IN THE CLAWS OF THE GERMAN EAGLE

ALBERT RHYS WILLIAMS

ACKNOWLEDGMENT

My thanks go to the Editors of The Outlook for permission toreproduce the articles which first appeared in that magazine. 

Also to many friends all the way from Maverick to Pasadena. Above all to Frank Purchase, my comrade in the first weeks of thewar and always. 

Contents

Instead of a Preface

Part IThe Spy-Hunters Of Belgium

Chapter I. A Little German Surprise Party II. Sweating Under The German Third Degree III. A Night On A Prison Floor IV. Roulette And Liberty

Part IIOn Foot With The German Army

 V. The Gray Hordes Out Of The North VI. In The Black Wake Of The War VII. A Duelist From Marburg VIII. Thirty-Seven Miles In A Day

Part IIIWith The War Photographers In Belgium

 IX. How I Was Shot As A German Spy X. The Little Belgian Who Said, "You Betcha" XI. Atrocities And The Socialist

Part IVLove Among The Ruins

Chapter

 XII. The Beating Of "The General" XIII. America In The Arms Of France XIV. No-Man's-Land

Afterword

Instead Of A Preface

The horrible and incomprehensible hates and brutalities of theEuropean War! Unspeakable atrocities! Men blood-lusting like a lotof tigers!

Horrible they are indeed. But my experiences in the war zonerender them no longer incomprehensible. For, while over there, inmy own blood I felt the same raging beasts. Over there, in my ownsoul I knew the shattering of my most cherished principles. 

It is not an unique experience. Whoever has been drawn into thecenter of the conflict has found himself swept by passions ofwhose presence and power he had never dreamed. 

For example: I was a pacifist bred in the bone. Yet, caught in Parisat the outbreak of the war, my convictions underwent a rapidcrumbling before the rising tide of French national feeling. TheAmerican Legion exercised a growing fascination over me. A littlelonger, and I might have been marching out to the music of theMarseillaise, dedicated to the killing of the Germans. Two weekslater I fell under the spell of the self-same Germans. That long graycolumn swinging on through Liege so mesmerized me that mynatural revulsion against slaughter was changed to actualadmiration. 

Had an officer right then thrust a musket into my hand, I couldhave mechanically fallen into step and fared forth to the killing ofthe French. Such an experience makes one chary about dispensingcounsels of perfection to those fighting in the vortex of the world-storm. Whenever I begin to get shocked at the black crimes of the belligerents, my own collapse lies there to accuse me. 

It is in the spirit of a non-partisan, then, that this chronicle ofadventure in those crucial days of the early war is written. It is awelter of experiences and reactions which the future may use asanother first-hand document in casting up its own conclusions. There is no careful culling out of just those episodes which supporta particular theory, such as the total and complete depravity of theGerman race. 

Despite my British ancestry, the record tries to be impartial--without pro- or anti-German squint. If the reader had been in myskin, zigzagging his way through five different armies, the thingswhich I saw are precisely the ones which he would have seen. So Iam not to blame whether these episodes damn the Germans orbless them. Some do, and some don't. What one ran into waslargely a matter of luck. 

For example: In Brussels on September 27, 1914, I fell in with alieutenant of the British army. With an American passport he hadmade his way into the city through the German lines. We bothdesired to see Louvain, but all passage thereto was for themoment forbidden. Starting out on the main road, however, sentryafter sentry passed us along until we were halted near staffheadquarters, a few miles out of the city, and taken before thecommandant. We informed him of our overweening desire to viewthe ruins of Louvain. He explained, as sarcastically as he could, that war was not a social diversion, and bade us make a quickreturn to Brussels, swerving neither to the right nor left as we went. 

As we were plodding wearily back, temptation suddenly loomed upon our right in the shape of a great gas-bag which we at first tookto be a Zeppelin. It proved to be a stationary balloon which wasacting as the eye of the artillery. It was signaling the range to theGerman gunners beneath, who were pounding away at the Belgians. In our excitement over the spectacle, we went plunging across fieldsuntil we gained a good view of the great swaying thing, tugging awayat the slender filament of rope which bound it to the earth. 

