WHEN SKIES WERE BLUE
There was one more passenger, making three, in our first-class
compartment in the all-day express train from Cologne to Berlin
after it left Hanover. He was a naval officer of about forty-five,
clean-cut, alert, clearly an intelligent man. His manner was
proud, but not objectionably so.
The same might be said of the manner of the major who had sat
opposite me since the train left Dusseldorf. I had been in Germany
less than thirty hours and was feeling my way carefully, so I made
no attempt to enter into conversation. Just before lunch the
jolting of the train deposited the major's coat at my feet. I
picked it up and handed it to him. He received it with thanks and
a trace of a smile. He was polite, but icily so. I was an
American, he was a German officer. In his way of reasoning my
country was unneutrally making ammunition to kill himself and his
men. But for my country the war would have been over long ago.
Therefore he hated me, but his training made him polite in his
hate. That is the difference between the better class of army and
naval officers and diplomats and the rest of the Germans.
When he left the compartment for the dining-car he saluted and
bowed stiffly. When we met in the narrow corridor after our return
from lunch, each stepped aside to let the other pass in first. I
exchanged with him heel-click for heel-click, salute for salute,
waist-bow for waist-bow, and after-you-my-dear-Alphonse sweep of
the arm for you-go-first-my-dear-Gaston motion from him. The
result was that we both started at once, collided, backed away and
indulged in all the protestations and gymnastics necessary to beg
another's pardon, in military Germany. At length we entered,
erected a screen of ice between us, and alternately looked from one
another to the scenery hour after hour.
The entrance of the naval officer relieved the strain, for the two
branches of the Kaisers armed might were soon--after the usual
gymnastics--engaged in conversation. They were not men to discuss
their business before a stranger. Once I caught the word
Amerikaner uttered in a low voice, but though their looks told that
they regarded me as an intruder in their country they said nothing
on that point.
At Stendal we got the Berlin evening papers, which had little of
interest except a few lines about the _Ancona_ affair between
Washington and Vienna.
"Do you think Austria will grant the American demands?" the man in
grey asked the man in blue.
"Austria will do what Germany thinks best. Personally, I hope that
we take a firm stand. I do not believe in letting the United
States tell us how to conduct the war. We are quite capable of
conducting it and completing it in a manner satisfactory to
ourselves."
The man in grey agreed with the man in blue.
Past the blazing munition works at Spandau, across the Havel,
through the Tiergarten, running slowly now, to the
_Friedrichstrasse Bahnhof_.
A bewildering swirl of thoughts rushed through my head as I stepped
out on the platform. More than three months ago I had left London
for my long, circuitous journey to Berlin. I had planned and
feared, planned and hoped. The German spy system is the most
elaborate in the world. Only through a miracle could the
Wilhelmstrasse be ignorant of the fact that I had travelled all
over Europe during the war for the hated British Press. I could
only hope that the age of miracles had not passed.
The crowd was great, porters were as scarce as they used to be
plentiful, I was waiting for somebody, so I stood still and took
note of my surroundings.
Across the platform was a long train ready to start west, and from
each window leaned officers and soldiers bidding good-bye to groups
of friends. The train was marked _Hannover_, _Koln_, _Lille_. As
though I had never known it before, I found myself saying, "Lille
is in France, and those men ride there straight from here."
The train on which I had arrived had pulled out and another had
taken its place. This was marked _Posen_, _Thorn_, _Insterburg_,
_Stalluponen_, _Alexandrovo_, _Vilna_. As I stood on that platform
I felt Germany's power in a peculiar but convincing way. I had
been in Germany, in East Prussia, when the Russians were not only
in possession of the last four places named, but about to threaten
the first two.
Now the simple printed list of stations on the heavy train about to
start from the capital of Germany to Vilna, deep in Russia, was an
awe-inspiring tribute to the great military machine of the
Fatherland. For a moment I believed in von Bethmann-Holweg's talk
about the "map of Europe."
I was eager to see how much Berlin had changed, for I knew it at
various stages of the war, but I cannot honestly say that the
changes which I detected later, and which I shall deal with in
subsequent chapters of this book--changes which are absorbingly
interesting to study on the spot and vitally important in the
progress and outcome of the war--were very apparent then.
