withstood at Ypres were not ill-clad, ill-fed levies, but

magnificently equipped troops with a machine-like organisation behind

them?

There is also the question of Dr. Sven Hedin’s anti-English opinions,

which are quite distinct from his record of facts. But why should

these not appear in this country where those of Bernhardi, Nietzsche,

Treitschke and Cramb have been universally read and their publication

applauded? His reflections are of course intensely irritating to any

British subject, but they cannot possibly affect the British cause. On

the contrary, their publication will probably do good, for there is

nothing like a little tail-twisting to rouse the British Lion!

They afford only one more example of the truth that Lord Rosebery

enunciated the other day that “foreigners have never understood

Englishmen and Englishmen have never understood foreigners.”

These opinions, however, though evidently accepted from official

Germany without question or examination, do not lessen the value of Dr.

Sven Hedin’s record of personal experiences. For he is so obviously

honest. Indeed, again and again he naively records little facts which

really tell against his case.

Dr. Hedin’s personal position is not for me to discuss, but I give his

book intact, omitting only, at his own request, a few passages dealing

with Swedish politics of purely local interest, and the British public

can form its own judgment both of the author and of his views.

If that judgment is unfavourable I hope it will not prevent them from

taking his facts to heart.

JOHN LANE

WITH THE GERMAN

ARMIES IN THE WEST

CHAPTER I

ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT

The tocsin bell has ceased to ring. Swedish men are no longer being

called to arms. Quiet has once more descended upon Stockholm, and it

is only occasionally that one encounters a detachment of Landsturm

men marching through the streets to join their units or on their way

home. People go about their business in the old familiar way. It would

be hard to believe that the great world war was raging outside, did

not the newspapers with their great black headlines and their fateful

contents form a sinister reminder.

But the individual who under these conditions started out from the

Stockholm Central terminus with Berlin as his immediate objective, was

only too well aware that it was not an ordinary trip on the Continent

on which he was embarking. He travelled from the quiet of the North to

the storm in the South--to the great capital where history was being

made, the heart of the great empire which was at war with seven states,

of which four were great powers. When Stockholm’s thousand lights faded

into the distance, he felt that peace faded away with them, and that

each passing day would bring him nearer to war. He was committed to a

journey the spell of which would each day grow stronger, and he was a

prey to a tension which was only to give way before the excitement and

the thrill of action.

The train clanged through the pitch-black night, and the rain wove its

delicate tracery on the window-panes. On Trelleborg quay only a couple

of baggage and mail wagons were brought on board the ferry, which

bears King Gustaf’s name. No Swedish passenger coaches are allowed on

the German system in war time, and similarly Germany does not permit

hers to enter Sweden.

The sun has broken through the clouds, but the mist has wiped

Trelleborg and the Swedish coast from the horizon. A fresh breeze

is blowing from the south-west, the Baltic is coated with swirling

white-capped waves, and the ferry cuts through the foam on its way

to the German coast. There is not a ship in sight, no cruisers, no

destroyers or torpedo-boats, none of the greyhounds of the sea to track

and hold up doubtful shipping. These are peaceful waters. None of the

hot winds of war are yet blowing over this sea, only the cool autumnal

breezes caress the wave crests. But no doubt grim times are in store

even here, so it is as well to make the most of the fleeting hour.

At Sassnitz we set foot on German soil which formerly belonged to us.

Everything is as usual, the traveller’s excitement has been groundless.

Nothing--unless it be a solitary Landsturm soldier with shouldered

rifle--to remind one of war. On landing, our passports are viséd and

our hand luggage is examined at the Custom House. Everything is done in

a quiet and orderly manner. The German railway and customs officials

are most polite, and look very well in their new ornamental uniforms.

The train swings across Rügen to Altefähr and boards the ferry for the

mainland. Here the time-worn churches rear their spires over our old

possession Stralsund, where we stop a while at the station. Everything

is as it used to be, no hurry or bustle; people go about their business

as in times of piping peace. But just as the train is about to steam

out, a squad of Landwehr soldiers with their kits under their arms rush

on to the platform and take their seats in the last carriage. They

are not bound for the front as yet, for they alight at Greifswald. A

blurred mass of red-tiled roofs framed in the luxuriant foliage of late

summer, and a number of churches pointing their spires aloft--that is

all we see of the old university town. But there is nothing unusual to

be seen, everything runs its normal course. “Papers!” “Beer!” cry the

boys on the platform, and, anxious for news, one buys a paper from one

and, to quench one’s thirst, a glass of good, dark beer of the other.

A light meal is provided by a woman, who at 30 pfg. each sells small

bags of waffles, plums and grapes.

From some belated fields the corn is still being brought in, and black

and brindled cattle, and here and there a flock of sheep, is seen

grazing in the meadows. Summer and prosperity seem to reign everywhere

in Germany, and there is meat and bread in abundance. Is it possible

that it is six weeks since this country has been involved in the

greatest war in history? Everything betokens peace on earth, even the

sky is cloudless and the sun sheds its golden rays over Pomerania.

Among the trees by the roadside some women are walking with little

children in their arms. They are engaged in earnest conversation and

walk with bowed heads. No doubt their menfolk are at the war, and

perhaps one of them knows already that she is a widow. A conscientious

observer might notice that there are fewer adult men than usual. But

the difference is so slight that one would not think of it unless one

knew that there was war. Old men, women and children seem a little more

in evidence than in peace time: that is all.

At Anklam station, not far from where the Peene flows into the Baltic,

another body of soldiers board the train. Their uniforms are dark blue

with very bright red collars. They are Landsturm men in the prime of

life, and have probably been called up for service within Germany;

for at the front hardly anything is seen but field-grey uniforms, a

protective colouring which blends with the appearance of the soil and

is very hard to distinguish.

Prenzlau--so now we are in Brandenburg. Fresh bodies of Landsturm men

clamber into the train, which is to carry them away from their homes

to an unknown fate. They come running and singing across the platform,

as if they long to get away. Their blue tunics with red collars and

shoulder-straps, and the red cap-bands, form a bright contrast to

the dress of the civilians. They are strong and powerful specimens

of the Teutonic type, but too stout for perfect symmetry. One does

not see amongst them any ideal specimens bearing the distinguishing

characteristics of the Caucasian race, no broad-shouldered,

deep-chested, strapping fellows such as one meets with in the mountains

of Georgia; but they are a blonde, sound, calm and yet cheery set of

men, all animated by one single thought--to conquer or to die. Their

women, children and other relations have followed them to the train

to say good-bye. All are cheerful, they chat and laugh. There is

no weeping and complaining, it is the great day of joy, when every

able-bodied man goes to do his duty for the welfare of his country.

My carriage is filled with officers. They are engaged in very animated

conversation; they do not care what is going on around them; they don’t

look out of the window and don’t allow themselves to be disturbed by

the bustle and crush in the corridor. They talk about the affairs of

their units and regiments, about the equipment of the troops and the

departure for foreign parts. They discuss Hindenburg’s victories and

give vent to their admiration for him. The cares and solemnity of war

do not rest heavily on these men; they are animated by a glad longing

and sure feeling of victory, and without knowing them one realises that

they have staked their lives and their existence on one single goal.

About the result they have no doubt. They _must_ win, otherwise their

country is lost.

But the hours speed away, dusk settles down over Brandenburg, and soon

the earth is wrapped in darkness. The carriages are not lighted--I

don’t know why. As we approach Berlin it is dark within, but outside

there are rows of electric lamps lighting up the interior of the

carriage in a fantastic manner.

The train stops at _Stettiner Bahnhof_. On the platform there is

the same busy hum and bustle as in peace time. A whole crowd of

_Gepäckträger_ hurry to the window to receive the passengers’

luggage--one notices no lack of men. A policeman hands out numbered

cab-discs, the heavy luggage is got out in a twinkling, and up one

jumps into one of the numberless taxicabs ranged outside and drives off

to one’s hotel.

I am an old customer at the Kaiserhof, but this time I was told that

I ought to stay in Unter den Linden in order to be able to study at

my leisure from a balcony the endless processions of patriots, who,

especially at night, file down the road with proud bearing, singing

patriotic songs. I therefore chose the Hotel Bristol. Its name has

been removed from the large illuminated sign facing the street.

Bristol--this name reminded one too much of England’s faithlessness

towards her Teutonic kinsmen! Only the first letter remained, to be

interpreted as one might wish.

The hotel was only half-full. Most of the visitors were Scandinavians

and Americans. It was just as well that there were not too many, as

the staff had also been reduced by half--the other half was at the

front. The quiet which reigned in the big building was reflected by

the atmosphere of the famous avenue outside. To-day there were no

closely packed crowds, no singing processions. Only those people who

had business to attend to or who wanted to glean the latest news were

seen on the pavements--the others kept indoors. The traffic was, if

anything, less lively than in peace time, and an amazing calm had

descended upon the great city.

I went out in the evening to see the people and listen to their

conversation. The talk was almost entirely about the war. I walked

through Friedrichstrasse, Leipzigerstrasse and the other familiar

streets. Everything is just as usual. Berlin is wrapped in absolute

peace. Innumerable shop windows still shed their light upon the

pavements. In some of them large maps are shown, small flags indicating

the positions of the armies. On one such map the flags were waving and

fluttering, as if a storm were ravaging the plains of Europe. Outside,

in the street, little groups formed to talk about the war and to

express the hope that the German flags would soon be shifted further

into the steppes in the east and towards the sea in the west.

“Why are the streets so silent?” I ask somebody. “I understood that

Berlin was in such high spirits.”

“It is so long since we heard of any great victories,” is the answer.

“Patience,” I retort, “you must not expect a Tannenberg every week.”

Here comes a woman hurrying along with a bundle of newspapers. It is

the latest edition with fresh telegrams from the front. She is hustling

as much as possible in order to impress on the public that they must

look sharp and get the news as fresh as possible. On the opposite

pavement runs a boy with the same newspaper, calling out his ware in

a loud voice. At a street corner stands an old man with his bundle of

papers. He is too tired to run, and his cracked voice cannot even be

heard above the subdued hubbub of street-life and the quick flow of

talk of the people. It is all the same news, and it deals chiefly with

the gigantic battle of Lemberg.