Sinking down into the grass, we were so intent upon the sharpelectric signaling as to be oblivious to aught else, until a voice ranga harsh challenge from behind. Jumping to our feet, we faced asquad of German soldiers and an officer who said:

"What are you doing here?"

"Came out to see the big balloon, " we somewhat naively informedhim. 

"Very good!" he said. And then, quite as if he were rewarding ourmanifest zeal for exploration, he added, "Come along with me andyou can see the big commandant, too. "

Three soldiers ahead and three behind, we were escorted downthe railroad track in silence until we began to pass some cars filledwith the recently wounded in a fearfully shot-to-pieces state. Someone mumbled "Englishmen!" and the whole crowd, bandaged andbleeding as they were, rose to the occasion and greeted us withderisive shouts. 

"Put the blackguards to work, " growled one. 

"No! Kill the damn spies!" shouted another, as he pulled himselfout of the straw, "kill them!"

A huge fellow almost wild from his wounds bellowed out: "Whydon't you stick your bayonet into the cursed Englishmen?" Nodoubt it would have eased his pain a bit to see us getting a taste ofthe same thing he was suffering. 

Our officer, as if to make concessions to this hue and cry, growledharshly: "Don't look around! Damn you! and take your hands out ofyour pockets!"

We heaved sighs of relief as we left this place of pain and hatebehind. But a new terror took hold of us as a turn in the trackbrought our destination into view. It was the staff headquarters inwhich, two hours before, the commandant had ordered us to makedirect return to Brussels. 

"Wait here, " said the officer as he walked inside. 

We stood there trying to appear unconcerned while we cursed theexploring bent in our constitutions, and mentally composedfarewell letters to the folks at home. 

But luck does sometimes light upon the banners of the daring. Itseems that in the two hours since we had left headquarters acomplete change had been made in the staff. At any rate, anofficer whom we had not seen before came out and addressed usin English. We told him that we were Americans. 

"Well, let's see what you know about New York, " he said. 

We displayed an intensive knowledge of Coney Island and theGreat White Way, which he deemed satisfactory. 

"Nothing like them in Europe!" he assured us. "I did enjoy thoseten years in America. I would do anything I could for one of youfellows. "

He backed this up by straightway ordering our release, andauthenticated his claim to American residence by his last shot:

"Now boys, beat it back to Brussels. "

We stood not on the order of our beating, but beat at once. 

One may pick out of such an experience precisely what onewishes to pick out: the imbecile hatred in the Teuton--the perfidy ofthe British--the efficiency or the blundering of the German--orperchance the foolhardiness of the American, just as hisnationalistic bias leads him. 

So, from the narratives in this book, one may select just thematerial which supports his theory as to the merits or demerits ofany nation. To myself, out of these insights into the GreatCalamity, there has come re-enforcement to my belief in theessential greatness of the human stuff in all nations. Along withthis goes a faith that in the New Internationalism mankind will laylow the military Frankenstein that he has created, and realize thetriumphant brotherhood of all human souls. 

Part IThe Spy-Hunters Of Belgium

Chapter I

A Little German Surprise Party

"Two days and the French will be here! Three days at the outside, and not an ugly Boche left. Just mark my word!"

This the patriarchal gentleman in the Hotel Metropole whispered tome about a month after the Germans had captured Brussels. Theyhad taken away his responsibilities as President of the BelgianRed Cross, so that now he had naught to do but to sit upon thelobby divan, of which he covered much, being of extensive girth. But no more extensive than his heart, from which radiated a genialglow of benevolence to all--all except the invaders, the sight ormention of whom put harshness in his face and anger in his voice. 

"Scabbard-rattler!" he mumbled derisively, as an officerapproached. "Clicks his spurs to get attention! Wants you to lookat him. Don't you do it. I never do. " He closed his eyes tightly, as ifin sleep. 

