FRENCH THOROUGHNESS
I Leave Vienna--I am Ordered Back--I Risk Proceeding on My
Journey--A Friendly Hungarian Officer--Over the Swiss Frontier--My
Frankness My Undoing--The French Super-Official--I am Detained
Somewhere in France--My Protests Unavailing--I am Suspected of
the Plague--Left Behind--_The Daily Mail_ to the Rescue--Profuse
Apologies--I Proceed to Paris--“You Will Never Convince
England”--London at Last--Rest.
I had only four hours in Vienna, and in that time there was a great
deal to do, which I had better not detail here lest I get someone into
trouble. The train for Feldkirch, the station on the Austrian-Swiss
frontier from which I had set out a few weeks previously, was just on
the point of starting when I climbed into the carriage, my hand luggage
being bundled in behind me.
I was beginning to breathe more freely now that I was on my way to
a neutral country. At the end of about an hour, when I really felt
justified in congratulating myself upon being practically safe, an
official came through to my compartment of the train, asking to see
the passport of each passenger. He examined mine with that slow and
irritating deliberation peculiar to these officials, and, looking up
suddenly, said:
“This has not been signed by the police.”
“What police?” I inquired.
“The police of Vienna,” he responded.
“Surely that is not necessary,” I remarked. “I only arrived by the
Balkan Express at three o’clock, and had my passport stamped at the
station.” It will be remembered that I had insisted upon this being
done, foreseeing possible difficulties.
“I am afraid,” he said, “that you will have to get out at the next
station and go back.” He was extremely polite, but very firm.
I said that I was just returning from a most important visit, and
showed him the document which I had obtained at the War Office (the
Kriegsministerium Pressbureau) in Vienna, and which had already many
times saved the situation.
“Well, if you can satisfy the frontier authorities,” he replied, “I
have nothing to say.”
I became very uneasy, but I decided to proceed. It would indeed be
an irony if I were to be discovered within hail of safety. I slept
very little that night, and when we arrived at Feldkirch, on the
following afternoon, I braced myself up for a final struggle with the
authorities. I looked about me anxiously to see if the official whom
I had encountered in the train had come on to Feldkirch, and I was
greatly relieved that he was nowhere to be seen.
We were all ushered into a large waiting-room, the same waiting-room
that I had entered a few weeks previously when setting out on my
journey. One by one the other passengers were admitted to the adjoining
room, just as they had been admitted previously, and at the same
table were to be seen five military officers, smoking, and sitting in
judgment. As I entered the room I felt like a prisoner going up the
steps to the dock at the Old Bailey to receive sentence.
However, the good fortune that has attended me throughout my journey
did not desert me at the last moment, for my examining officer was a
very nice young Hungarian, who was so interested in the narrative of
my journey, and what I had seen in Constantinople, that he subjected
my papers to a very cursory examination. The papers themselves were,
thanks to my careful precautions, in perfect order save for the absence
of the ridiculous and unnecessary superscription by the police at
Vienna. This young officer then accompanied me to the train, gave me
his card, and asked me to look him up next time I was in Buda Pesth.
Needless to say I shall not do so, but he was not in the least to blame
for passing me through. The worst he could have done would have been to
send me back to Vienna that my passport might be signed by the police,
and my friend the Hofrat would have seen that no difficulty would be
allowed to arise in that direction.
Once over the frontier at Buchs in Switzerland, I breathed as a
prisoner might be expected to breathe on regaining his freedom. For
seven weeks I had been in constant danger of discovery, and during
that time I had been forced to act and dissimulate, and for ever
watch myself and others lest some chance remark of mine might arouse
suspicion in the minds of those about me. The mental strain had been
tremendous, and this had reacted upon the body, for during those seven
weeks I lost more than a stone in weight.
I do not think that I am a coward, at least not a greater coward than
the average man, but I was greatly delighted to find myself safe once
more. No one who has not been through such an experience as mine can
understand the feeling of elation and delight that comes with the
knowledge that at last he is absolutely a free man.
