A furious fight is going on in the village street. Fists and tongues
striving to outdo each other. _Les Prussiens_, of course. I think if
the earth opened and swallowed us up we should at once attribute it
to German atrocities! But this time the aubergiste is cuffing the
picturesque poacher for something that gentleman has done.
“Brave garçon,” sneers a passer-by.
“Malain,” retorts the poacher fiercely.
The peasants fling themselves on the malcontents and proclaim a truce.
They argue rightly that only fools quarrel in war-time.
Truth will out. There is method in the aubergiste’s madness. The
poacher has confessed that he was responsible for our recent danger.
Yesterday, it seems, he shot at a hare in the woods three miles away.
A slender thread of evidence on which to convict us of treason, but
apparently any excuse is sufficient for these arrogant Germans.
I add my voice to the storm of eloquent advice, “Tickle trout, trap
hares, lay night-lines, make use of any and every device known to the
poaching mind, but _do not shoot_.”
The culprit slinks meekly round the corner, still puffing at his
curved-stem pipe. But I think he has learnt his lesson and will not be
seen on the hills for some time to come....
The Uhlans are certainly a queer lot. We have ample opportunities of
studying them, as they are for ever pushing forward, on their mission
of patrolling the countryside. No sooner have we become accustomed
to one troop and may congratulate ourselves our lives are safe, than
another arrives to take its place. Sometimes they return in the
evening, half without horses, or with the full complement of horses but
the riders gone.
Of one patrol which went out scouting yesterday to Laroche, only the
officer came back. Someone informed the French cavalry at a village
near, and they cunningly laid an ambuscade in the wood at Samrée and
cut them off. The greeny-grey uniform saved the German officer. He
threw himself flat in the pine dust and managed to escape and make his
way back to Manhay, footsore and weary. I saw him sitting on the bank
by the roadside near the village last night, writing a letter to his
mother. He was little more than a lad. “I shall never see her again,”
he said, crying. No more he will. He was killed to-day....
The Germans, though brave, seem inferior to the French in their
scouting methods. Time and again small French patrols would cut them
off, exercising superior finesse. One day in a skirmish outside
the village, however, the Uhlans beat the French. An officer was
triumphantly borne away prisoner to Werboumont. How thrilled we were at
the sight of the culotte rouge. If there had only been more of them and
free!
No one speaks of the men in skirts any more. The continuous stream of
trains that was carrying the Highlanders into Liège have gone the way
of all myths. The enthusiasm for the English is slightly on the wane.
“They ought to come soon,” the peasants mutter discontentedly. “Without
doubt they have their plan of campaign,” says little M. Job, who is
always trusting.
Early morning and late at night is the time when we have the Uhlans
mostly with us. It is nothing for them to call at 6 a.m. for breakfast,
and they arrive in boisterous spirits (when they have suffered no
losses) and call for beer at night.
They seem to have an extraordinary love for music—or noise. They do
not know in the least what they are going to war about, but most of
them ask for a piano. The wheezy hotel gramophone affords them sheer
delight. They must make music to-day if they die to-morrow. “À Paris,
à Paris!” is the cry of the more enthusiastic, but “I’d rather be at
home” is the qualifying statement of not a few.
One soldier confesses he feels the cord tightening round his neck each
day. “Every advance means more danger,” says another gloomily. A third
shows me his cartridge case. “Four for the enemy, one for the Kaiser,”
is his pithy comment. There is an infectious air of gaiety about the
frontier-sheltered lads, which is lacking in those who have once been
shot over. As for the men with sad faces, it is enough to see their
hands. They usually wear a wedding ring on the third finger.
The soldiers have remarkable ideas on the subject of the present
campaign. Many honestly believe, and have probably been told so by
their officers, that Belgium wantonly declared war on Germany. They
say gleefully, “all the world is against us,” and tick off the various
countries on their fingers. They simulate nothing but contempt for
all concerned—except the French. Of them they have a wholesome awe.
Perhaps they are right. A man’s punch must have an extra kick in it
when backed by three decades of hate....
“Russia! The Cossacks look fierce, but they run away,” say the Uhlans.
“England. A mere handful of men. What are a hundred and fifty thousand
to us.” They jerk their thumbs over the shoulders as though casting
England to the deuce. “The French, yes. Terrible men, the French. But
we shall win.”
I hope they will meet the English soon and get their ideas put right,
as they surely will....