Oftentimes he did not need to feign his slumber. But sinking slowlydown into unconsciousness his native gentleness would returnand a smile would rest upon his lips; I doubt not that in his dreamsthe Green-Gray troops of Despotism were ridden down by the Blueand Red Republicans of France. 

Once even he hummed a snatch of the Marseillaise. An extra loudblast from the distant cannonading stirred him from his reverie. "Ahha!" he exclaimed, clasping my arm, the artillery--"it's getting nearerall the time. They are driving back the Boches, eh? We'll be freeto-morrow, certain. Then we'll celebrate together in my country-home. "

Walking over to the door, he peered down the street as if healready expected to catch a glint of the vanguard of the Blue andRed. Twice he did this and returned with confidence unshaken. "Mark my word, " he reiterated; "three days at the outside and weshall see the French!"

That was in September, 1914. Those three days passed away intoas many weeks, into as many months, and into almost as manyyears. I cannot help wondering whether the same hopes stirredwithin him at each fresh outburst of cannonading on the Somme. And whether through those soul-sickening months that white-haired man peered daily down those Brussels streets, yearning forthe advent of the Red and Blue Army of Deliverance. Red andBlue it was ever in his mind. If once it had come in its new uniformof somber hue, it would have been a disappointing shock I fear. He was an old man then; he is now perhaps beyond all suchhuman hurts. His pain was as real as anything I saw in all the war. I had little time to dwell upon it, however, for presently I was putinto a situation that called for all my wits. I was introduced to it bythe announcement of the porter:

"An American gentleman to see you, sir. "

That was joyful news to one held within the confines of a captivecity, from which all exit was, for the time being, closely barred. 

It was September 28th, my birthday, too. The necessity ofcelebrating this in utter boredom was a dismal prospect. Now thiscame upon me like a little surprise-party. 

Picking up a bit of paper on which I had been scribbling down afew memoranda that I feared might escape my mind, I hastenedinto the hallway to meet a somewhat spare, tall, and extremelyerect-appearing man. He greeted me with a smile and a bow--arather dry smile and a rather stiff bow for an American. 

So I queried, "You're an American, are you?"

"Not exactly, " he responded; "but I would like to talk with you. "

Without the shadow of a suspicion, I told him it would be a greatrelief from the tedium of the day to talk to any one. 

"But I would prefer to talk to you in your room, " he added. 

"Certainly, " I responded, stepping toward the elevator. 

The hotel was practically deserted, so I was somewhat surprisedwhen two men, one a huge fellow built on a superdreadnaughtplan, followed us in and got out with us on the fifth floor. Thesuperdreadnaught sailed on into my room, which seemed abreach of propriety for an un-introduced stranger. He closed thedoor rudely behind him. I was prepared to resent this altogetherhigh-handed intrusion, when my tall guest said, very simply, "I amrepresenting the Imperial German Government. "

I rallied under the shock sufficiently to say, "Will you take a chair?"

"No, " came the laconic reply, "I will take you--and this, " he said, reaching for the piece of scribble-paper I had in my hands, "andany baggage you have in your room. "

I assured him that I had none, as I really expected to stay inBrussels but a day. He pretended not to hear my reply, and said, "We better take it with us, for we will probably need it. "

He looked under the bed and unlocked the closet door. Findingnothing, he asked for the key to my room. I handed it over, RoomNumber 502. 

"You will be so good as to follow me now. "

Now every one knows that the Spy-Season in Europe opened withthe beginning of the war. Spy hunting became at once a veritablemania. 

Consequently no self-respecting person returns from the war-zonewithout at least one hair-raising story of being taken as a spy. Being just an average species of American, I exhale no particularair of mystery or villainy; yet I suffered a score of times the layingon of hands by German, French, Belgian, and even Dutch authorities. 

But this experience is marked off from all my other ordeals in fourways. In the first place, instead of casually falling into the hands ofmy captors, they came after me in full force. In the second place, aspecific charge of using money for bribing information was laidagainst me, and witnesses were at hand. In the third place, theleader of the party arrested me in civilian dress, but beforeexamination and trial he changed to military uniform. In the fourthplace, the officials were in such a surly mood that my message tothe American Ambassador was undelivered, and at the last trialbefore the American representatives there was no apology, butrather the sullen attitude of those who had been balked in baggingtheir game. 