In the dying days of 1915 I found the people of Berlin almost as
supremely confident of victory, especially now since Bulgaria's
entrance had made such sweeping changes in the Balkans, as they
were on that day of cloudless blue, the first of August, 1914, when
the dense mass swayed before the Royal Palace, to see William II
come out upon the balcony to bid his people rise to arms. Eyes
sparkled, cheeks flushed, the buzz changed to cheering, the
cheering swelled to a roar. The army which had been brought to the
highest perfection, the army which would sweep Europe--at last the
German people could see what it would do, would show the world what
it would do. The anticipation intoxicated them.
An American friend told me of how he struggled toward the
_Schloss_, but in the jam of humanity got only as far as the
monument of Frederick the Great. There a youth threw his hat in
the air and cried: "_Hock der Krieg, Hock der Krieg_!" (Hurrah for
the war).
That was the spirit that raged like a prairie fire.
An old man next to him looked him full in the eyes. "_Der Krieg
ist eine ernste Sache, Junge_!" (War is a serious matter, young
man), he said and turned away. He was in the crowd, but not of it.
His note was discordant. They snarled at him and pushed him
roughly. They gloried in the thought of war. They were certain
that they were invincible. All that they bad been taught, all the
influences on their lives convinced them that nothing could stand
before the _furor teutonicus_ once it was turned loose.
Delirious days when military bands blared regiment after regiment
through lines of cheering thousands; whole companies deluged with
flowers, long military trains festooned with blossoms and greenery
rolling with clock-like regularity from the stations amid
thunderous cheers. Sad partings were almost unknown, for, of
course, no earthly power could withstand the onslaughts of the
Kaiser's troops. God was with them--even their belts and helmets
showed that. So, "Good-bye for six weeks!"
The 2nd of September is Sedan Day, and in 1914 it was celebrated as
never before. A great parade was scheduled, a parade which would
show German prowess. Though I arrived in "Unter den Linden" two
hours before the procession was due, I could not get anywhere near
the broad central avenue down which it would pass. I chartered a
taxi which had foundered in the throng, and perched on top. The
Government, always attentive to the patriotic education of the
children, had given special orders for such occasions. The little
ones were brought to the front by the police, and boys were even
permitted to climb the sacred Linden trees that they might better
see what the Fatherland had done.
The triumphal column entered through the Kaiser Arch of the
Brandenburger Tor, and bedlam broke loose during the passing of the
captured cannon of Russia, France, and Belgium--these last cast by
German workmen at Essen and fired by Belgian artillerists against
German soldiers at Liege.
The gates of Paris! Then the clear-cut German official reports
became vague for a few days about the West, but had much of
Hindenburg and victory in the East. Democracies wash their dirty
linen in public, while absolute governments tuck theirs out of
sight, where it usually disappears, but sometimes unexpectedly
develops spontaneous combustion.
Nobody--outside of the little circle--questioned the delay in
entering Paris. Everything was going according to plan, was the
saying. I suppose sheep entertain a somewhat similar attitude when
their leader conducts them over a precipice. Antwerp must be taken
first--that was the key to Paris and London. Such was the gossip
when the scene was once more set in Belgium, and the great Skoda
mortars pulverised forts which on paper were impregnable. Many a
time during the first days of October I left my glass of beer or
cup of tea half finished and rushed from cafe and restaurant with
the crowd to see if the newspaper criers of headlines were
announcing the fall of the fortress on the Scheldt, How those
people discussed the terms of the coming early peace, terms which
were not by any means easy! Berlin certainly had its thumbs turned
down on the rest of Europe.
With two other Americans I sat with a group of prosperous Berliners
in their luxurious club. Waiters moved noiselessly over costly
rugs and glasses clinked, while these men seriously discussed the
probable terms Germany would soon impose on a conquered continent.
Belgium would, of course, be incorporated into the German Empire,
and Antwerp would be the chief outlet for Germany's commerce--and
how that commerce would soon boom at the expense of Great Britain!
