peeps out through the judas. Recognizing the commandant’s orderly, he
hastens to unbolt the gate, and respectfully draws aside, though without
going quite so far as to stand to attention as he would for the major
himself. The boot-polisher enters, firm of tread, head erect, giving a
gentle greeting. In the most dignified manner he makes his way to No. 34.
“_Grüss Gott, Georg!_” Conversation ensues between him and Brissot. Gold
coins pass from the French purse into the German, and the boot-polisher
takes his leave. “Now then, you chaps,” says Brissot, “let’s have dinner!”
To-day Brissot’s guests ate buttered eggs, herrings from the Baltic,
known here as “Bismarcks,” and a great dish of stewed pippins, all washed
down with the contents of a small barrel of cool beer, and cooked upon
an illicit stove by Loux, the colonial infantryman, a sabot-maker from
Bresse, cook-in-ordinary to Brissot.
Since this banquet, the sprightly Le Second, who in the kitchens had
already nicknamed our “salon” the “navel of Fort Orff,” has taken to
calling casemate No. 34 the “Capua of Fort Orff.”
The palliasse of the man who is averse to “squandering” is not far from
that on which Brissot and his guests were dining, semi-recumbent in
Roman fashion. The rat-hunter was watching their culinary activities.
When the time came to dispose of the herrings, he ran up, saying: “Don’t
squander the heads and the tails!”—“There you are, old chap.”—“That will
be fine seasoning to-morrow for my rats. These fish are dripping with
brine. Since the kitchens have been rationed in the matter of salt I have
found it impossible to get even a pinch from the cooks.” When the diners
attacked the pippins, each guest peeling a portion for the common stew,
the little soldier said: “Don’t squander the parings.” Nimble and lively
as a squirrel, he ran from one to another, receiving the strips of peel
in his képi as they fell from the knife.
I saw him next day under the birches, beaming with delight over his
stewpan. “Here’s plenty!” he said. “I have a rat, the apple peelings,
and the heads and tails of the Bismarcks! Best of all, they have just
turned out this straw here.”—“But the straw is contaminated. Surely you
know that this is the bedding from a lousy casemate.”—“What does that
matter? Fire purifies everything. It’s a devil of a business now to get
any wood in the fort. Reeds, raspberry canes, the lower branches of the
trees—they’ve all been burned. Some of our fellows are attacking the
timber-shores of the counterscarp and the lids of the latrines. But that
is a dangerous game. I don’t want to spend a week in the clink on bread
and water.”
With these words he began to throw the condemned straw by handfuls
between the two stones of his fireplace. What a smoke it made! From
time to time, with his hard and black fingers he lifted the scorching
lid of the mess-tin, saying, “Just look at this rat, it’s as large as a
guinea-pig!” Licking the stick with which he had been stirring his stew,
he exclaimed: “I assure you this will be excellent. The dash of fish
gives it a rare flavour!”—“But tell me,” I said, “what use do you make
of the Münster cheese-rind? The comrades have told me that you collect
it from them.”—“I put it in my bowl when I go for my ration of coffee.
It melts in the hot liquid. I give a stir, and then I have coffee with
cream. It beats caramel. If Brissot knew that, I bet you he’d keep the
rind for himself!”
Since yesterday, Brissot has been extremely put out. Germany is short of
men, and all the physically unfit have orders to present themselves for
re-examination. Upon receipt of his notice, Georg trembled. Providing
himself with a pair of large spectacles, he set out for Ingolstadt.
To gain the double end of having a good time and of making himself
look sickly, he went on the spree. It was of no avail; he was declared
_feldtauglich_, fit for active service.
Yesterday the commandant, walking between M. Langlois and me, observed:
“My _Diener_ has not come back yet from Ingolstadt. He is a good boy,
but he sometimes takes extraordinary ideas into his head. The other day
he asked my permission to present his sister to me. I agreed, and gave
him an afternoon’s leave to go and fetch her. I did not see him again for
three days. When he returned, he acknowledged that his ‘sister’ was a
lady-love from Ratisbon whom he was pining to see, and for whose journey
he had paid. This time I have sent him before the medical board, and he
has been away for two days! He is an excellent servant, but he has odd
ways.” Baron von Stengel laughed. I made answer: “_Herr Major_, your
_Bursch_ seems to me a smart man, lively and intelligent, and of imposing
appearance. I would rather be served by a clean and ready-witted rogue
than by a virtuous dullard.”—“I am quite of your opinion, monsieur Riou.”