When my captor bade me follow him I asked:

"Can I leave word with my friends?" For an answer he smiledsatirically. By accident or design, the time chosen for my taking offwas one when both of my two casual acquaintances were out ofthe hotel. 

"Not now, but a little later perhaps, when this is fixed up, " mycaptor answered me. 

We stepped into a carriage. The two assistants at the little surpriseparty walked away, and my rising sense of fear was allayed by thefriendly offer of a cigarette. It was a brand-new experience to rideaway to prison in royal state like this. The almost pleasant attitudeof my companion reassured me. "After all, " I mused, "this is alucky stroke; a little uncertain perhaps, but on the whole aninteresting way to while away the tedium of an otherwise eventlessbirthday. "

We stopped before the Belgian Government building, on the Ruede la Loi, the headquarters of the German staff. At a word thesentries dropped back and my companion bade me walk down along, dark corridor. I opened a door at the end, and found myself ina room with a few officers in chairs, and a large array ofdocuments upon a table. 

The moment I came within the safe confines of that room thewhole attitude of my captor changed. His mask of friendlinessdropped away. Perhaps his spirit responded and adapted itself tothe official atmosphere of the headquarters. Anyhow, at once hefroze up into the most rigid formality. Sitting down, he wrote outwhat I deemed was the report of the morning's proceedings. Iwatched him writing with all the semblance and precision of amachine, except for a half-smile that sometimes flickered upon hisclose-pressed lips. 

He was a machine, or, more precisely, a cog in the great fightingmachine that was producing death and destruction to Belgium. Just as the Germans have put men through a certain mold andturned out the typical German soldier, in like manner through othermolds they have turned out according to pattern the Germansecret service man. He is a kind of spy-destroyer performing in hissphere the same service that the torpedo-boat destroyer does inits domain. This man was the German reincarnation of Javert, thepolice inspector who hung so relentlessly upon the flanks of JeanValjean. In his stolid silence I read an iron determination to "get"me, and in that flickering smile I saw an inhuman delight in puttingthe worst construction upon my case as he wrote it down. Hereafter he shall be known as Javert. 

Towards Javert I sustain a very distinct aversion. This is not theresult of any evil twist put into my constitution by original sin. Quitethe contrary. Hitherto I have always felt that I, like the man inOscar Wilde's play, could forgive anybody anything, any time, anywhere. One can forgive even a hangman for doing his duty, however it may thwart one's plans. Some men must play the partof prosecutor and devil's advocate. 

But such was the cold, cynical delight in this fellow's doing his duty, such was his arrogant, overbearing attitude toward the helplesspeasant prisoners, that I know my prayers for the end of the warwere not motivated entirely by selfless considerations. I amhankering to get into the neighborhood of this fellow when hedoesn't hold all the trump cards. In justice to Javert, I must say thathe reciprocated my feeling magnificently, and, inasmuch as hewas the cat and I the mouse, and a very small one at that, heprobably found much more spiritual satisfaction in the exercise ofhis feelings than I did in mine. That is why I was anxious to havethe war end and embrace the first opportunity to change our roles. I yearned to give him his proper place in the sun. 

Having completed my case, he demanded my papers, and thenbade me open the door. There was a soldier waiting, and with himahead and Javert behind, I was escorted into the courtyard. Herea double-door was opened, and I was thrust into a room filled witha motley collection of persons guarded by a dozen soldiers withrifles ready. 

The sight was anything but reassuring. I turned toward Javert andasked, somewhat frantically, I fear: "What is all this for? Aren't yougoing to do anything about my case?"

My hitherto cool, smiling manner must have been an irritation tohim. A German official, especially a petty one, takes everythingwith such deadly seriousness that he can't understand us takingthings so debonairly, especially when it is his own magisterial self. 