The restaurants are well filled, in fact they are all overcrowded with

customers. Through the big windows one can see the honest bourgeois

seated at his little table, where sausage and _wienerschnitzel_,

_dunkles_ or _helles_ may be had in abundance. I entered and sat down

at a table, overhearing scraps of talk from all sides--all about the

war, about brothers and sons who are fighting, one hardly knows where,

as the field post has brought no news for a long time. But perhaps

the next day will bring a greeting from the front. Maybe a son who

has been reported in the papers as missing, has turned up again.

But nevertheless the personal sorrow and anxiety is thrust into the

background. Every sacrifice must be gladly made, and the loved ones

may lie dead on the field of battle so long as Germany wins her fight

against almost the whole of Europe.

On the 13th September the lingering summer came to an end, and autumn

suddenly asserted itself. It poured with rain, it was dark, windy, cold

and raw. Shallow puddles covered the asphalt in Unter den Linden, which

resembled an enormous river-bed still drenched with the flow, and from

which the tide had just ebbed. The great avenue now looks desolate with

a vengeance. From my balcony I can only see a few solitary individuals

sheltered under more or less elegant umbrellas. Berlin’s inhabitants

prefer to keep in their comfortable homes, and not even the longing for

war news can tempt them out in such weather.

The rain falls thick and heavy and patters down on the dripping limes

outside my balcony. Berlin is dull and miserable in the autumn when the

rain sweeps its long, monotonously straight streets with their heavy,

dark houses. Not even the trooping of the colours and the march-past

at midday raise the drooping spirits, and only a few pedestrians with

open umbrellas join the band and march in step with the soldiers. The

motor-cars buzz past over the asphalt, flinging up a spray of water

as they rush along. They are plainly far less numerous than usual. No

calls are made, no visits paid, for the whole of the aristocracy is in

mourning for lost relatives and everybody’s thoughts are centred on the

war. Nobody feels inclined for the futile pleasures of ordinary times

when the newspapers speak of a father who has lost four sons at the

front, or of a mother whose three sons have each died a hero’s death

for Emperor and country. But no complaints are heard, no tears seen. In

the streets one seldom sees signs of mourning. There is perhaps a tacit

convention not to express in black and white the sorrow which is felt

at the bottom of the heart, but to make the grief subservient to the

proud consciousness that the beloved one has fallen for his country,

never to return!

Already in Berlin I was greatly impressed by the world-wide influence

of German thought. Here is a nation which for long years back has

known how to read the inexorable message of time, which has not rested

on the laurels gained in its last war, which has needed no warnings,

and whose watchmen never closed their eyes and never dallied with an

inevitable fate. Here is a nation which during the decades of peace

has armed itself to the teeth and which now, when the hour has struck,

stands ready to meet four great powers in fierce combat and to contend

with one of them for the mastery of the seas. It is true that the

German people have been divided into parties, as the democratic spirit

of our age demands, but the political factions have nevertheless

realised the necessity of a strong defence of their common country.

And now that the war is raging in all directions, the parties have

disappeared completely. Germany at the present time is inhabited by a

people which is at one with itself. Here we have but one party--that of

the soldiers. Here everyone has but one goal, and there is no one who

does not realise that this is a fight of life and death for Germany;

all have the same thoughts, all hold the same hopes and offer up the

same prayers, from the Emperor who stands first and foremost in war as

in peace, to the street urchin who flattens his nose against the shop

window and studies the positions of the tiny flags.

But the rain keeps on falling and beats against the window-panes.

I hurry downstairs, jump into a taxi and in a few minutes I am

sitting in an elegant drawing-room at the dainty new residence of

the Swedish Minister, at the corner of Friedrich Wilhelmstrasse and

Tiergartenstrasse, chatting with old friends--needless to say, about

the war. When I last met Count Taube in Berlin, I had just returned

from a long journey in the Far East. Now I stood on the threshold of a

new journey, which might be infinitely longer than the last! Later in

the day I visited another nobleman, Prince von Wedel, whom I had met

in Vienna when he was ambassador there, and in Strassburg when he was

Governor. We had much to talk about, but what is there to discuss in

these days but the great and bloody drama which occupies everyone’s

thoughts--the War!

My most important visit in Berlin was to the Foreign Office. But

before narrating what took place there I must say a few words about the

reasons which led up to my journey. It was desirable that no one in a

responsible position in Sweden should have an inkling of my journey

to the front. Our country belonged to the neutral states, and thus no

authority must entertain the slightest shadow of a suspicion that I was

travelling on any sort of secret mission. No,--the reason was a very

simple one. Only a few days’ journey away the greatest war of all time

was being waged. It was clear that the outcome of this struggle would

decide the political development for the next fifty or hundred years,

or perhaps longer. In any case its shadows must envelop the remainder

of the lives of the present generation.

The war of 1870-71 became the starting-point of a new era in Germany’s

development. Now Germany is once again at war, and the new political

problems which may be expected to come up for discussion in the

immediate future will doubtless be rooted in the great Germanic war. If

the two contending groups of powers were to come out of the struggle

only with depleted forces, the war of 1914 would, in its dying embers,

carry the seed of a new world conflagration, even more devastating

perhaps than the last. But if Germany were to win at all points, the

map of the world would undergo sweeping changes, and Germany would

then, in the great triumph of her power, discountenance and forbid

fresh wars. If Russia were to win, the fate of Sweden and Norway would

be sealed. Whatever happens, great and memorable events will arise out

of this struggle. How instructive would it be, then, to study the War

on the very scene of the momentous conflict, and to visit the ravaged

regions where the German soldiers carried the fate of Germany and of

the whole Germanic world on the point of their bayonets! No one who has

not seen with his own eyes how the Germans fight, can fully and clearly

grasp what the struggle means to Germany. But his presence there will

enable him to comprehend more plainly what the future holds in store

for us, and the happenings which in due course will be unfolded before

our vision.

Thus I look upon my journey to the front first and foremost as a

political study.

But there were also other reasons and other thoughts that made me long

to get out to the theatre of war. I wanted to see with my own eyes and

become familiar with war as it really is, and I wanted to gain the

personal experience which would enable me to describe to others the

dark as well as the bright sides of war. Its dark sides are the hate,

the desire for vengeance, the destruction, the gutted homesteads,

the ruined crops, the wounded, the maimed, the graves, the grief and

privation, but war is bright when it is fought by a united nation,

determined to live and to retain its independence.

The unity, self-sacrifice and confidence in victory of the German

nation is one of the bright sides of this war, which otherwise reveals

an abyss of human misery. I thought it would be instructive to see for

myself how far civilisation, Christianity and pacificism had advanced

nineteen hundred and fourteen years after the birth of Christ.

During the first phase of the war the British press accused the Germans

of barbaric cruelty to their prisoners and to wounded opponents. Not

for one moment did I believe these reports, but for the sake of the

Teutonic race I wanted to uproot this calumny and to bring to light

the truth. If one cannot ask anything else of a people which stands

on the pinnacle of culture, one may at least expect it not to accuse

its opponents of crimes which were never committed. German protests

against the accusations of foreign newspapers were of course of no

avail. Perhaps I shall be believed if I protest before God that I will

not write a single line which is not true and will describe nothing but

what I have seen with my own eyes.

Finally, it was my wish to study the psychology of war, I mean the

_Geist_ and the fighting spirit with which armies went into battle, the

mood in which they returned therefrom, the thoughts and feelings of

the wounded, the spirit with which the soldiers entered the fray for

the second time after having been slightly wounded, tended and healed.

In the last phase of the Manchurian campaign there was a noticeable

weakening of purpose which led to slackened efforts on both sides and

caused the war to die, so to speak, of inanition. Was a like form of

mental fatigue, an exhaustion of soul and body under the stupendous

hardships in the field to leave its mark on the Germans too? Or would

their conviction, that the war meant to them the life or death of

Germany, endow them with a buoyancy and tenacity enabling them to

fight through to victory? It might be of interest to us, Teutons of

the north, to gain some insight into this problem. Such knowledge

might be useful, should we at some future time be confronted with a

situation comparable with that of Germany at the present moment. The

outcome of a campaign does not merely depend upon preparations, war

material and training. The fighting spirit and general mental attitude

of the soldier also plays a most important part. The soldier must know

_why_ he is fighting and _what_ he is fighting for. The psychological

factor is therefore of the utmost importance. The officer leading his

men to the front and into the firing line has neither the attitude of

mind nor the time for such studies. His whole attention is and must be

concentrated on the fighting itself; he only thinks of utilising the

striking power of his men with the utmost effect at the right moment

and in the right place. He is therefore--and quite rightly--blind

to everything else. A layman on the other hand, whose attention

is not distracted by considerations of conduct of war, has better

opportunities of studying the psychology of the soldiers.

Once this war is over, whole libraries of books will be written about

it. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that on the western front

alone upwards of a million and a half diaries are being kept at the

present moment. In all directions, in all fighting units down to the

company, the platoon and the battery, official war journals are being

kept and accounts of the fighting are being prepared from the bedrock

furnished on the one hand by the draft of outgoing reports and on the

other by incoming papers, orders, reports and communications. The

soldiers record their own personal experiences, the officers their

military observations. Many a note-book has no doubt protected a heart

or checked the death-dealing bullet. Thus the sections of the German

General Staff, whose task it will be in due course to prepare the

materials, will be occupied for many years to come with this monumental

labour.

When I went out to the front, it was clearly established in my mind

that my narrative would be quite different from the military accounts.