Georg did not turn up until this morning. I was working at the
“ministerial” table. The eight cauldrons were steaming fiercely. The
kitchen was filled with vapour, so that I could hardly see what I was
writing. Suddenly some one tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round, to
find Brissot, accompanied by Georg. I shook them both by the hand.
“_Felduntauglich?_” (Ineligible?)
“_Nein! Donnerwetter!_”
“Georg wants you to do him a service,” said Brissot. “Will you translate
for him this letter to the French medical officers?”
I drew a sheet of paper from my haversack. Without studying the contents
of the petition as a whole, I translated it phrase by phrase, almost word
for word. This is what I wrote:
“HONOURED COMRADES,—
“In an unexpected manner, has struck the hour which summons me
to fight for my king and country. Like all of you, I must do my
duty; and, like all of you, it is possible that in a short time
I shall find myself in France (_sic_) as a prisoner of war. If
I encounter there men having like sentiments with myself, I
shall have no fears for the future. As far as I have been able,
I have fulfilled towards you and your comrades the duty of
loving one’s neighbour.
“An old proverb says: ‘What you do to me, I will do to you!’ I
trust that you also, honoured comrades, will take this proverb
to heart.
“I am a poor soldier who was orphaned in early childhood, and
who, from the age of eight upwards, had to live among strangers.
“From my sixteenth to my twenty-fourth year I have been a
wanderer in the world, and my experiences have been mingled of
good and evil.
“You will excuse me, honoured comrades, if I now venture to
make a request.
“Among your colleagues there must be some in a position to do
me a good turn.
“I beg the officers to allow a little collection to be made,
and shall be eternally grateful for this permission.
“Awaiting your favours, I remain, the most devoted of your
comrades,
“GEORG DOPPEL.
“PS.—I had some conversation yesterday with the principal
medical officer of the Ingolstadt hospital. He informed me that
there would be a continual exchange of medical officers and
of the personnel of the French medical department with German
prisoners.”
Without comment, I handed the letter to Brissot, who then said: “Georg
also wants you to give him a letter of introduction to the principal
medical officer.” It is a weakness of mine that I cannot say “no,” and I
therefore promptly wrote this note:
“MONSIEUR LE MÉDECIN-CHEF,—
“M. Georg Doppel has begged me to translate the accompanying
petition, and to give him a letter of introduction to you. In
my humble opinion, he has rendered services [I should have
liked to add the words ‘extremely onerous’] to many of our
comrades. For my own part, I shall gladly contribute to a
collection, if you think it well to permit one.
“Your affectionate soldier,
“GASTON RIOU.”
In a very few minutes, M. Langlois arrived. “Here’s a funny business!” he
cried, laughing with his mischievous eyes and all his fat and benevolent
little body. “This letter of Doppel’s is a pearl! I shall treasure it.
And the Parthian shaft-the postscript promising my own release! Doppel is
really a most amusing rascal.”
“And what are you going to do, monsieur le Médecin-chef? Are you going to
allow the collection?
“Certainly not. Hasn’t he fleeced us enough already? He ought to have put
something by.”
“No doubt. But he never thought they would send him to the front. He
imagined that he would be able to go on luxuriating at our expense in the
neighbouring villages, living like a lord, until the end of the war. The
fact is, he is pretty well cleared out!”
“Don’t you worry. I’ve been able to make his mind easy. I have just given
him a general letter of introduction to the French officers. If you had
seen him unbuttoning his tunic and putting away my letter in the pocket
of his shirt as if it had been a scapular! To be a prisoner in France
will be like heaven to him. I am sure that I have deprived Germany of a
rifle.”
* * * * *
Poor Georg! Poor Bavarian Gil Blas! You are of those who come to terms
frankly with their prejudices and their appetites. The service of king,
country, and religion; the precepts of morality: he has never had any
thought of violating these sacred things. He allows them to float vaguely
in his heaven and to widen the horizon of his thought, remote images
which it is obvious that people love, familiar lineaments of the region
in which he is accustomed to live. The idea has never entered his mind
to declare that the idols of his nation are false gods. He endeavours to
humbug them, but he believes in them. He is no scoundrel. He lacks the
unalloyed selfishness, the whole-hearted scepticism, characteristic of
the thoroughgoing knave, the successful brigand, the true diplomatist and
dealer in men. His actions are unscrupulous, not so his thoughts.