My journey from Constantinople to Switzerland had probably established
a record, at least since the beginning of the war; but, alas! my
future progress was not to be so rapid. The officials at the French
frontier were far more exacting than those of the enemy country through
which I had passed, and I cheerfully tender this tribute as to their
efficiency, although at the same time I should like them to know that
they caused me considerable inconvenience. At Berne I had to wait
four hours for the train, which no longer goes direct to Paris, the
passengers having to change at Pontarlier. On the previous occasion
when I had travelled by that route the train had travelled direct from
Berne to Paris. The reason for this change I discovered was that it had
been found that spies secreted documents in the carriages before being
personally examined, and when they were “passed” they recovered their
missing papers and continued the journey with the documents upon them.
Accordingly the authorities very wisely so arranged it that passengers
had to change trains at Pontarlier on the Swiss-French frontier. It
will be seen that cleverness and subtlety are not the monopoly of the
Germans.
At one time Pontarlier looked like being the Waterloo of my little
trip. By certain means--which it is not my intention to disclose--I
had placed myself in a position that I could verify every stage of
my journey by documents, which I intended to produce should the
Germans deny the veracity of my statements, or should my truthfulness
be questioned in other quarters. Knowing the Germans as I do, I am
convinced that Dr. Hammann, the head of the German Press Bureau, would
adopt one of two courses. He would either forbid the publication in the
German newspapers of a single word of my story, or he would frankly
challenge its accuracy. Apparently he has chosen the former course, as
not a word about it has appeared in any German paper, or Austrian, for
that matter, most of which I see. The German accounts of the Banquet at
Nish represent the Kaiser as in a merry mood. What a travesty of truth!
As I was now in France, and conscious of my own sympathies with the
Allies, I thought that there would be no harm in disclosing the whole
of my documents. Accordingly when my turn came to be examined by the
_commissaire_, I said straight out that I had come from Constantinople.
Instead of being hailed as a hero, I was given to understand, albeit
politely, that in all probability I had adopted this course of showing
all my papers because I was not merely a spy, but a super-spy, who
had conceived the brilliant idea that the best plan of getting past
the French authorities was to affect an attitude of colossal candour.
In vain I protested and expostulated. In vain I pointed out that it
was essential that I should arrive in London with the utmost possible
expedition. I suggested that if they distrusted me they could send
with me an official, every official they possessed for that matter,
whose expenses I would pay to Paris, where they could easily satisfy
themselves at the Paris office of _The Daily Mail_ that I was what I
represented myself to be. Talk of German thoroughness, German caution,
and German patriotism! The Germans have much to learn from those
excessively courteous but severe French officials, who cannot be won
over by the flattery which goes so far in Germany. If the official I
had encountered thought that I was a super-spy, I am convinced that he
was a super-official. Now that it is all over I have for him nothing
but admiration, but at the time his persistent courtesy made me feel
that I should like to hit him.
Nothing would satisfy him but that I should be stripped, and this
fact he conveyed to me in the most courteous phraseology, at which I
suggested with some acerbity that he would still be courteous even were
he leading me to the guillotine! None the less, stripped I had to be.
My collection of papers, which has proved a source of such interest to
so many distinguished and highly placed people in this country, was
minutely examined, and certain maps and other important documents,
whose interest is rather military than journalistic, were temporarily
taken from me. I was in a panic of anxiety. The minutes were passing,
and the time for the Paris train to start was drawing near. I implored
the authorities to telephone to Paris, and then it was that they
played their trump card. They intimated that seeing I had come through
Austria, and understanding that the Plague was prevalent in Hungary,
they felt obliged to detain me for medical examination next morning. It
was then midnight. Neither my expostulations nor my entreaties produced
the least effect upon the impassively polite Frenchman. I verily
believe that had there been no Plague in Hungary as an excuse for my
detention, that they would have had me examined for foot-and-mouth
disease, glanders, or rinderpest. One of the most anguishing moments
of my life was when I heard the Paris express slowly moving out of the
station. I, of all the passengers, being the only one left behind, and
I of all the passengers the one in the greatest hurry to get to Paris.
Soon philosophy came to my aid, and I argued that how like life it
was. After the many risks that I had run in enemy countries, where I
had never been even detained by the officials, here was I, immediately
on getting to what should have been friendly soil, being examined and
cross-examined and re-examined again and again by officials whose every
word spoke suspicion. I had been equal to every previous examination
to which I had been subjected, and here was I stranded at the very
moment of success in the country of one of the Allies for whom I had so
great an admiration. “_Gott im Himmel!_” I muttered, “spare me from my
friends.”