I was not going to devote any attention to matters of purely military

science, which could only be dealt with by experts. Even Sweden has

from the very beginning had its military attaché, Major Adlercreutz,

of the Scanian Dragoons, and later on Lieut.-Col. Bouveng received

permission to accompany the German forces. Strategical and tactical

observations would thus be absent from my narrative. It would no

doubt have been interesting and instructive to familiarise myself in

some measure with these subjects. But it was evident to me from the

beginning that I should always have to observe the utmost tact and

discretion, and even avoid obtaining knowledge of military matters

which ought to remain secret until the end of the campaign. This veto

comprised the distribution of German forces, army corps, divisions,

regiments and other units, as well as any regrouping of forces which

might be effected during my presence at the front. I was destined often

to hear of such details, but made up my mind to take no notes in that

connection.

Neither did I propose to embody in my narrative any account of the

events that led up to the war or of the Notes despatched hither and

thither across Europe during the days preceding its outbreak. All this

had been fully dealt with before. My book was only to constitute a

conscientious account of what I myself had seen and experienced whilst

I was the guest of the German Army in the field. Towards this army and

towards the German people I thus incurred a certain responsibility--my

sketch, in order to possess any value, must therefore be a true and

faithful one. Towards Germany’s enemies I also had a duty, not to be

unfair to them. I further felt a certain responsibility towards Swedish

officers as a body, for although it might have been my wish that my

observations should be of use to them, it was more than doubtful

whether I should succeed in my object. As regards the public, whatever

I might witness, I had to guard against the temptation to satisfy its

craving after sensation. Besides, it was evident to me that in a modern

war there was very little to be left to the imagination, and that the

reality would in most cases render it unnecessary to strive after

effect. I wanted to describe life and death on the battlefield, that

was all.

Such were my thoughts and plans at the beginning of September. They had

arisen and matured in my own mind without the shadow of any incentive

from German or Swedish quarters. When I had made up my mind, all that

remained for me to do was to obtain permission to go to the front and

to spend some time with the German Army. With this object I applied to

the German Minister in Stockholm, His Excellency von Reichenau, who

with the greatest kindness undertook to transmit my request to the

competent authority in Germany. After waiting a week I received a very

courteous reply saying that I was very welcome to visit the front. The

following day, September 11th, I set out on my fateful journey, and

at the present moment--when I broke the thread of my narrative--I am

standing on the doorstep and ringing the bell at the Foreign Office at

76 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin.

The Under Secretary of State, Herr von Zimmermann, who is acting

Foreign Minister in Berlin whilst His Excellency von Jagow is at the

Main Headquarters, received me with open arms and said that all he knew

was that I was to proceed straightway to the said Headquarters.

“But where are the Main Headquarters?” I asked.

“That is a secret,” Herr von Zimmermann answered, with a smile.

“Good, but how am I to get there?”

“Oh, the Chief of the Great General Staff, Colonel-General von Moltke,

has given instructions that a car is to be kept at your disposal. You

may decide yourself when you would like to start. An officer and an

orderly will accompany you, and if you like you can travel to the Main

Headquarters day and night without stopping, or you can choose your own

road and time. In fact, you are at liberty to do as you like.”

“And afterwards?”

“After that your fate will rest in the hands of His Excellency von

Moltke. No doubt he will map out a plan for your journey. The only

thing you have to think about now is to get to him.”

“And where shall I find the car?”

“This paper will tell you.”

Herr von Zimmermann handed me a permit from the Great General Staff

which read as follows: “The bearer of this permit is entitled to use

the relays of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to the Main

Headquarters. Everything that can in any way expedite his journey is to

be placed at his disposal.”

In conclusion I was told that the offices of the Volunteer Automobile

Corps were at 243 Friedrichstrasse, and that the Acting Chief was a Dr.

Arnoldi.

After heartily thanking Herr von Zimmermann and receiving his good

wishes for the impending journey, I went off to look for Arnoldi and

his office. I found him in a large room full of maps, piles of papers,

telegrams, officers and orderlies, and my reception was as usual most

cordial--in future I shall not have to repeat this pleasing fact, for

everyone has been equally courteous and friendly. To begin with, I was

shown a map of the great relay road, but for obvious reasons I must not

tell anything about it.

Then came the question:

“Do you wish to travel independently of all regulations or by relays,

that is to say, 700 kilometres in 16 hours--44 kilometres an hour on

end?”

I thought a moment, then chose to be independent, for if I had done the

journey in sixteen hours, I should have been obliged to travel over

the most interesting part of the road by night when there is nothing

to be seen, and, after all, I had come to see as much as possible. The

trip from Berlin to Headquarters ought to mean a continuous crescendo.

I ought to know what it felt like to leave peace behind and gradually

to approach the scorching firing lines. I thought in my innocence that

the roads in Western Germany would be more or less encumbered with

soldiers and vehicles. Not a bit of it! It was a long time before we

had to drive slowly on account of the congestion, for within Germany

all transports were effected by rail.

“Who is going to be my chauffeur?”

“An officer, accompanied by an orderly. Both are on duty with the

Volunteer Automobile Corps.”

“Who appoints the officer?”

“I do; and I am just thinking that Rittmeister von Krum, of

Württemberg, will be the right man.”

Dr. Arnoldi touched a button. An orderly entered and was asked whether

Captain von Krum was at hand.

“Yes, the Rittmeister is here.” “Ask him to come in.” And an officer

in field-grey uniform, of the most attractive appearance and charming

manners, enters the room. Dr. Arnoldi tells him what his duties are,

namely, to take me to the mysterious region in the west, and I wonder

in my own mind whether it will bore him to jog along with me on the

road through more than half of Germany. I even ask him how he feels

about it, and he replies that it will be a great pleasure to him to

take _me_, of all people, to the theatre of war. I assure Captain von

Krum that it pleases me greatly to have _him_, of all people, as my

travelling companion, chauffeur and guide.

My Rittmeister had retired from active service, but on the outbreak of

war he had rallied to the colours and placed his car at the disposal

of the Crown in accordance with the mobilisation decree. He drives it

himself in the service of the Army and the orderly who is to accompany

us is, in peace time, his own chauffeur. I was told that the Volunteer

Automobile Corps now mustered 350 cars. The owner of a car reports

himself and is paid for his vehicle, and he may at the end of the war

buy back his car from the Crown. It is reckoned that the serviceable

life of a car is five years. If the owner paid ten thousand marks for

his car and has used it for four years, he only gets paid at the last

year’s valuation, i.e. two thousand marks, whilst if the car is quite

new he receives the full amount.

Three hundred and fifty cars--it doesn’t sound much, but these cars

merely form the Volunteer Corps, and I suppose you will feel more

at ease when I tell you that at the western front alone there are

altogether fifty thousand cars in use, whilst forty thousand are left

in Germany. That means fifty thousand chauffeurs. When one considers

that each car usually has a crew of two, it will be seen that the

equivalent of over two army corps are attached to the Automobile

Service. There are plenty of men in Germany, plenty for every purpose.

On the eastern front I was told that cars are useless outside the

German boundaries, owing to the shocking state of Russian and Polish

roads. There one has to ride or requisition ordinary vehicles. But in

the west the cars play a part the importance of which had only remotely

been guessed at, as may be gathered from the course of this narrative.

Finally, von Krum was told to collect all maps (scale 1 : 100,000) that

we should require from Berlin to Main Headquarters. I myself received

the pleasing news that I need only give ten minutes’ notice before

starting, as car, Rittmeister and orderly were always ready, likewise

Dr. Arnoldi’s wolf-skin coat, which he advised me to take with me.

I had thus every reason to be satisfied with my day’s work. The trip

to Main Headquarters was evidently only the first step. What was to

follow? Probably a trip along the line of German lines of communication

to the fighting zone, and possibly to the firing line itself. Perhaps

it would be my good fortune to catch at least a glimpse of a modern

fight. After such a beginning the rest was sure to go well. My

excitement on starting had now changed to longing, and I felt that I

was about to be carried with lightning speed along magnificent roads

towards a spectacle which I would never forget: the German Army in

all its overpowering strength drawn up for the greatest contest in

the world’s history. The German Army! These words convey nowadays far

more than formerly, and the same may be said of the French Army. In

these days it is not armies of mercenaries that meet one another in the

field, it is entire nations that range up for battle. The difference

is only that the German Army is one homogeneous whole and pure in

race, whilst the French Army is reinforced with Englishmen and a whole

colour-scheme of imported heathens.

The next day I was out with my friend the Rittmeister and got fitted

out from head to foot with motor cap, boots and puttees, a sporting

suit of suitable warmth, leather coat and vest, rain-coat, a warm

muffler and a pair of motor goggles, which I never used.

I ended my day at a reception at the house of the Countess Wilamovitz,

née Fock, whose husband, Captain of one of the Reserve Regiments of

the Uhlans of the Guard, is fighting at the front. The sole topic of

conversation among the guests was the War and the final victory.

The 15th of September we started out. I turned up in good time at the

offices of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps, where the car was

waiting. But as usual it takes a long time to get away; von Krum has

several papers to sign and maps to arrange and Dr. Arnoldi conveys to

me very hearty greetings from Lieut.-Colonel Gross, the great airship

expert and inventor, who is commanding the Field Telegraph Battalion.

Before I left he insisted on my going out to inspect his magnificent

establishment. So we drove out to see him and were received at the

gate by the Colonel himself, an energetic, virile, distinguished

little man surrounded by several officers. The establishment is

truly imposing, a whole row of barracks, workshops, depots, stores

and stables surrounding an enormous yard, where masts for wireless

telegraphy tower aloft. The station is thus in communication with

the whole of Germany, and the aerial news operator was just engaged

in reading out for the general edification some atrocity stories

received that moment from English sources. The telegraph battalion with

equipment, men and horses, is, of course, in the field with its Army

Corps. But, nevertheless, depots, barracks and stables are replete

with a completely new set of everything. In the stables every stall

was occupied by recently requisitioned farm horses, fat and sleek and

contented in their new unaccustomed surroundings. As regards the men,

they were all volunteers, who had offered themselves in far greater

numbers than were needed. Just as we were walking across the yard a

detachment drove in at full speed with its loads of masts and wire.

