week afterward,--destroyed his fences, broken his apple trees,
accepted his hospitality, I had the amazing nerve to borrow money from
him. I had no choice in the matter, for I was a long way from Verdun,
with only eighty centimes in my pocket. Had there been time I would
have walked rather than ask him for the loan. He granted it gladly,
and insisted upon giving me double the amount which I required.
I promised to go back some day for a visit. First I will do acrobacy
over the church steeple, and then, if the cows are not in the pasture,
I am going to land, _comme une fleur_, as we airmen say, on that
hill.
XII
CAFARD
It is mid-January, snowing, blowing, the thermometer below zero. We
have done no flying for five days. We have read our most recent
magazines from cover to cover, including the advertisements, many of
which we find more interesting, better written, than the stories. We
have played our latest phonograph record for the five hundred and
ninety-eighth time. Now we are hugging our one stove, which is no
larger than a length of good American stove-pipe, in the absurd hope
of getting a fleeting promise of heat.
Boredom, insufferable boredom. There is no American expression--there
will be soon, no doubt--for this disease which claims so many victims
from the Channel coast to the borders of Switzerland. The British have
it without giving it a name. They say "Fed up and far from home." The
more inventive French call it "Cafard."
Our outlook upon life is warped, or, to use a more seasonable
expression, frozen. We are not ourselves. We make sarcastic remarks
about one another. We hold up for ridicule individual peculiarities of
individuality. Some one, tiring of this form of indoor sports, starts
the phonograph again.
Wind, wind, wind (the crank)
Kr-r-r-r-r-r-r (the needle on the disk)
La-dee-dum, dee-doodle, di-dee-day (the orchestral introduction)
Sometimes when I feel sad
And things look blue,
I wish the boy I had
Was one like you--
"For the love of Pete! Shut off that damn silly thing!"
"I admire your taste, Irving!"
"Can it!"
"Well, what will you have, then?"
"Play that Russian thing, the 'Danse des Buffons.'"
"Don't play anything."
"Lord! I wish some one would send us some new records."
"Yes, instead of knitted wristers--what?"
"And mufflers."
"Talking about wristers, how many pair do you think I've received?
Eight!"
"You try to head 'em off. Doesn't do any good. They keep coming just
the same."
"It's because they are easy to make. Working wristers and mufflers is
a method of dodging the knitting draft."
"Well, now, I call that gratitude! You don't deserve to have any
friends."
"Isn't it the truth? Have you ever known of a soldier or an aviator
who wore wristers?"
"I give mine to my mechanician. He sends them home, and his wife
unravels the yarn and makes sweaters for the youngsters."
"Think of the waste energy. Harness up the wrist-power and you could
keep three aircraft factories going day and night."
"Oh, well, if it amuses the women, what's the difference?"
"That's not the way to look at it. They ought to be doing something
useful."
"Plenty of them are; don't forget that, old son."
"Anybody got anything to read?"
"Now, if they would send us more books--"
"And magazines--"
"Two weeks ago, Blake, you were wishing they wouldn't send so many."
"What of it? We were having fine weather then."
"There ought to be some system about sending parcels to the front."
"The Germans have it, they say. Soldier wants a book, on engineering,
for example, or a history, or an anthology of recent poetry. Gets it
at once through Government channels."
"Say what you like about the Boches, they don't know the meaning of
waste energy."
"But you can't have method and efficiency in a democracy."
"There you go! Same old fallacy!"
"No fallacy about it! Efficiency and personal freedom don't go
together. They never have and they never will."
"And what does our personal freedom amount to? When you get down to
brass tacks, personal freedom is a mighty poor name for it, speaking
for four fifths of the population."
"Germany doesn't want it, our brand, and we can't force it on her."
"And without it, she has a mighty good chance of winning this war--"
When the talk begins with the uselessness of wristers, shifts from
that to democratic inefficiency, and from that to the probability of
_Deutschland über Alles_, you may be certain of the diagnosis. The
disease is _cafard_.
The sound of a motor-car approaching. Dunham rushes to the window and
then swears, remembering our greased-cloth window panes.
"Go and see who it is, Tiffin, will you? Hope it's the mail orderly."
Tiffin goes on outpost and reports three civilians approaching.
"Now, who can they be, I wonder?"
"Newspaper men probably."
"Good Lord! I hope not."
"Another American mission."
"That's my guess, too."
Rodman is right. It is another American mission coming to "study
conditions" at the front.