France would now have an opportunity to develop her socialistic
experiments, as she would be permitted to maintain only a very
small army. The mistake of 1870 must not be repeated. This time
there would be no paltry levy of five billion francs. A great
German Empire would rise on the ruins of the British. Commercial
gain was the theme. I did not gather from the conversation that
anybody but Germany would be a party to the peace.
A man in close touch with things military entered at midnight. His
eyes danced as he gave us new information about Antwerp. Clearly
the city was doomed.
I did not sleep that night. I packed. Next evening I was in
Holland. I saw a big story, hired a car, picked up a _Times_
courier, and, after "fixing" things with the Dutch guards, dashed
for Antwerp. The long story of a retreat with the rearguard of the
Belgian Army has no place here. But there were scenes which
contrasted with the boasting, confident, joyous capital I had left.
Belgian horses drawing dejected families, weeping on their
household goods, other families with everything they had saved
bundled in a tablecloth or a handkerchief. Some had their
belongings tied on a bicycle, others trundled wheel-barrows.
Valuable draught dogs, harnessed, but drawing no cart, were led by
their masters, while other dogs that nobody thought of just
followed along. And tear-drenched faces everywhere. Back in
Bergen-op-Zoom and Putten I had seen chalk writing on brick walls
saying that members of certain families had gone that way and would
wait in certain designated places for other members who chanced to
pass. On the road, now dark, and fringed with pines, I saw a faint
light flicker. A group passed, four very old women tottering after
a very old man, he holding a candle before him to light the way.
As I jotted down these things and handed them to my courier I
thought of the happy faces back in Berlin, of jubilant crowds
dashing from restaurants and cafes as each newspaper edition was
shouted out, and I knew that the men in the luxurious club were
figuring out to what extent they could mulct Belgium.
I pressed on in the dark and joined the Belgian army and the
British Naval Brigade falling back before the Germans. I came upon
an American, now captain of a Belgian company. "It's a damn shame,
and I hate to admit it," he said, "but the Allies are done for."
That is the way it looked to us in the black hours of the retreat.
Soldiers were walking in their sleep. Some sank, too exhausted to
continue. An English sailor, a tireless young giant, trudged on
mile after mile with a Belgian soldier on his back. Both the
Belgian's feet had been shot off and tightly bound handkerchiefs
failed to check the crimson trail.
London and Paris were gloomy, but Berlin was basking in the bright
morning sunshine of the war.
Although the fronts were locked during the winter, the German
authorities had good reason to feel optimistic about the coming
spring campaign. They knew that they had increased their munition
output enormously, and their spies told them that Russia had
practically run out of ammunition, while England had not yet
awakened to the realisation that this is a war of shells.
The public saw the result in the spring. The armies of the Tsar
fell back all along the line, while in Germany the flags were
waving and the bells of victory were pealing.
All through this there was unity in Germany, a unity that the
Germans felt and gloried in. "No other nation acts as one man in
this wonderful time as do we Germans," they told the stranger again
and again. Unity and Germany became synonymous in my mind.
Love of country and bitterness against the enemy are intensified in
a nation going to war. It is something more than this, however,
which has imbued and sustained the flaming spirit of Germany during
this war. In July, 1914, the Government deliberately set out to
overcome two great forces. The first was the growing section of
her anti-militaristic citizens, and the second was the combination
of Great Powers which she made up her mind she must fight sooner or
later if she would gain that place in the sun which had dazzled her
so long.
Her success against the opposition within her was phenomenal.
Germany was defending herself against treacherous attack--that was
the watchword. The Social Democrats climbed upon the band-waggon
along with the rest for the joy-ride to victory, and they remained
on the band-waggon for more than a year--then some of them dropped
off.
The story of how all Germans were made to think as one man is a
story of one of the greatest phenomena of history. It is my
purpose in the next few chapters to show how the German Government
creates unity. Then, in later chapters, I will describe the forces
tending to disintegrate that wonderful unity.
Germany entered the war with the Government in control of all the
forces affecting public opinion. The only way in which newspaper
editors, reporters, lecturers, professors, teachers, theatre
managers, and pulpit preachers could hope to accomplish, anything
in the world was to do something to please the Government. To
displease the Government meant to be silenced or to experience
something worse.