It had been out practising, and the precision and resolution which

distinguished the work of the men was astonishing, seeing that they had

only had four weeks’ training. One of them, by the scars on his cheeks,

showed himself to be an old University student, and was now headmaster

in a school. When addressed by the Colonel he came to attention and

saluted with a smartness which made us suspect that he preferred the

driver’s seat on a field telegraph lorry to the schoolmaster’s desk.

We also visited the immense sheds containing the wagons with their

substantial provision for batteries, telegraph and telephone apparatus,

insulators, tools, wires and the innumerable objects required for field

telegraph lines. The wagons, which are motor-driven, resemble enormous

but well-built and graceful boxes. They are of immense weight and

can only be used on paved or macadamised roads. On the Polish roads,

soaked by the autumn rains, they would not get far. But on the western

front it is sufficient if they keep to the main roads, where they are

stationed at suitable points as depots from which supplies are conveyed

in lighter vehicles to the spot where they are wanted. One store shed

contained perfect mountains of gigantic wire coils. The wire seemed to

me somewhat thin, but I was told that it fully answers its purpose. The

Colonel showed me the lances by means of which experienced and expert

riders throw up the telegraph and telephone wires among the branches of

an avenue of trees. When I saw all these heavy lumbering vehicles and

appliances and all these thousands of miles of wire, the idea crossed

my mind that it was all very well when it was all ranged up before one

as at an exhibition in Berlin, but how would it all work out in war?

Was it possible that everything would turn out as calculated? Would

the wagons arrive in time and would there not be endless bother with

all these wires in trees and on the ground? I was soon to learn how

wonderfully everything panned out and with what meticulous care every

detail was superintended by trained soldiers.

But time flies, we rush back to Berlin, cross Unter den Linden and pass

out through the Brandenburger Tor. The war cars always create a good

deal of interest. The Rittmeister sits at the wheel himself and steers

his car with wonderful assurance. He threads his way with the most

daring turns and twists in between and past other cars and carriages in

the Tiergartenstrasse, and by pressing a little bulb on the wheel he

produces a piercing, twittering noise which during the day caused an

officer to shout after us: “That’s a nice little canary you’ve got hold

of!”

By the side of von Krum sits the chauffeur, the excellent Deffner, also

from Württemberg, an enormous chap. His rifle is lashed to the front

of the car. I myself occupy the back seat, where I have the map of the

General Staff at hand, making hasty notes now and again. At the bottom

of the car is my luggage, two bags no larger than can be carried by

myself if necessary. In the field one should not carry more baggage

than one can cope with personally. Our first halt is at Potsdam, 28.9

kilometres. We fly along at a rattling pace on the magnificent road

lined by avenues of trees, parks and long rows of large new houses.

Here we have the Wannsee with its innumerable sailing boats at anchor,

its leafy nooks, its villas and inns. There are very few people about

and we seldom meet another vehicle. But when we sight one down the

road, the shrill sound of the canary rends the atmosphere, and Deffner

conjures forth a melodious note out of his hooter.

We are not far from Beelitz when a report is heard under the car--it is

not a shell, merely a burst tyre which compels us to stop and change

it. A horseshoe nail has worked its way through the cover, but Deffner

is a handy man and it is put right in no time. There is a fresh breeze

blowing, and it murmurs through the pines by the roadside--it is the

last breath of summer complaining that autumn is so near. One finds it

rather windy travelling in an open car at sixty kilometres an hour with

a head wind, but it is delightful and exhilarating to travel fast, to

fly along the road regardless of everything and to approach the scene

of events which are now daily filling the pages of the world’s history.

All unpleasant thoughts are blown away, all fuss and pettiness which

one otherwise has to endure are left behind, one simply runs away from

it all and is filled with a feeling of buoyant joy and freedom as one

rushes past the fields, the homely villages, the farms, the copses,

the endless, straight avenues of ash, oak, maple and elm--everything

flits past and disappears, whilst the hand of the indicator marks

seventy kilometres an hour. There is nothing to indicate that Germany

is in the throes of her greatest war. Huge cartloads of scented hay are

being brought in from the meadows--not all Germany’s horses are busy

pulling guns and ammunition. The sails of the windmills travel round

busily with several reefs taken in, grinding the corn which is to be

made into bread for millions of soldiers and their families at home. At

Treuenbrietzen we encounter groups of merry school children who shout

and wave, and in the fields outside women, young and old, are busy

gathering potatoes and beet. They greet us with a flutter of aprons and

handkerchiefs. Why on earth are they waving to us, I say to myself, but

the answer is obvious--the uniforms and the streamer denote a war car,

and they realise that we are on the way to the front; whether they know

us or not does not matter, but perhaps they think we shall meet their

own dear ones who are fighting out there for hearth and home!

Now the country opens up more and stretches out in undulating vistas

before us. Presently we reach the top of a rise and see the tower and

roof of Wittenberg church in a hollow before us--the Elbe valley. Here

is the Schlosskirche, and I see in my mind’s eye the wonder-struck

crowds gathering before the portals where the monk Luther nailed up

his ninety-five theses. But disturb not the peace which reigns within

the church, where the great reformer rests before the pulpit! Outside

in the street a body of volunteers are marching; they look cheerful,

they march well with a rhythmical firm step and sing a lively and

inspiriting war song. At the next street corner we meet another

detachment on the way to or from its drill ground. They are strapping

young fellows of martial bearing, and one can see how they are longing

to get out to fight. They do not sing, they whistle a pleasing tune

which sounds quaint among the venerable houses of Wittenberg. They are

Teutons, they were not born to be conquered by Slavs and Latins. Their

forefathers were described by Tacitus, and they fought and conquered in

the Teutoburger Wald. Now it is the descendants of the old Teutons who

are gathered under the German eagles to struggle for freedom between

the Rhine and the Vistula, and far beyond the valleys of the great

rivers. It is a dangerous game to trifle with the eagle, for he may

leave his nest and spread his wings for flight. But Germany’s fateful

hour has now struck, and the moment has come for the Teutons to assert

themselves and to lay the foundation for an assured future. Listen to

the echo of their ringing stride in the streets of Wittenberg--the

same echo is heard in all German cities where the volunteers rally

round the flag! It is a migration the like of which the world has never

seen, and the country is filled with the spirit of resolution and

enthusiasm which does not know what fear is or doubt, an understanding

which asks no questions. They march off to unknown fates, glorious and

horrible alike. Very soon they will say their evening prayers to the

accompaniment of the thunder of guns and the shrieking of shells. It

is not for German liberty alone that they are fighting, it is for the

independent existence of the other Germanic nations as well that they

fearlessly face death on the battlefield. So no wonder that my eye

follows them until they disappear round the next street corner--the

sound of their music still ringing in my soul.

_Zum König von Preussen_, _Zum Goldenen Anker_--they show wonderful

fertility of mind in hitting upon attractive names to lure the

customers into their inns! Many a _Bierkneipe_ in these parts has

venerable associations, and inns are still to be found where it is

known that Luther sat and quaffed his good old beer.

But Wittenberg also has Swedish memories. Many a Swedish soldier

has marched over the Elbe bridge since the memorable 3rd September,

1631, when Gustavus Adolphus came over for the first time to rescue

Protestantism and the liberty of thought on earth--up to the October

day, 1813, when our old regiments for the last time trod the road to

Leipzig to take part in the struggle against Napoleon. How different

was the conduct of war on these two occasions, but how alike were the

will and spirit of the people!

It was with a mixture of pride and melancholy that I sat thinking of

those good old times, as we skimmed the surface with lightning speed.

With the car as a pair of compasses we measure out the distances on

the full-scale map of Germany itself. The Elbe valley has disappeared

behind us, and we now pick up and leave one village after the other.

Sometimes the village streets are paved with cobbles, and our speed

slackens considerably. In other places rattling carts drawn by powerful

dogs in complete harness come jogging along at a brisk pace. It is a

pleasure to look at them. Truly they are examples of faithfulness and

conscientiousness. With panting mouths and dripping tongues, and with

all muscles and sinews of their bodies strained to the utmost, they

tug so fiercely that their paws and chests might be expected to be a

mass of sores. The man at the cart does not urge them and has no whip

in his hand. He seems, on the contrary, to wish to hold them back when

they struggle along too fast. If anyone seems to approach too close to

their master’s barrow, they set up a ferocious bark. They long to be

in harness as soon as the sun gets up, just like Jack London’s pals in

Alaska. It is touching to see their sense of duty and honour. And yet

they are but dogs. I felt I would like to follow them on the road and

study them. But the car goes on inexorably, and in a twinkling they are

far, far behind.

Gräfenhainischen--what a delightful little monosyllable! One must never

be in a hurry when one lives at Gräfenhainischen. As long, nay, longer

than the name is the narrow street that leads through the village and

finally loses itself in the flat country beyond.

Mulde with its bridge and Bitterfeld, where the market is in full

swing, are the next landmarks in our journey. The stalls with the busy

market life around them look very picturesque. Full of colour, but at

the same time so old-fashioned and tranquil--nobody could imagine here

that Germany is at war. On the road outside the town we see plenty of

women driving or walking back to their rustic farmsteads after their

marketing.

At the lignite mines outside Bitterfeld the little baskets on the

cable-ways are busy carrying the coal to the factories, where it is

made into briquettes.

Next we roll into Halle and are now on the most classic ground of our

national history, for it was at Halle that Gustavus Adolphus rested

from the 10th to the 17th September, 1631, with the army which had

conquered at Breitenfeld on the 7th of the same month. In passing over

the bridges we cross a seemingly inextricable maze of railway lines.

The bridge-heads here, as everywhere in the German Empire, are guarded

by Landsturm sentries with loaded rifles. All railways and high roads,

all arteries of communication on land and water, in fact everything

that can pass by the name of road is of the utmost importance in war

time, as they are the means of carrying the troops to the parts where

the fighting is going on. But most important of all are the bridges,

especially those spanning the great rivers. Any accident to one of

these bridges means the severing of an artery for some time ahead.