So I think he thoroughly enjoyed my first signs of perturbation, andsaid: "Your case will be settled in a little while--perhaps directly. "He turned to a soldier, bade him watch me, and disappeared. 

About five minutes later I heard outside the command "Halt!" to asquad of soldiers. The doors opened and Javert reappeared, thistime in the full uniform of an officer. For the moment I thought hehad come with a firing squad and they were going to make shortshrift of me. The grim humor of disposing of my case thus"directly" came home to me. But merely flicking the ashes from hiscigarette, he glanced round the room without offering the slightestrecognition, and then disappeared. How he made his change fromcivilian clothes so quickly I can't understand. It seemed like avainglorious display of his uniform in order to let us take fullcognizance of his eminence. 

I began now a survey of my surroundings. Our room was in fact ahallway crammed with soldiers and prisoners. The soldiers, withfixed bayonets in their rifles, stood guard at the door. Theprisoners, some thirty-five in number, were ranged on benches, overturned boxes, and on the floor. We were of every description, from well-groomed men of the city to artisans and peasants fromthe fields. The most interesting of the peasants was a young fellowcharged with carrying dispatches through the lines to Antwerp. Themost interesting of the well-dressed urban group was a theatermanager charged with making his playhouse the center ofdistribution for the forbidden newspapers smuggled into Brussels. There was a Belgian soldier in uniform, woefully battered andbeaten; and for the first time I saw a German soldier without hisrifle. He, too, was a prisoner waiting trial, having been sent up tothe headquarters accused of muttering against an under officer. 

All these facts I learned later. Then I sat paralyzed in anatmosphere charged with smoke and silence. The smoke camenot from the prisoners, for to them it was forbidden, but from thesoldiers, who rolled it up in great clouds. The silence came fromthe suspicion that one's next neighbor might be a spy plantedthere to catch him in some unwary statement. Each man wouldhave sought relief from the strain by unbosoming his hopes andfears to his neighbor, but he dared not. That is one fearful curse ofany cause that is buttressed by a system of espionage. It scatterseverywhere the seeds of suspicion. All society is shot through withcynical distrust. It poisons the springs at the very source--one'sfaith in his fellows. Ordinarily one regards the next man as aneighbor until he proves himself a spy. In Europe he is a scoundreland a spy until he proves beyond the shadow of a doubt that he isa neighbor. 

And then one is never certain. People were everywhere aghast tofind even their life-long friends in the pay of the enemy. A largemilitary establishment draws spies as certainly as a carcass drawsvermin; the one is the inevitable concomitant of the other. It is theNemesis of all human brotherhood. 

Now to be taken as a prisoner of war was to most men more of aGodsend than a tragedy. The prisoner knew that he was to becorralled in a camp. But he was alive at any rate and he had but toawait the end of the war--then it was home again. The picturesshow phalanxes of these men smiling as if they were glad to becaptives. On the other hand there are no smiles in the pictures ofthe spies and francs-tireurs. They know that they are fated for ahasty trial, a drumhead decision, and to be shot at dawn. Theprospect of that walk through the early morning dews to theexecution-ground made their shoulders droop along with theirspirits. 

With these thoughts on our mind we held our tongues and keptour eyes on the door, wondering who would be the next guest toarrive, and mentally conjecturing what might be the cause of hisincarceration. 

The last arrival wore a small American flag wound round his arm, and around his waist he wore a belt which contained 100 poundsin gold. He spotted me, and, coming over to my corner, opened upa conversation in English. I thought at first that this was merely aclumsy German ruse to trap me into some indiscreet talking. Tohis kindly advances I curtly returned "Yeses" and "Noes. "

His name was Obels, a Belgian by birth but speaking English aswell as German, French, and Flemish. He was an invaluablereporter for a great Chicago paper, and in his zeal for news hadrun smack into the Germans at Malines, and had been at oncewhisked off by automobile to Brussels for trial as a spy. He had apassionate devotion to his calling. No mystic could have beenmore consecrated to his Holy Church. I fully believe that he wouldhave consented to be shot as a spy with a smile on his face if hecould have got the story of the shooting to his paper. He was oneof the most straightforth fellows I have ever met, and yet Iregarded him there as I would a low-browed scoundrel. For a longtime I would not speak to him. I dared not. He might have been aspy set to worm out any confidences, and then carry them toJavert. 