"But unofficially, gentlemen, quite unofficially," says Mr. A., its
head, a tall, melancholy-looking man, with a deep, bell-like voice.
Mr. B., the second member of the mission, is in direct contrast, a
birdlike little man, who twitters about the room, from group to group.
"Oh! If you boys only knew how _splendid_ you are! How much we in
America--You are our _first_ representatives at the front, you know.
You are the vanguard of the _millions_ who--" etc.
Miller looks at me solemnly. His eyes are saying, "How long, O Lord,
how long!"
Mr. C., the third member, is a silent man. He has keen, deep-set eyes.
"There," we say, "is the brain of the mission."
Tea is served very informally. Mr. A. is restless. He has something on
his mind. Presently he turns to Lieutenant Talbott.
"May I say a few words to your squadron?"
"Certainly," says Talbott, glancing at us uneasily.
Mr. A. rises, steps behind his chair, clears his throat, and looks
down the table where ten pilots,--the others are taking a
constitutional in the country,--caught in négligée attire by the
unexpected visitors, are sitting in attitudes of polite attention.
"My friends--" the deep, bell-like voice. In fancy, I hear a great
shifting of chairs, and following the melancholy eyes with my own,
over the heads of my ten fellow pilots, beyond the limits of our poor
little messroom, I see a long vista of polished shirt fronts, a
diminishing track of snowy linen, shimmering wineglasses, shining
silver.
"My friends, believe me when I say that this occasion is one of the
proudest and happiest of my life. I am standing within sound of the
guns which for three--long--years have been battering at the bulwarks
of civilization. I hear them, as I utter these words, and I look into
the faces of a little group of Americans who, day after day, and week
after week" (increasing emphasis) "have been facing those guns for the
honor and glory of democratic institutions" (rising inflection).
"We in America have heard them, faintly, perhaps, yet unmistakably,
and now I come to tell you, in the words of that glorious old war
song, 'We are coming, Father Woodrow, ONE HUN-DRED MIL-LION strong!'"
We listen through to the end, and Lieutenant Talbott, in his official
capacity, begins to applaud. The rest of us join in timidly,
self-consciously. I am surprised to find how awkwardly we do it. We
have almost forgotten how to clap our hands! My sense of the spirit of
place changes suddenly. I am in America. I am my old self there, with
different thoughts, different emotions. I see everything from my old
point of view. I am like a man who has forgotten his identity. I do
not recover my old, or, better, my new one, until our guests have
gone.
* * * * *
FROM A LETTER RECEIVED IN BOSTON, OCTOBER 1, 1918
OFFIZIERS-KRIEGSGEFANGENEN LAGER,
KARLSRUHE, BADEN, DEUTSCHLAND
_July 27, 1918_
I've been wondering about the ultimate fate of my poor old "High
Adventure" story, whether it was published without those long promised
concluding chapters which I really should have sent on had I not had
the misfortune to be taken prisoner. I hope the book has been
published, incomplete as it is. Not that I am particularly proud of
it as a piece of literature!
I told you briefly, on my card, how I happened to be taken prisoner.
We were a patrol of three and attacked a German formation at some
distance behind their lines. I was diving vertically on an Albatross
when my upper right plane gave way under the strain. Fortunately, the
structure of the wing did not break. It was only the fabric covering
it, which ripped off in great strips. I immediately turned toward our
lines and should have reached them, I believe, even in my crippled
condition; but by that time I was very low and under a heavy fire from
the ground. A German anti-air craft battery made a direct hit on my
motor. It was a terrific smash and almost knocked the motor out of the
frame. My machine went down in a spin and I had another of those
moments of intense fear common to the experience of aviators. Well, by
Jove! I hardly know how I managed it, but I kept from crashing nose
down. I struck the ground at an angle of about 30 degrees, the motor,
which was just hanging on, spilled out, and I went skidding along,
with the fuselage of the machine, the landing chassis having been
snapped off as though the braces were so many toothpicks. One of my
ankles was broken and the other one sprained, and my poor old nose
received and withstood a severe contact with my wind-shield. I've been
in hospital ever since until a week ago, when I was sent to this
temporary camp to await assignment to a permanent one. I now hobble
about fairly well with the help of a stick, although I am to be a lame
duck for several months to come, I believe.