Hedonist, scapegrace, having at bottom the heart of a child,
indifferently adapting his practice to his beliefs or his beliefs to his
practice, he reveres in good faith, like most Germans, virtue, honour,
religion, the prince. With the grandiloquence natural to his race, he
embellishes in his own mind the most trifling of his private machinations.
A little while ago, a French comrade asked him to pay a debt. He frowned,
drew himself up, and assumed an offended air. Turning to d’Arnoult, who
was passing at the time, he said:
“When I think of the way in which, scorning the risk of death, I have
provided him with goods, how I have hazarded my life again and again to
bring him tobacco, and that he now dares, in your presence, to insult me
by asking for this paltry sum of twenty-four marks! I punish such a man
with my contempt.”
“Oh,” answered d’Arnoult commiseratingly, “don’t rub it in. You have
punished him enough already!”
Georg has a soaring imagination. He loves the great and the impressive,
that which breathes order and power. He loves his commanding officer.
He loves the royal army. He loves his uniform. He loves that civilians
should tremble before him. He loves to be admired. He loves to make a
heroic figure in the world. After one of our casual feasts, when Brissot
asks him to sing some Munich songs, he reserves always for the tit-bit
certain verses which he declares he wrote himself in praise of one of
his numerous _Geliebten_. We gather that in the village of Hepperg
alone six women are madly in love with him—the burgomaster’s wife, the
schoolmaster’s wife and sister, the wives of both the grocers, and the
belle of the countryside. “The seven nights of the week,” he gravely
assures us, “hardly suffice.” Whereupon, this Don Juan removes his cap
and takes a small collection from the guests. He is so expert a liar that
I suspect him of being the first victim of his own romances. Every one
knows him to be _felduntauglich_, a man unfit for active service. But
this is no hindrance to his having taken part in the battle of Dieuze and
to his having been wounded there by a French bullet! He bares his chest
and makes you touch the scar. Tarascon is situated much further to the
north than most people imagine.
On All Souls’ Day we went to the Ingolstadt cemetery. Détry and I carried
the wreath. Half hidden by the leafy garlands, tied with the French
colours, we set the pace firmly through the Theresienstrasse, which was
packed with townsmen come to stare at us, almost all in mourning—old men,
women, wounded soldiers on leave, and a noisy rout of children. There
were no hostile cries, as there had been two months earlier. Some of the
onlookers uncovered as we passed; the children loudly demanded buttons
as souvenirs, crying _Knopf_, _Knopf_, in a manner that was not at all
bellicose. We went at the quick march, eyes front, knowing well that we,
the prisoners, were the victors.
Our squad had a fine appearance. We had selected the best-looking and
tidiest of our men. Three of our medical officers, MM. Jeandidier of
Longwy, Romant of Marseilles, and Bouvat of Ardèche, sturdy figures all,
marched at the head, immediately behind the wreath. Eight Bavarians with
fixed bayonets escorted us. Lacking their spiked helmets, which they had
been compelled to hand over to men in the fighting-line, still with the
countryman’s slouch, for drill had not yet had time to take effect, their
stiff legs finding it difficult to accommodate themselves to our brisk
French pace, these peasant farmers and agricultural labourers made a poor
show. This also gave us pleasure. Among these good Swabians, our feelings
were much like those of the Athenians in Bœotia.
But Georg, who marches at my left as a supernumerary, wears a helmet.
Dapper, authoritative, disdainfully chiding his compatriots, he feels
that his mere presence serves to atone for the humble and awkward
bucolicism of the escort. At the cemetery he uncovers; he marshals
us around the sixty French graves. He follows the Latin prayers with
a thoughtful air. When, in accordance with a suggestion made by M.
Langlois, we then go to pray beside the graves of the German soldiers,
his eyes are moist. He remains dignified.
When the commemoration is over, and when, the rest of the little troop
having started back for the fort, the three medical officers, with
Durupt, Détry, and myself, go for a walk through the town under Georg’s
supervision, he suddenly declares himself in a great hurry to return.
“By the commandant-major’s orders we must be at Orff for dinner!”