It may mean the loss of a battle. Everything must run as if it were

greased, in war there must be no miscalculations, no sundering of the

points which join the front with the interior. The cutting of his lines

of communication is a distinct reverse to the enemy. The profession

of the spy and plotter carries with it little honour and much danger.

But had the allies been able to do so, they would certainly with the

aid of enterprising emissaries have attempted to destroy the bridges,

say across the Rhine, and thus stop or delay the German advance.

Hence every important bridge throughout Germany has been guarded with

sentries since the beginning of the war, and no bridge and viaduct is

ever without one or two Landsturm men of middle-age, wearing dark-blue

uniforms, and in the evenings and at night grey overcoats; they pace

faithfully up and down at their posts on the bridges or under arches

with arms crossed and the rifle held vertically inside the left arm,

until they are relieved by their comrades. As the car dashes past with

its fluttering war streamer, they come briskly to attention with the

rifle to the order.

Well, we are now at my dear old Halle on the Saale, where I once

studied geography with the charming and humorous, one-eyed but yet

keenly wide-awake Professor Kirchhoff. Halle is exactly as it used

to be. In its main street there are plenty of people about, mainly

children and young people, for this is the great highway to Merseburg

and to the fighting West, and many military cars dashed past during the

hour we halted in the town. Here also large war maps are exhibited in

the booksellers’ windows, and outside them interested groups of Halle

folk are gathered, mostly schoolboys, who talk importantly in loud

voices of the silent, significant evidence of the little flags. At

Halle another horseshoe nail or maybe a bit of glass caused tyre Number

2 to burst, and as the accident happened exactly opposite Schultheiss’s

door, von Krum and I saw in this a direct hint from fate that we

wanted a glass of beer. There we sat and chatted at the table with its

many-coloured cloth and round discs of felt under the beer mugs, and

wondered how far we should get before nightfall. But as we sat and

talked, dusk quietly descended upon Halle and when we got outside the

street lamps were being lit. Further away in the west on the horizon

the sky was a flaming red--a symbol of the bloody battlefield.

After lighting our lamps, off we went from Halle southward past

Merseburg on the way to Naumburg, still hugging the Saale valley.

We are still on classic Swedish soil. November memories of

1632--Pappenheim’s cuirassiers, Isolani’s Croatians, holding sway at

Halle and Merseburg whilst Gustavus Adolphus is lying at Naumburg. Two

hours before daybreak the King left this very town for Lützen. One

can almost hear the Swedish cavalry bugle-calls. It was at this same

Merseburg that the proud dragoons of the bodyguard under Field-Marshal

Count Rehnsköld were installed in 1706-7.

The bright light from our lamps shows up the road for some distance

ahead. We have now slackened to 40 kilometres an hour. The leafy trees

by the roadside are lit up from beneath, and we seem to travel through

an endless fantastic tunnel of foliage. Far away on both sides of

the road are strings of glistening lights--the windows of farms and

villages where fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, maids and

children are sitting round the lamp to read for the twentieth time

the letters and cards received from their soldiers at the French and

Belgian front. What do these letters say? I have read several. There

are millions of them. The soldier tells his people how he likes his

billet, what food tastes like after the heat and stress of the day,

what it feels like when the shells burst close by and comrades fall at

one’s side. They tell also that the enemy is done for, that he will be

thrown back as soon as the commander deems fit to order them to charge.

They speak with good-nature of the Frenchmen as courteous and honest

soldiers, but of the English with glowing hatred. And, as often as

not, the soldier finishes up by saying that there can be no question

of any return to the village until he is wounded or useless--which God

forbid--and until victory has been gained over Germany’s enemies. For

the soldiers know, from the oldest veteran to the youngest drummer

boy, that Germany was armed to the teeth to be ready for the war, but

that Germany’s Emperor and statesmen did all in their power to avert a

disaster which would surely affect the whole world and cause rivers

of blood and tears to flow, bring nameless misery to ravaged homes and

ruined countrysides, untold nights of anguish and expectation and long

years of inconsolable grief and sorrow.

But the evening is wearing on. We have left Naumburg behind us. The

good people in the town have gone to bed, for the lights are mostly

out and the windows dark. Tucked into their snug beds they listen to

the whir of the motor-cars and the warning tooting of horns, and their

thoughts no doubt run on to the fateful west whither the cars are

speeding. But they will soon get left behind, the buzz dies away in the

distance, and sleep carries them into the peaceful realm of dreams. I

too begin to get a little sleepy. My eyelids begin to droop and my head

feels heavy; it sinks down and recovers with a jerk as the car quickly

takes a corner. The excellent Rittmeister seems to suspect something,

for he slackens speed and says it is only a few minutes to Kösen; he

asks what I think of this little watering-place as a spot for putting

up for the night. Yes, I think Kösen is an ideal spot and quite agree

that we ought to stop there. So we drive quietly into the little town,

the two halves of which are separated from one another by the Saale,

but reunited by a stone bridge. We stop at the hotel _Zum mutigen

Ritter_ and are soon wide-awake again in its parlour, with a warming

cup of steaming tea before us. The host keeps us company and tells us

that all the visitors disappeared like magic when the war broke out,

and that his own hotel business has dwindled to nothing at all. “But

what does that matter as long as we win,” he adds.

The 16th September was heralded by a cloudy sky and heavy, sleepy

raindrops, which, however, soon stopped falling after obligingly

laying the dust. From Kösen there was a steady rise across and along

the heights which line the Saale and Ilm valleys in the north. Pretty

vistas open up at the sides, where the valleys sink between the hills

and where the forest, dark and heavy, silently mounts guard over its

secrets. A little further on the country becomes more broken and the

road winds along in big curves. On the left we leave the Apolda and its

valley. On a commanding height we catch sight of a so-called Bismarck

tower of granite, with the great chancellor’s name hewn into the stone

at the top and his portrait medallion at the bottom. These towers are

often to be met with in Germany, and on certain days of national

rejoicing huge bonfires are lit on their summits.

We cannot drive through Weimar without visiting the house where Goethe

lived for forty years, and which stands in the square now bearing his

great name. It is with a feeling of reverence that one sets foot on the

steps and thresholds and in apartments where Germany’s, perhaps the

world’s, greatest poet and thinker lived his life. As far as possible

the furniture has been reinstated and restored to its former state.

One admires Goethe’s discrimination as a collector and the quick

intelligence he brought to bear on all departments of the natural

sciences. These traits are evidenced by his large and magnificent

geological and mineralogical collections, his zoological and botanical

finds, and his physical laboratory. I stop, however, longest before

the cabinets containing in large portfolios his pen-and-ink and

water-colour sketches. I am touched as I look at them. Every stroke

of the brush in these landscapes, portraits and groups has been made

by his own hand. Their execution is masterly, and the perspective

and general effect superb. Yet this was but a trifling detail in his

wonderful endowment. Equally fascinating almost are the busts which

render his glorious head and the oil paintings for which he sat. What

wonderful eyes, full of life and energy and geniality! They reveal an

intellect to which everything is as clear as crystal. With a feeling of

awe and without daring to speak to the courteous Dr. Hans Kroeber, who

showed us over one of the greatest national treasures of Germany, we

entered Goethe’s study on the ground floor with its windows looking out

on to the little garden. How simple and modest everything is; it occurs

to one that one of the lighter rooms upstairs would have been a good

deal pleasanter to work in. Behind the study we see his little bedroom,

rigidly simple, where, with the words “More light,” he ended the saga

of his wonderful life.

When the mind has tarried for a little while in this world of great

and precious memories, and is suddenly confronted on issuing into the

square with a detachment of Landsturm soldiers marching off to their

shooting range, when one leaves Goethe’s home behind and is once

more surrounded by the modern world and thinks of Germany’s gigantic

struggle against half the world--then, indeed, one has to rub one’s

eyes and steady oneself mentally so as not to lose one’s balance. And

this people, which has produced Goethe, and which now with honour

and splendid courage fights on half a dozen fronts, has by the press

of many countries and in fact entire nations been called a people of

barbarians!

But let us continue our trip along the great highway; it is now lined

for a long distance with plum trees where women and girls on ladders

are seen picking the great violet fruit and collecting it in baskets

drawn on small barrows by dogs. On the whole we do not see many people,

apart from the handful of peasants driving hay home in their carts

drawn by cows, and a few women mowing the grass on banks and meadows.

Next we come to Erfurt, a town which like so many others in these

parts is memorable to us Swedes. At “The Tall Lily” Gustavus Adolphus

spent one night of his great life. It was the night between the 28th

and 29th October, 1632, after the assembling of the Swedish Army which

a few days later was to fight and conquer at Lützen. At Erfurt one

also thrills with pride at the memory of Field-Marshal Johan Banér.

Here, as everywhere, the Landsturm soldiers sing as they march along.

We lose ourselves in the labyrinth of old-world streets, and not even

my experienced guide von Krum is able to find his way. “Which way to

Gotha?” we cry at every street corner, and the answer comes quickly,

_rechts_, _links_ or _gerade aus_. At last we work our way out of the

tangle and fly along towards Gotha, the city of Justus Perthes and the

Almanach de Gotha. Here it is easy to find the way, and before we know

where we are we find ourselves once again dashing along through avenues

of tall, graceful poplars towards Eisenach.

On our left the ground rises towards the rain-shrouded, misty ridges of

the Thüringer Wald, but the road itself runs through smiling villages

with their picturesque houses of the timber framework type, where

cackling geese and clucking turkeys sometimes do their best to get

run over or at all events to hamper our progress. At every bridge we

come to, we receive a smart military salute from the sentries. We spin

along at a lightning pace to Eisenach, and are as quickly out of it.

The road now turns sharp to the south-west and by a series of gentle

curves ascends the heights of the Thüringer Wald. On both sides of

the road is a fine wood of lofty pines. I could almost fancy that I

had been transplanted to certain parts of my own land where the eye

is accustomed to dwell on these dark green, solemn firs standing like

sentinels by the roadside. It is a beautiful piece of country. The

smell of damp earth and juicy pine-needles rises in the air and reminds

one vividly of the country on the road from Rawalpindi to Kashmir.