Left to himself, each man let his most pessimistic thoughts draghis spirits down. Gloom is contagious, and it soon became asheavy in the room as the gray clouds of smoke. The one bright, hopeful spot was the lone woman prisoner. She alone refused tosuccumb to the depressing atmosphere, and sought to playwoman's ancient role of comforter. She tried to smile, andsucceeded admirably, for she was very pretty. A wretched-lookinglad huddled up on a bag in the corner tried to reciprocate, but withthe tears glistening in his eyes he made a sorry failure of it. Wewere a hard crowd to smile to, and growing tired of her attempts toappear light-hearted, she at last gave herself up to her owngrievances, and soon was looking quite as doleful as the rest ofus. Our gloom was thrown into sharp relief by a number of soldiersgrouped around a table in the corner laughing and shouting over agame of cards which they were playing for small stakes. Wedragged out the long afternoon staring doggedly at the bayonets ofour guards. 

Only once did the guards show any awareness of our existence. That was when suddenly the arrival of "Herr Major" was announced. As the door was opened to let him pass through our hall to the stairway, with a hoarse shout we were ordered to our feet. As his exaltedpersonage paraded by we stood, hats in hand, with bared heads, with such humble and respectful expression as may be outwardlyassumed towards a fellow-being whom all secretly despised ordesired to kill. Was there really a murderous gleam in the avertedeyes of those Belgians arrayed in salute before the Herr Major, orwas it my imagination that put it there? Perhaps you can tell. 

Picture your country devastated, your towns burned, your flagprohibited, your farmers shot, your women and children terrified, your papers and public meetings suppressed, your streetspatrolled by aliens with drawn swords as your enemies' bandstriumphantly play their national airs. Picture, then, yourself liedabout by hireling spies, thrown into prison, compelled to breathefoul air and sleep upon a floor, fed on black bread, and held dayafter day for sentence in nerve-racking suspense. Picture toyourself now the abject humiliation of being compelled to standbare-headed in salute before these wreckers and spoilers of yourland. Do you think you might keep back from your eyes sparksfrom that blazing rebellion in your soul? Then it was notimagination that made me see the murderous gleam in the eyes ofthose high-spirited Belgians. "Salute the Major!" the Germansshouted. What seeds of hate those words planted in those Belgiansouls the future will show, when they who sow the wind shall reapthe whirlwind. 

That is the unseen horror of war; pictures can reveal the damagewrought by shot and shell, fire and flood in the blasted cities and inthe fields of the dead. But nothing can ever show the irreparablespiritual damage wrought to the human soul by hates, humiliations, fears and undying animosities. 

Chapter II

Sweating Under The German Third Degree

By this time my lark-like spirit of the morning had folded its wings. My musings took on a decidedly somber tinge. "Were the Germansgoing to make a summary example of me to warn outsiders to ceaseprowling around the war zone?" "Was I going to be railroaded offto jail, or even worse?" It was no time to be wool gathering! It washigh time for doing. "But what pretexts could they find for such action?"At any rate I resolved to furnish as few pretexts as possible. 

I set to work hunting carefully through my pockets for everythingthat might furnish the slightest basis for any charge against me. Before coming to Brussels I had been warned not to carryanything that might be the least incriminating, and there was notmuch on me; but I did have a pass from the Belgian commandergiving me access to the Antwerp fortifications. I had figured onframing it as a souvenir of my adventures, but my molars nowreduced it to an unrecognizable pulp. Cards of introduction fromFrench and English friends fared a similar fate. Their remains weredisposed of in the shuffling that accompanied the arrival of newprisoners. This had to be done most craftily, for we never knewwhere were the spying eyes. 