“But it is only four o’clock!”
“We’ve a long way to walk.”
“Anyhow, by the commandant-major’s orders we have to go to the bank, the
bookseller, the tailor, and the surgical instrument maker.”
“Order? It is not an order. You can hardly call it a permission!”
“Never mind.”
So we go to the Königliche Bayerische Bank, where, in exchange for good
French gold, we receive packets of one mark notes; to the military
tailor, who, with the assistance of a plump and smiling wife, does his
best to find for us among the German reds one that sufficiently resembles
our scarlet; to the bookseller, whose window is beplastered with picture
postcards of Zeppelins flying over the Place de l’Opéra, of battles, of
soldiers in the death agony thinking of their fiancées (figured in the
corner of the card haloed in shining clouds); to the surgical instrument
maker, where Détry, our dentist, is careful not to supply all his needs
on this occasion, desiring an excuse for another visit to the town.
The boot-polisher hustles us on. Here we are in the street, three in
front, three behind, flanked by Georg’s bayonet.
All at once, seeing a pastrycook’s window, with a grand display of
buns and tarts beneath the lamps, with one impulse, without stopping
to parley, we hurl ourselves, all six, into the _Conditorei_. Georg
invokes all the devils of hell, but follows us. “Mange,” says Détry to
him, forcing him to sit down at a table loaded with custard tartlets and
éclairs. And we, who have been craving for sweet things for months, begin
to devour all that comes to our hands. Trembling with concupiscence, I
go to the counter, I take the mistress by the hand, and, my mouth full,
say to her: “Madame, you will be an angel if you can get me two pounds of
butter!” She does not sell butter, but a mother is never able to resist
the cry of a child, and she lets me have her own butter. “I can buy some
more,” she says with a smile. I open the show-cases: “Hullo, Suchard!
How much this pile?” She names the price. “There you are.” Then I spy
some little sponge-cakes coated with sugar. In a trice I have filled my
haversack, which I carry beneath my coat. Big-bellied as a Bavarian, I am
unable to rebutton.
“_Vorwärts!_” cries Georg, stuffed with good things. We pay our shot.
Leaving the pastrycook’s we overwhelm our gaoler with prayers: “Do let
us go to the ham and beef shop, to the tobacconist.…”—“It’s absolutely
impossible,” he cries. In reality, he dreads losing his commission! He
marches on at a terrible rate, kicking out of the way, driving out of the
way with the butt end of his musket, the escorting rabble of children.
It is only two young girls of really charming appearance, ten or twelve
years of age, who walked by my side on the way to the cemetery and to
whom I said, “I have sisters of your age who are like you,” that continue
to accompany me, notwithstanding the roughness of the _Bursch_. We talk
like old friends. They leave us at the wicket of the cavalry barracks,
with a parting “_Grüss Gott, Herr Franzose!_”
My companions are still arguing with Georg. “It won’t take a minute to
buy a dozen packets of tobacco and a string of sausages!” The innocents!
They reason with Georg. Durupt especially, who is eloquent in the
Teutonic tongue, surpasses himself. “To be at the source of all good
things and not to drink from it! To pass stupidly by!”—“_Ne, ne_,” the
_Bursch_ growls continually. Now we are traversing badly lighted streets.
We make our way through the suburbs, and beyond the station we reach the
dull country on the outskirts of the town.
“Old fellow,” says Détry to Durupt, “we are greatly indebted to you. With
all your German, you have not been smart enough to get us the smallest
of sausages, a single pipefull of tobacco! It is obvious, O Durupt the
Just, that you do not know the only language in which it is possible to
persuade Georg!”
We are about to reach a tavern. Détry, who does not know a word of
German, lays a hand on the orderly’s shoulder. Abstracting Georg’s hat,
he puts it on his own head and decorates the Bavarian with the French
képi. Georg beams! Then Détry shakes him vigorously by the hand, saying:
“Tiens, mon poteau! voilà pour graisser ta sale patte.”[25] Georg does
not understand French, but he understands very well that he has two
marks in his hand. Arm in arm, the two comrades lead the way. In front
of the inn, Détry loudly calls, “_Bier, Bier!_” The innkeeper comes
forth, wearing a military uniform. All smiles, he invites us to enter.