Within a few minutes of the departure of the train there came a reply
by telephone from Paris guaranteeing my integrity, accompanied by
a request that every possible facility should be given to me. This
produced an official _volte face_. The courtesy remained the same, but
there were full and adequate apologies. The French authorities seemed
genuinely distressed at the inconvenience they had caused me. Indeed,
nothing could be more kindly and courteous than the treatment I
received at Pontarlier. In spite of the delay that these men had caused
me, I respected them for their thoroughness. It is better in war time
to err, if error there must be, on the side of caution.
I doubt if I could have written these friendly words at the time. I
was feeling too irritated to recognise virtue in anyone, least of all
in a French official. There was no train until five o’clock the next
afternoon, and that, I was informed, was an omnibus train, stopping at
every station between Pontarlier and Dijon.
By taking it rather than wait for the later express, I was informed,
I should save two hours on the road to Paris. The Hotel de la Poste,
at Pontarlier, had long since been asleep, but I aroused it, delighted
at the opportunity of myself being able to inconvenience somebody
else, and I spent a wretched night of chagrin and worry. Would there
be further difficulties? Should I ever get to London? Should I for any
possible reason be detained in Paris? It must be remembered that I had
a great story burning in my brain. None but a journalist can understand
that instinct which prompts a man who has obtained “good copy” to dash
for the nearest point where that copy can be turned into print.
Only those who have moved about in war time with documents and maps in
their possession have the least conception of the difficulties that
arise with the authorities, who naturally have every reason to be
suspicious.
It was at three o’clock in the afternoon on January 25th, exactly a
week after the historic Banquet at Nish, that I reached London, and
without a pause proceeded to the offices of _The Daily Mail_, where I
had scarcely sufficient strength to write the account of my meeting
with the Kaiser at Nish. I then made for my hotel, enjoyed a luxurious
bath, and a long, long sleep. I was utterly exhausted.
It must be remembered that I had been travelling continuously for a
week, that is, from the evening of the Banquet at Nish, January 18th,
until three o’clock on the afternoon of the 25th. In Serbia and Austria
all the sleeping-cars had been requisitioned by the authorities, which
added greatly to the fatigues of travel; but I had the satisfaction of
knowing that I had carried out my instructions, and had brought back
what I had been told to bring back--a living story.
I have had the satisfaction of opening the eyes of the British public
to the strange migration of Germans to the Near East. I can tell them
with a conviction, that with me is almost passionate, that unless the
Allies obtain a smashing victory, the German occupation of Asia Minor
will threaten England’s hold on India, England’s hold on Egypt, the
Russian security in the Caucasus, and will open up to Germany a vast
granary that will completely destroy the effect of the British Blockade
and alter the whole history of the world. I am not an alarmist, I am a
journalist who has seen many strange things, things which no other man
of either a neutral or Entente Power has seen, and being a journalist
I understand to some extent the relation of cause and effect. “You will
never convince England of her danger,” someone recently remarked to me.
“But why?” I asked; “what possible object can I have in exaggerating
or lying? I am not a politician, I am not even an Englishman, and
certainly I feel very deeply the danger the Entente cause is running,
owing to the spell of apathy that seems to have fallen upon certain
sections of the public.” My friend’s reply was a smile.
It has been a great pleasure to me, too, to be the instrument of
showing how a highly organised newspaper can act as an effective means
of obtaining information for a nation at war. The police of this
country have long since recognised the value of the Press in detecting
crime, and I think the Government will now have an equal respect for
the journalist as a secret service agent, albeit an honorary one. I
know of at least one newspaper that has a most wonderful organisation
in the enemy countries for securing information, and that organisation
is not excelled by any Government of the Entente Powers.
One word of warning to British officials at present occupying posts
as Consuls and Ministers. They must appreciate the fact that this
war concerns their country’s very existence, and they must not allow
themselves to be lulled to a false security by mendacious statements
that appear in the press. One distinguished English diplomatist in
a neutral country, a man whose name is well known in the diplomatic
world, said to me only a few weeks ago, “And do those silly Germans
really think they are going to win?” and his remark was accompanied by
a superior and incredulous smile.
“Why, of course, they do,” I replied, “and unless England wakes up
perhaps they will.” I felt annoyed with the man.