From the top of the hills a vast perspective opens up towards the

south-west. Once again the road runs in serpentine curves down from

the Thüringer Wald. The forest here consists largely of foliaged

trees rather than conifers. Marksuhl is situated in a broken piece

of country, where the higher-lying parts are occupied by clusters of

trees whilst the rest of the land is cultivated. At Vacha we cross the

important River Werra. From this point we progress again at lightning

pace. Villages, fields, meadows, farms, gardens and leafy coppices,

everything seems to fly past us.

Here we have Hünfeld in Hesse. Let us stop a moment and drink a cup of

tea. There is a cosy dining-room in the restaurant. At a table sits a

nurse with the Red Cross badge on her arm talking to two gentlemen,

evidently doctors, for they speak of the care of the wounded soldiers.

A few sportsmen enter with their bags full of partridges and hares.

They are dressed in brown and green, with sporting-looking felt hats

with plumes, and carry their guns on the shoulder.

We jump into the car once more and proceed to the old bishopric of

Fulda, which does not long engage our attention, then across bridges

and streams through a series of villages, one of which with its sinuous

main street is called Schlüchtern. We continue to be delayed by

poultry, geese and dogs, but the children seem to have learnt to leave

the roadway clear. The boys give us a military salute and shoulder

their little wooden guns, whilst the little children play on steps

and benches, the mothers waving to us almost affectionately as if to

say, “Give him my love and God bless him and you and the whole of our

country!”

_Via_ Gelnhausen we travel on to Hanau, in which neighbourhood we come

across swarms of civilian cyclists. “Who on earth are these people,

are they recruits on the way to join the army?” I ask. “Bless you, no;

they are workmen from the factories and workshops at Hanau returning

to their villages at the end of their day.” Big and majestic the Main

sends its muddy waters towards the sea. It is raining a little, the

roads are soaked but just as good. We can see that we are approaching

a big town, the traffic on the road increases, people live closer

together, and the telegraph wires combine into mighty clusters--those

silent wires which yet talk and know far more than we. When I come to

the Valley of the Main I seem once more to hear the good old Swedish

music and to see Stålhandske’s cavalry before me, and into the moaning

of the tree-tops I seem to read the words of Adler Salvius: “Our

Finnish lads who are getting used to those wine-lands are not likely to

come back to Savolaks in a hurry. In the Livland wars they often had

to put up with water and coarse mouldy bread with their beer-broth;

now the Finn quaffs his wine out of his helmet.” Such wealth and such

abundance our poor old horsemen and their retainers had never even

dreamt of.

Before us through the mist and gloaming twinkled the thousand lights

and electric lamps of Frankfurt. When Gustavus Adolphus first came

to Frankfurt the good burghers did not want to let him in, but made

excuses and put the blame on the Elector of Mayence. But the King

answered that he knew of no Elector of Mayence but himself. “I do not

want to be delayed. If you refuse to open the gates, I dare say I can

find some keys as I have done before in places which have fallen into

my hands.” The city surrendered at once. During the winter of 1631-32,

when Sweden’s King held his court at Frankfurt, this city was the

centre of Europe. It was from here that Gustavus Adolphus said to the

French who asked him not to direct his armies against Alsace, which

country they pretended to have claimed ever since the death of the

remote Dagobert: “I have come not as a traitor to Germany, but as its

protector. I will restore it, not rend it asunder.”

We drive on and on. The clusters of houses in the outskirts and suburbs

close up into the streets of a large town. The traffic grows, the tram

bells ring, the motors hoot, vast crowds of people walk about busily

under umbrellas, and after a short while we stop before the entrance of

the Hotel which before the war was called _Englischer Hof_, but which

has now been re-baptised the _Hessischer Hof_, owing to the feelings of

the Germans towards their Germanic kinsmen of the island kingdom.

It is wonderful how attached one gets to one’s car on a long journey!

It is with a feeling of boredom that one stops at the hotel where the

night is to be spent, and with a sensation of delight that one rises

from the breakfast table the next morning to enter the car once more.

This is how we felt on the 17th of September, a fine and pleasant

day, though heavy clouds raced across the sky. But we could not start

at once, we had first to go to a garage to get petrol and then to an

_Immobiles Kraftwagen Depot_, where absolutely everything that may be

wanted for repairing war cars is to be had. Here we took five spare

tyres, which we lashed to the right side and to the back of our car.

Of course, we do not pay a single _pfennig_--for we are travelling on

Government service.

At last we are off again and follow the long streets of Frankfurt,

leaving the city by the western outskirts with their large

working-class population. Perhaps it might be thought that these

workmen are opposed to the war which Germany is now conducting for the

sake of her future? It certainly does not look like it. The social

democratic workmen have equipped their little sons with helmets and

wooden swords to fight out real battles in the backyards, and you hear

them call each other Kluck and Hindenburg.

Once more we get out into the open country, and follow the great road

which runs in a direct line to Wiesbaden. The avenue skirting it

consists chiefly of apple and pear trees, weighed down with fruit.

Farther on we meet with poplars, standing like sentries along the

roadside. We do not stop at all in the graceful and elegant Wiesbaden,

but fly past its parks and gardens, which are quieter and emptier than

usual.

Soon we begin to ascend the Taunus heights via the Eiserne Hand. The

rise is gradual and the curves numerous. A trim and straight-stemmed

pine wood skirts the road on both sides. One seldom meets a vehicle or

a pedestrian. From an eminence a vast panorama is suddenly spread out

before us, but the weather has got foggy again and one cannot see far.

At Langen Schwalbach the elegant hotels form a striking contrast to the

solemn Red Cross flags and the wounded soldiers, now convalescent, who

are sitting on balconies and in gardens, taking the air. The road now

winds upwards once more, and we breathe a crisper atmosphere, but the

view across to smiling dells and wooded hills is limited through fog.

Up we go and down again over the gentle undulations of the country,

where the ploughed fields merge together in a colour scheme of green,

yellow and brown.

Next the road descends steeply to Nassau on the River Lahn. The

country is gloriously pretty, its roads magnificent, its forests regal

in their dark, silent splendour. On the brow of a hill stands an old

ruined castle. The people in Nassau are friendly and greet and wave

to us, and a stylish-looking young girl throws a red rose into our

car--not for us, forsooth, but as a greeting to her lover, who no doubt

is fighting in the war.

A moment later we skim the pretty riverside road to Ems along the

Lahn, line up the car in a side street and walk back to the pavement

to greet with bared head and a salute a funeral procession which is

going through. The dead man was a major who had succumbed to his

wounds. First comes a band playing a slow and melancholy march, then

two banners which precede the black-craped coffin on its carriage, and

behind it the _Kampfgenossen_, members of the Ems _Kriegerverein_, all

in tall hats, frock-coats and black ties; the procession is closed by

a number of wounded convalescent soldiers housed in the Kursaal. The

solemn cortège moves slowly up the street to the railway station, for

the dead major’s body is to be sent to his own home. After a while the

band returns accompanied by the convalescent soldiers. But now it plays

a spirited and lively march. I was told that this was customary after

military funerals--first the grief and the sorrow at the parting, the

duty towards the honoured dead, then the joy of the survivors returning

to the things of life.

The Kurhaus, a fine and roomy building, now contains eighty patients,

and more are expected. Most of the badly wounded are in bed, but those

who can get up are sitting about on balconies and enjoying the fresh

air, and from what they said to me they all long to be back at the

front.

I was told here that a young French lieutenant who had been badly

wounded in the war had found an asylum in the Kurhaus, and recollecting

the reports of the horrible cruelty with which the Germans, according

to the English press, treat their French prisoners, I could not resist

the temptation to enquire what the French lieutenant had to say about

it. His room, which he occupied alone, was certainly not a matter for

complaint; it was immediately above one of the six small rooms in which

King William I. spent a short time each year from 1867 to 1887, and the

view over Ems and the Lahn valley was the same as the King had enjoyed

all those years. The wounded man was tended by a German doctor, who

entertained good hopes of his recovery, and by two sisters of mercy,

one of whom spoke French. But I hasten to add that Lieutenant Verrier,

on my asking whether he was satisfied with the treatment he received

in Germany, at once answered “yes” with warmth and conviction, and I

suppose that wherever his fate will direct his steps he will always

remember with gratitude the time he spent over William I.’s apartments

in Ems, where the doctor did all in his power to save his leg and the

sisters all they could to alleviate his suffering and dispel in a

measure his loneliness and homesickness. I am sure that he will be the

first to acknowledge that I am right.

I went up to his room and was at once admitted. He lay in a large bed

with clean white sheets. His face was little less pale than these, but

he looked very handsome with his hair brushed from his forehead, his

finely shaped nose and well-kept moustache over a firm mouth, and his

black French eyes bespoke a _joie de vivre_ and a bright intelligence.

He told me that he had come home from New Guinea in June and that he

was just about to be married when the war came and took him away from

his bride and parents. He received his wound in the scrap at Rossignol

in Belgium. It was a terrible day, spent in the midst of bursting

shells and fire from rifles and machine guns. His bullet had struck him

obliquely through the knee and calf. He fell and remained lying all

night on the field of battle. The following morning he was picked up

and taken to a German Field Hospital and subsequently by easy stages

to Ems. At the end of August Emperor William visited the town and when

he heard that there was a wounded Frenchman there he went to see him.

Lieutenant Verrier told me that the Emperor had enquired in excellent

French about his adventures in the war and how he felt. I said that I

should in all probability soon be meeting the Emperor, and would then

tell his Majesty of the impression the gracious visit had made on the

invalid. When later I carried out my self-imposed task, the Emperor

remembered the French lieutenant very well and was gratified to hear of

the hopes entertained for his recovery.

In conclusion I asked Lieutenant Verrier whether there was anything I

could do for him within the limits permitted by the German regulations.