We place two mugs in the hands of Georg and lay before him a plate of
steaming sausages. In this rig, with his rifle and fixed bayonet against
his shoulder, he is irresistible. I make the tour of the _Wirtschaft_ and
discover a number of plates charged with slices of cold meats ready for
a battalion which is about to pass on its way to the Russian front. “How
much, _gnädige Frau_?”—“Fifty pfennig a plate.”
What a dinner we ate! It was not a varied menu, but quantity made up
for everything. The joy of it! You who have never been hungry, you who
have never been rationed, cannot understand how it is that there is no
delight in the world greater than that of finding oneself, after three
months’ imprisonment, in front of plates filled with sausage, salad of
ox muzzle, and gherkins. The _Wirt_ had a swarm of children. We treated
the children. We overwhelmed them with pfennig. We paid the most polite
compliments to the _gnädige Frau Wirtin_.
Es zogen drei Bursche wohl über den Rhein,
Bei einer Frau Wirtin da kehrten sie ein.…
We were intoxicated, not with beer, but with the feeling of plenty.
We ordered cigars. “Have you boxes of cigars?”—“Here you are.”—“How
much?”—“And this cluster of sausages? Can I buy them? How much?” We
made a clean sweep. Georg continued to eat and to drink, amid a rain of
friendly smiles and pats on the back. All of us being thoroughly replete,
we resumed our journey. There was a thick fog. Two companies of the
Bavarian battalion in full marching kit, on the way to entrain, met us.
They went by, walking heavily, without a word. We were singing.
Détry made Georg repeat some French phrases:
“Mademoiselle, voulez-vous tanser?”
“Non, môssieu, _ch_’ai mal au pied.”
Master and pupil kicked up their legs in unison. We held our sides with
laughter. To tell the truth, this unwonted good cheer had turned our
heads a little.
Détry was pelting Durupt with gibes. “Old Aristides the Just, you will
never know how to manage men. Georg is like all the Bavarians in our
guard—he thinks first of all of his own skin, and next he likes to enjoy
himself. Don’t you talk to me about German honour and German virtue.
These fellows are very fond of sonorous phrases, but they can’t resist a
modest tip!” No doubt Détry was exaggerating a little.
Georg is no longer gay. Closed, alas, his Fort Orff campaign, his
campaign of junketings and sensual enjoyments. Now he is to have a taste
of real war. Poor Georg, if only his imaginary wound of Dieuze could
suffice. Certainly he loves German “glory,” German “virtue.” Certainly
he loves his king. But he loves just as much to be cock of the walk in
the villages, with the aid of French money! He loves the fatherland and
military displays. But he loves also to feed well and to lie warm. He
is fond of so many things that he always chooses the nearest and the
easiest, and his actions are invariably dictated by opportunity.
Now he is to go to the firing-line. In a few days he will be rotting
in the trenches, his boots sticking fast in the clay. Despite the best
will in the world, he may be laid low by a bullet before he has found a
favourable opportunity of getting himself safely taken prisoner by the
French. His name will then appear in the lists among those of the heroes
who have fallen on the field of honour. Such is life!
But how will my dear little Brissot manage in future to procure chocolate
and Baltic herrings?
OUR GAOLER
_November 13, 1914._
On Sunday, Baron von Stengel went to the Palatinate to buy horses for the
artillery. He returned yesterday evening, after an absence of five days,
looking a little thinner, his eyes weeping from a cold in the head. The
weather in the transrhenish province had been wintry. The railway service
was irregular, so he was compelled to make use of an open motor. During
the first snows he had to drive about the country visiting horse-dealers.
He is seventy years of age.
He has just been walking up and down with us, and recounting to us
the incidents of this unexpected journey. “I tired myself out to no
advantage,” he said. “Horses are becoming rare with us, almost as rare
as louis d’or. You have Algeria, Boulonnais, the region round Tarbes,
and the splendid horse-breeding centre of Huysne. We have nothing of the
kind. The question of remounts is becoming serious. It has been difficult
to buy even a few horses in the Palatinate. Sorry screws, and dear at
that! The peasants asked from two to three thousand marks for horses
worth eight hundred at the outside.”
* * * * *
Our commandant is very tall and upright, with a finely cut jaw, and a
round flat beard like the knights in the days of Maximilian of Austria.
His manners are above criticism. His natural dignity is relieved by a
genial expression of countenance.