Needless to say, the lot of a prisoner of war is not a happy one. The
hardest part of it is, of course, the loss of personal liberty. Oh! I
shall know how to appreciate that when I have it again. But we are
well treated here. Our quarters are comfortable and pleasant, and the
food as good as we have any right to expect. My own experience as a
prisoner of war and that of all the Frenchmen and Englishmen here with
whom I have talked, leads me to believe that some of those tales of
escaped or exchanged prisoners must have been highly imaginative. Not
that we are enjoying all the comforts of home. On the contrary, a
fifteen-cent lunch at a Child's restaurant would seem a feast to me,
and a piece of milk chocolate--are there such luxuries as chocolate in
the world? But for prisoners, I for one, up to this point, have no
complaint to make with respect to our treatment. We have a splendid
little library here which British and French officers who have
preceded us have collected. I didn't realize, until I saw it, how
book-hungry I was. Now I'm cramming history, biography, essays,
novels. I know that I'm not reading with any judgment but I'll soon
settle down to a more profitable enjoyment of my leisure. Yesterday
and to-day I've been reading "The Spoils of Poynton," by Henry James.
It is absurd to try cramming these. I've been longing for this
opportunity to read Henry James, knowing that he was Joseph Conrad's
master. "The Spoils of Poynton" has given me a foretaste of the
pleasure I'm to have. A prisoner of war has his compensations. Here
I've come out of the turmoil of a life of the most intense nervous
excitement, a life lived day to day with no thought of to-morrow,
into this other life of unlimited bookish leisure.
We are like monks in a convent. We're almost entirely out of touch
with the outside world. We hear rumors of what is taking place at the
front, and now and then get a budget of stale news from newly arrived
prisoners. But for all this we are so completely out of it all that it
seems as though the war must have come to an end. Until now this
cloistered life has been very pleasant. I've had time to think and to
make plans for a future which, comparatively speaking, seems assured.
One has periods of restlessness, of course. When these come I console
myself as best I may. Even for prisoners of war there are
possibilities for quite interesting adventure, adventure in
companionship. Thrown into such intimate relationships as we are here,
and under these peculiar circumstances, we make rather surprising
discoveries about ourselves and about each other. There are obvious
superficial effects which I can trace back to causes quite easily. But
there are others which have me guessing. By Jove! this is an
interesting place! Conrad would find material here which would set
him to work at once. I can imagine how he would revel in it.
Well, I'm getting to be a very wise man. I'm deeply learned in many
kinds, or, better, phases, of human psychology and I'm increasing my
fund of knowledge every day. Therefore, I've decided that, when the
war is over, I'll be no more a wanderer. I'll settle down in Boston
for nine months out of the year and create deathless literature. And
for vacations, I've already planned the first one, which is to be a
three months' jaunt by aeroplane up and down the United States east
and west, north and south. You will see the possibilities of adventure
in a trip of this sort. By limiting myself somewhat as to itinerary I
can do the thing. I've found just the man here to share the journey
with, an American in the British Air Force. He is enthusiastic about
the plan. If only I can keep him from getting married for a year or so
after getting home!
I had a very interesting experience, immediately after being taken
prisoner on May 7th. I was taken by some German aviators to their
aerodrome and had lunch with them before I was sent on to the
hospital. Some of them spoke English and some of them French, so that
there was no difficulty in conversing. I was suffering a good deal
from my twisted ankles and had to be guarded in my remarks because of
the danger of disclosing military information; but they were a fine
lot of fellows. They respected my reticence, and did all they could to
make me comfortable. It was with pilots from this squadron that we had
been fighting only an hour or so before. One of their number had been
killed in the combat by one of the boys who was flying with me. I sat
beside the fellow whom I was attacking when my wing broke. I was right
"on his tail," as we airmen say, when the accident occurred, and had
just opened fire. Talking over the combat with him in their pleasant
quarters, I was heartily glad that my affair ended as it did. I asked
them to tell me frankly if they did not feel rather bitterly toward me
as one of an enemy patrol which had shot down a comrade of theirs.
They seemed to be surprised that I had any suspicions on this score.
We had "a fair fight in an open field." Why should there be any
bitterness about the result. One of them said to me, "Hauptmann,
you'll find that we Germans are enemies of a country in war, but never
of the individual." My experience thus far leads me to believe that
this is true. There have been a few exceptions, but they were
uneducated common soldiers. Bitterness toward America there certainly
is everywhere, and an intense hatred of President Wilson quite equal
in degree and kind to the hatred in America of the emperor....
NORMAN HALL.