He seemed almost to have longed for this question, for he had the

answer quite ready. Day and night he had been tormented by one single

thought: “How are my parents and my fiancée to learn that I am still

alive and doing well? I am now in enemy country and have no means

of writing.” I asked him for his address, and he wrote in my diary,

“Monsieur Verrier-Cachet, Horticulteur, 52, rue du Quinconce, Angers,

Marne et Loire.” A minute later I was seated at a desk and wrote on

postcards in German the adventures of the young Frenchman and sent

them to my family in Stockholm, who, with the assistance of the French

Minister, would forward the news to the above address. I know that it

reached its destination and caused great joy, for later on I received

very hearty greetings and thanks from Verrier’s home.

I have often since wandered with a heavy and lingering step through

the “field” and war hospitals, especially the wards containing wounded

Frenchmen, British and Belgians who lay there counting the slowly

passing hours. How easy would it not have been for me, who had both

liberty and health, to send off a postcard here and there which would

have reached distant homes with a message of release from the wearing

anguish of anxiety! There is nothing so trying and so difficult to

bear as the uncertainty of the fate of those we love. When the name of

a son, a brother, or a husband appears in the list of missing after

a battle, the sickening anguish is almost greater to those at home

than if they knew that he had fallen. Their mental vision pictures him

as wounded, bleeding to death, alone and abandoned to the horrors of

darkness, cold and thirst. But I had really no grounds for such qualms

of conscience, for in the first place I had no business to interfere

with the regulations of the German military authorities regarding the

communication between wounded prisoners and their homes, and in the

second place there were far too many of them, and by the evening I

realised that the task of acting as a good Samaritan was an altogether

hopeless one.[2]

[2] After the beginning of October all prisoners, even wounded

Frenchmen in German hospitals, had permission to correspond with their

homes. This was given after the French Government had granted the same

privilege to German prisoners and wounded.

Meanwhile I took a hearty farewell of Verrier and wished him a speedy

recovery and a happy reunion with his people at home at Angers.

Before leaving, we looked at the memorial stone commemorating the

fateful and firm reply given “on the 13th of July, 1870, at 9.30 a.m.”

by King William to the French Ambassador Benedetti, which gave the

signal for the Franco-German war. And now, after a lapse of forty-four

years, we were back again at the same point. Now it seemed that the

thought of revenge for Alsace-Lorraine had ripened into action--unless

it be indeed that other evil powers had exploited France’s longing

for revenge, or revived it when, as some say, it was dead, to benefit

themselves thereby and stop the advance of German prosperity. The near

future will be the judge.

After dinner we mounted our car once more and the canary began to sing

so that the good people of Ems might get out of our way. We proceeded

along the right bank of the Lahn, following its bends in noble curves.

The country round here is exceedingly pretty. It is almost a pity that

we have to travel so fast; one hardly has time to visualise the beauty

of a perspective before the picture disappears and is replaced by

another, if possible even finer. Suddenly, beyond a steep spur jutting

from the mountain on our right, the majestic Rhine is revealed to our

vision, whilst on the crest of a hill on our left towers a romantic

old castle. We dash under another railway bridge faithfully guarded by

the worthy Landsturm men. Suddenly we enter a street so narrow that

its entire width is taken up by a Red Cross flag of more than ample

dimensions. Following this street as far as it goes, we suddenly come

to the bank of the enormous river whose German waters silently flow

between its prosperous and well-populated banks to deliver their burden

through neutral Holland into the mighty bosom of the sea.

Once more the river is hidden by narrow streets, but soon it greets us

again in all its wonderful splendour as we cross its dancing wavelets

by a long pontoon bridge guarded more zealously than any we have yet

passed. Next we are in Coblenz, where, at the point where the Moselle

empties itself into the Rhine, stands a gigantic statue of old Emperor

William on a charger. The plinth of this monument bears the following

memorable inscription: _Nimmer wird das Reich zerstöret wenn Ihr einig

seid und treu_.[3] The truth of these significant words is now indeed

brought home to Germany and to the world.

[3] “Never shall the Empire be destroyed if ye united are and faithful.”

The road next takes us up along the right bank of the Moselle, where a

stone bridge with beautiful arches takes us across and past a couple of

Moselle steamers which are lying moored, carrying the Red Cross flag.

The narrow, winding streets are filled with tramcars, cabs, vans, men

and women, and last but not least soldiers in German army uniforms.

We breathe more freely as we come out again on to the open road and

speed along the bank of the great Rhine tributary. There is plenty for

the eye to feast on. Now and again we catch sight of a little steamer

or tug gliding on the river; on the steep left bank stone buttresses

support the vineyards. The landscape itself is indescribably beautiful

round these endless bends, as one village after another comes into

view, the grey houses with their black slate roofs and the beautiful

churches showing up strikingly against the luxuriant background of

foliage. Still bowling along at lightning speed, we soon reach Treis,

where a curious-looking ferry, reminding me of those of the Siberian

rivers, is ready to take us and our car across to the left bank. We

drive down on to the other end of its deck so that another car which

has just arrived can be taken on board. The principle upon which the

ferry is worked is as follows: A stout cable is stretched across the

river and made fast on the left bank to the rock and on the right bank

to a securely imbedded pile. From a ring on this cable runs a line, the

other end of which is made fast to the bows of the punt-shaped ferry. A

long steering-oar projects into the water astern. The rest is done by

the current. By reversing the action and the steering-oar, the ferry

runs back to the opposite bank.

On the left bank we continue our swift, winding journey. Here and there

we pass a military convoy or meet an ambulance train, the first two

carriages of which contain wounded Frenchmen, the others Germans. The

Frenchmen are no better or worse off than the Germans; all lie on straw

and are covered with blankets. The sliding doors of these goods wagons,

fitted up specially for the transport of wounded, stood open in order

to admit fresh air to the wounded.

At the village of Eller we stop for a moment at an inn, where the host,

Herr Meinze, entertains us with what he knows about the war. His young

daughter runs off to fetch a letter just received from the son of the

family, twenty-two years old, an Uhlan of the Guard from Potsdam. The

letter bears the somewhat vague postal address of La Ferté, and the

writer complains that he has not had a word from home for a month.

He mentions that he was present on an occasion when a French airman

dropped a bomb over a gun team, killing three men and wounding twenty.

Of his British opponents he speaks very disrespectfully. But he forgets

that the English mercenaries, whatever their faults, show great

personal courage and fight with bravery and contempt of death. He ends

his letter with the hope that Germany will soon have made mincemeat

of all her enemies. The chief trait which pervades all these field

postcards is the bright and cheery spirit of the soldiers and their

blind faith in the unconquerable might of the German Army and final

victory. That _I_ may fall is of no account. That _I_ may not be one of

the triumphant army which will march in through the Brandenburger Tor

cannot be helped, but Germany must win, if not before, then after the

spring flowers have begun to sprout and blossom round my grave.

At Alf, where a white paddle-steamer flying the Red Cross flag lies

at her moorings, we leave the Moselle and follow the laconic advice

of a signpost pointing up towards the hills which mark the nearest

way to Treves. It pours with rain. We put up the awning and the rain

patters loudly on the taut canvas. Owing to the great speed we get one

drenching after another. The water in the puddles spurts up around

the wheels as before the bows of a swift steamer. The road is only

half as wide as the great main road eastward. But on the other hand

the traffic is insignificant. “Way to Wittlich?” von Krum asks in a

village, when uncertain of the road. “To Paris!” comes the retort of

a couple of joyous maidens who point in the direction we are to go.

In due course we get to Wittlich and struggle through its horribly

narrow streets, which, to make matters worse, are encumbered with

all sorts of vehicles. The houses both of villages and towns in this

part of the country are almost entirely of stone, and the streets are

very narrow--sometimes one almost gets the impression that they were

originally built with a view to protection against foreign invasion.

Off we go again down to the banks of the Moselle and to its beautifully

situated villages, and when at length we stop at the _Trierischer Hof_

at Treves, it is pitch-dark and raining pitilessly. We were drenched

to the skin, and had intended to proceed to Luxemburg after a moment’s

rest to dry our clothes. But as the deluge grew worse instead of

better, and as we were told that there were no rooms to be had at

Luxemburg for love or money, we decided to stop where we were. Soon

we were sitting in the restaurant at our belated dinner. The place

teemed with officers, and in the streets the soldiers splashed about

in the wet in their grey overcoats. We asked everybody where the

Main Headquarters were, but nobody knew anything about it. Some said

that the General Staff was at Luxemburg, others that it had moved to

Belgium. “Well, we shall get there in time,” we said to ourselves.

The _Trierischer Hof_ actually had a couple of modest rooms, where

we made ourselves at home. My excellent friend von Krum told me

that officers were entitled in war time to billet where they liked.

Room with breakfast must always be placed at their disposal free of

charge. Dinner and other meals they have to pay for. The officer

has only to fill in a printed receipt which he hands to the host on

leaving in place of currency. On producing this receipt before the

competent military authority, the host receives his money, but not at

the same rate as in peace time, for values are set at a lower figure

than under normal conditions. The same applies to horses, carts,

motor-cars and much else that is needed in war. Everything is valued by

special committees and then paid for with a receipt. At Treves it was

impossible to get a car or even a horse-cab, as there were no horses

left. When therefore our host received a telegram saying that his son,

who had probably been slightly wounded at the front, was expected at

3 a.m., there was no means whatever of getting a conveyance to meet

him and take him home in. He asked if he might borrow our car, but

unfortunately we were not allowed to leave it in civilian hands. In the

end he managed to borrow a doctor’s car and found his son in pretty

good condition.