About six o'clock I was resting from my masticatory labors whenJavert presented himself, accompanied by two soldiers. I was ledaway into the council room where first I had been taken in themorning. It was now turned into a trial chamber. Javert, asprosecutor, was seated on one side of the table, while around thefarther end were ranged some officers and a few men in civilianclothes who proved to be secret service agents. I stood until thejudge bade me take my seat at the vacant end of the table. 

One by one my documents were disposed of--an Americanpassport issued in London; a permit from the German Consul atMaastricht, Holland, to enter "the territory of Belgium-Germany, "finally, this letter of introduction from the American Consulate atGhent:

Consulat Americain. 

Gand le 22 Septembre, 1914. Le Consul des Etats Unis d'Amerique a Gand, prie Messieurs lesautorites de bien vouloir laisser passer le porteur de la presenteMonsieur Albert Williams, citoyen Americain. 

JULIUS VAN HEE, Consul Americain. 

I pointed to the recent date on it, the 22nd of September, and tothe signer of it, Julius van Hee. 

Van Hee was a man who met the Germans on their own ground. He informed the German officer at his hotel: "If you send any spyprowling into my room, I'll take off my coat and proceed to throwhim out of the window. " Shirt-sleeves diplomat indeed! Anothertime he requested permission to take three Belgian womenthrough the lines to their family in Bruges. The Germancommandant said "No. " "All right, " said Van Hee, taking out apackage of letters from captured German officers who were now inthe hands of the Belgians, and dangling the packet before thecommandant, "If I don't get that permit, you don't get these letters. "He got the permit. 

After a few such clashes the invaders learned that when it came tothis Schrecklichkeit business they had no monopoly on the article. Van Hee's name was not to be trifled with. But on the other handthere must necessarily have existed a certain resentment againsthim for his ruthless and effective diplomacy. It would no doubtafford Javert a pleasant sensation to take it out on any oneappearing in any way as a protégé of Van Hee. 

"Yes, it's Van Hee's signature all right, " muttered Javert with ashrug of his shoulders, "only he is not the consul, but the vice-consul at Ghent and let us remember that he is of Belgianancestry--that wouldn't incline him to deep friendship with us. "

On a card of introduction from Ambassador Van Dyke there werethe words "Writer for The Outlook. " It's hard to understand howthat escaped my very scrutinous search, but there it was. 

"Another anti-German magazine, " commented, sardonically. I wasmarveling at the uncanny display of knowledge of this man at thecenter of the European maelstrom, aware of the editorial policy ofan American magazine. 

"But that doesn't mean that I am anti-German, " I protested; "wecan retain our own private opinions. "

"Tommyrot, " exclaimed Javert, "tommy-rot!" Strange language in amilitary court! Where had he laid hold of that choice bit of ourvernacular?

"You know perchance, " he continued, "what the penalty is fornewspaper men caught on the German side. " I thought that surelyI was going to reap the result of the adverse reports that theAmerican correspondents had made already about the Germans, when he added, "But you are here on a different charge. "

The judge started to cross-examine me as to all my antecedents. My replies were in German--or purported to be--but in myeagerness to clear myself I must have wrought awful havoc withthat classic language. I was forthwith ordered to talk English anddirect my remarks to Javert, acting now as interpreter. In the midstof this procedure Javert, with a quick sudden stroke, produced thescribble-paper which he had seized in the morning, held it fairly inmy face, and cried, "Whose writing is that?" The others all rivetedtheir gaze upon me. 

I replied calmly, "It is mine. "

"I want you to put it into full, complete writing, " cried Javert. "As itnow stands it is a telegraphic code. "

That is the most complimentary remark that has ever been madeupon my hieroglyphics. However, I shall be eternally grateful toProvidence for my Horace Greeley style. For, while that documentcontained by no means any military secrets, there were, on theother hand, uncomplimentary observations about the Germans. Itwould not be good strategy to let these fall into their hands in theirpresent mood. At Javert's behest, I set to work on my paper, anddelivered to him in ten minutes a free, full, rapid translation of theabbreviated contents. On inspecting it Javert said, irritably, "I wantan exact, precise transcript of everything here. "

"I thought you wanted it in a hurry, " I rejoined. 