Luckily the trams were running, and in the evening we took one to

the Horn Barracks, usually occupied by Infantry Regiment No. 29 _von

Horn_ (3rd Rhenish). But now the entire regiment is in the field and

the barracks have been turned into a hospital. They hold in peace

time three battalions, but at the present time only 500 wounded, as

the latter need more room with special accommodation for doctors and

nursing staff. Premises have, in addition, been requisitioned for

operating theatres, bath-rooms, store-rooms, etc. Just now there

is plenty of room, as only 220 beds are occupied, of which 150 by

Frenchmen. Six doctors and one head surgeon, assisted by a great number

of Red Cross sisters, were in charge of the wounded soldiers. In due

course we arrived at the barracks, were passed by the sentry at the

gate, entered a corridor and knocked at a door which was duly opened,

and a moment later we had become the bosom friends of a couple of young

doctors sitting at supper before a steaming bowl of soup which had just

been brought in. I asked them, whatever they did, not to interrupt

their meal, as we could sit and chat with them in the meantime. But no,

that would not do at all, the soup could wait, and guided by a little

oil lamp we marched out through the long corridor and began at once by

inspecting a couple of the operating theatres, which had been rigged

up hurriedly on the outbreak of war and equipped as far as possible on

thoroughly modern lines. The operating tables were in the middle of

the room. Water-pipes, vessels, appliances and a number of surgical

instruments--everything was in superb condition. The walls and floor

of these rooms had been painted over in oil and an average of fifteen

operations took place in them daily. Several other barracks at Treves

have been fitted up as hospitals in a like manner.

Thereupon we went into a large ward filled with wounded German

soldiers, and chatted with several of them. All were very satisfied and

cheerful, they all felt thoroughly at home and could not conceive it

possible to receive better and kindlier treatment than they got at the

hospital. Nevertheless time hung heavily on their hands, and they could

not help thinking of their comrades in the field. They longed to be

back at the war and hoped soon to be about again--that is to say, those

who knew that they would not be crippled for life.

We left them with a “_Gute Nacht, gute Besserung_,” and proceeded

to a ward higher up, where French soldiers were being tended. Here

we also spoke with some of the patients. They were all polite and

communicative, but lacked the cheery disposition of the Germans, which

was really not to be wondered at, as they were in enemy country and

cut off from all communication with their own people. One of them had

been wounded at Rossignol like Lieutenant Verrier, but did not know

him. He had been shot through the left hand and the left leg, which the

surgeon had been obliged to amputate. When he got his bullet wounds,

he had strength and presence of mind enough to creep into a ditch for

protection against the weather and the firing. He had torn off strips

of cloth from his greatcoat and wound them round his wounds. Next day

the German ambulance men had found him, applied a proper “first field

dressing” and carried him to the nearest field hospital, from which not

long ago he had been conveyed by rail to Treves.

Another soldier had been left lying on the field for two nights and

had suffered maddening torture from thirst. The thirst had if possible

caused him greater suffering than his wounds. Twice the Germans had in

passing given him water and chocolate. Finally the ambulance people

had found him and taken him to a field hospital. Like his comrade,

he expressed his gratitude for the treatment he had met with here at

Treves, and several assenting voices were heard from the neighbouring

beds. The two German doctors who took us round told us that the French

wounded usually did not want to leave the hospital, as they knew that

as soon as they recovered they would be treated as ordinary prisoners.

This view of the matter is quite natural and is most certainly shared

by all wounded, no matter to what nation they belong. For it is

pleasanter to lie in one’s comfortable bed and be coddled in every way,

than to live in a barracks or a concentration camp with crowds of other

prisoners, including Senegalese negroes, Moroccans and Indians.

Finally our guide took us to the door of a room containing three French

officers. One of them, who had been shot through the lung, slept well

and did not permit himself to be disturbed by our talk. Another had a

more dangerous lung wound and was continually troubled by a nasty cough

which, whenever it attacked him, threw his head backwards and forwards

with great violence. His condition was considered very critical, and

even if one had known the address of his people it would have been no

relief to them to learn his condition.

The third, a big and somewhat stout Captain, had served for several

years in southernmost Morocco and was accustomed to little scraps with

the Tuaregs in the Sahara. But _this_ was something very different.

It was terrible, _terrible_! He had been called home from his African

station to take part in this horrible struggle. His right foot had

been smashed in a fight in Belgium by a rifle bullet, whilst another

had carried away a couple of his fingers. He said he had a sort of

recollection of having the wound dressed on the battlefield by German

Red Cross men or doctors who had done all they could to check the flow

of blood. Afterwards he had been taken to a dressing station, where

his wounds had received further treatment. As he was classed amongst

the comparatively slightly wounded, he had been taken to Luxemburg and

now at length to Treves. He was probably aware that when discharged

as convalescent he would remain a prisoner with all the privileges to

which his rank entitled him, receiving, besides, half the pay he had

been getting at home. There he lay, the poor Captain, with his jovial

face, aquiline nose and heavy beard. He was cheerful and good-tempered,

and assured us that he had absolutely nothing to grumble about--apart

from the fate which denied him the honour to continue fighting for his

country. But it was evident that he was a bit of a philosopher and

he bore his unkind fate like a man. He lay there with a smile on his

lips and was grateful for anything that was done for him and for the

interest taken in him by the unknown visitors. During the long lonely

hours of the night he often heard his comrades struggling and wrestling

with death, whilst his own thoughts wandered to the palm trees on the

desert fringe, and he seemed to hear the dromedaries’ swishing steps

over the sand and the desert winds calling “come home, come home!”

The young doctors who accompanied us told us that the German soldiers

always and without exception longed to be back at the front, unless

their condition was such that they had not strength enough to desire

anything. Among the French the feeling was different: “Whatever

you like, anything but the fire at the front.” But this is, on

psychological grounds, quite natural and cannot well be otherwise.

There is nothing that depresses and demoralises the soldier as much as

being a prisoner. He feels that he is playing the part of the weaker,

that he is entirely at the mercy of others, that his strength is

gone, his initiative taken from him and his fighting spirit rendered

unavailing. In such a situation, to gain personal advantages and to

make the best of a bad job, he will say much that he would never

have dreamt of uttering on his own side of the fighting line. It is

therefore unfair to judge the fighting value of an army by the remarks

of prisoners detached from it.

Herein we have perhaps the explanation of the fact observed at the

Treves hospitals, or, at all events, at the Horn barracks, that the

mortality amongst the Frenchmen was incomparably greater than amongst

the Germans. It would be futile to try to explain it by the suggestion

that the doctors and nurses involuntarily felt greater compassion for

their own countrymen, for when it is considered that 35,000 wounded

have been transported through Treves _Westbahnhof_--latterly 1500

a day--it will be realised that the doctors available must be so

overwhelmed with work as to have no time for sentiment. To them the

case is everything, and it is a point of honour with them to save as

many as possible. The whole care of the wounded becomes a professional,

almost mechanical, matter, and one cannot wonder at it when one sees

the stream of wounded passing through. I was told that the wounds

of the Germans heal better and quicker than those of the Frenchmen,

whatever the reason may be. But plainly the psychological factor has

something to do with this also.

To this must be added another point of view--the wounds of the

Frenchmen are usually more malignant than those of the Germans.

Whilst the former are all too frequently hit in the lungs, stomach or

abdomen, the Germans in the great majority of cases are wounded in the

shoulders, arms and legs. It becomes obvious that the Germans must keep

closer to the ground and are more skilled in using cover. It would be

interesting to know exactly in what measure this point is affected

by the French army uniform, the dark-blue tunic and the bright red

trousers, exactly the same as worn in 1870-71. This dress obviously

presents a most excellent target, whilst the Germans with their grey

field uniforms and grey headgear merge into their environment.

We were talking in this strain as we were leaving the hospital, and

the young doctors were inexhaustible in their stories of what they had

experienced during their work at Treves. It was not only the barracks

that had been converted into hospitals--churches and schools had

also been requisitioned. “But how do the children get on with their

schooling if the schools are turned into hospitals?” “Well, it is

this way. Since the younger professors and masters were called to the

war, older teachers, both men and women, have turned up from almost

everywhere and carry on the work to the best of their ability. Thus

they earn a little money which they badly need in these hard war times.”

We also spoke, of course, about the unceasing stream of wounded who

are being brought into Germany. The seriously wounded and those not

expected to recover are kept near the front, as they cannot stand being

moved. But the lightly wounded, or at all events those who can stand

the journey, are sent home. Soldiers who have had a bullet through the

hand or a flesh wound in the arm, may, if they wish it, go straight

home to their people. In such cases, on leaving the army, they are

provided with the receipt which entitles them to free medical care at

home. They must then attend daily at a certain hour at the doctor’s for

examination; when fully recovered they return to their own regiment.

Soon I suppose there will not be a single village in Germany without

its war hero and its Iron Cross. One can imagine the pride and joy with

which a son is received on returning home after his deeds of valour,

and the heartfelt good wishes which accompany him when for the second

time he leaves for the front!

I was told that a fresh train-load of wounded was expected at Treves at

half-past twelve the same night. The doctors were holding themselves in

readiness to receive another avalanche of exhausted and maimed heroes.

Our doctors told us that when the train stopped they used to go through

all the carriages to examine the patients. Those who were too bad to go

any further were carried on hammock-stretchers to the hospitals. The

others were allowed to go on after having their wounds redressed. This

is another phase of the struggle between life and death--the doctor on

the side of life struggling to snatch back those whom death has vainly

sought to capture on the battlefield.

To wind up our visit, we had a peep into a store-room, the floor of

which was encumbered with entire bales of cotton, gauze dressings,

oil cloth, sticking-plaster and bandages of all kinds. Entire railway

trains full of dressings and bandages, surgical instruments and drugs,

are constantly running east and west from the heart of Germany. Our

hospital at Treves was also permeated with a strong scent of carbolic,

ether and chloroform. When one sees the pale faces and red scars of

the wounded and the mountains of dressings, and when one inhales this

penetrating hospital odour, one almost seems to hear the ping of the

rifle bullets and the fierce shrieking of the shells. At such moments

the deep and horrible solemnity of war seems to draw closer, and one

realises indeed its sinister reality. Late in the evening, as we

wandered back in the wet to the _Trierischer Hof_, I felt that we were,

indeed, not far away from those parts of Europe where entire nations

are grappling in a life-and-death struggle.