"No hurry at all. We have ample time to fix your case. "

These words do not sound a bit threatening, but it was the generalsetting in which they were said that made them so ominous, andwhich set the cold waves rippling up and down my spinal column. 

I set to work again, numbering every phrase in my scribble-paper, and then in the same number on the other paper giving a full, readable translation of it. I wrote out the things complimentary tothe Germans in the fullest manner. But how was I going to take thesting out of the adverse comments?

Phrase No. 1 meant "Musical nature of the German automobilehorns. " Their silver and flute-like notes had been a pleasing sound, rolling along the roads. That was good. 

Phrase No. 2 meant "The moderation of the Germans in notbilleting more troops upon the hotels. " I wondered why they hadnot commandeered quarters in more of the big empty hotelsinstead of compelling men to sleep in railway stations and in theopen air. That was good. 

Phrase No. 3 meant "German officers never refused to contributeto the Belgian Relief Funds. " These boxes were constantly shakenbefore them in every cafe, and not once was a box passed to anofficer in vain. For all this I was very grateful and everything wenton very merrily until I came to phrase Number 4. 

"If Bel I wld join posse Ger myself"; which, being interpreted, reads, "If I were a Belgian, I would join a posse against theGermans myself. " That looked ugly, but I wanted to record formyself the ugly mood of resentment I had felt when I saw Belgianscompelled to submit to certain humiliations and indignities fromtheir invading conquerors. 

German or non-German--it makes no difference; any one who hadseen those swaggering officers riding it rough-shod over thosepoor peasants would have felt the same tide of indignationmounting up in him. In that mood it would have given me genuinepleasure to have joined a little killing-party and wiped out thoseofficers. Now these self-same officers were gathered round metrying to decide whether they were to have a little killing-party ontheir own account. 

There was sufficient justification for inciting their wrath in that onesentence as it stood, and they were all combining to entrap me byevery possible means. Furthermore, they were hankering for avictim. I had only my wits to match against their desires. I cudgeledmy brains as I never did before, but to no avail. Almost panic-stricken I was ready to give up in despair and throw myself uponthe mercy of the court when, like a flash of inspiration, the rightreading came. I transcribed that ugly phrase now to read: "If I wereamong the Belgians, I would join possibly the Germans myself. "What more could the most ardent German patriot ask for? Thatmet every abbreviation and made a beautifully exact reversal ofthe intended meaning. Not as an example in ethics, but as a"safety first" exhibit I must confess to a real pride in that piece ofwork. I handed it over with the cherubic expression of the prize-scholar in the Sunday School. 

Javert had figured on finding incriminating data in it. It was to behis chief evidence. He read it over with increasing disappointmentand gave it the minutest analysis, comparing it closely with theoriginal scribble-paper. For example, he called the attention of thejudge to the fact that "guarded" in one paper was spelled"gaurded" in the other--some slip I had inadvertently made. Hethought it might now be made a clew to some secret code, but, though he puzzled long and searchingly over the document, heextracted from it nothing more than an increased vexation of spirit. 

"Nothing on the surface here, " Javert said to the judge; "but thatonly makes it look the more suspicious. Wait till we hear from thesearch of his room. "

At this juncture a man in civilian dress arrived, and, handing overthe key of Room Number 502, reported that there was nothing tobring back. This nettled Javert, and he made and X-ray examinationof my person, even tearing out the lining of my hat. Alas for him too late;his search disclosed nothing more damnatory than a Frenchdictionary, which, because I was not an ostrich, I had been unableto get away with in the afternoon. A few addresses had beenscribbled therein. He demanded a full account of each name. Some I had really forgotten. 

"That's strange, " he sneered; "perhaps you don't find it convenientto remember who they are. "

Up till now I hadn't the slightest conception of the charge laidagainst me. Suddenly the judge crashed into the affair and tookthe initiative. 

"Why did you offer money to find out the movement of Germantroops!" he let go at me across the table in a loud voice. 

At the same time his aides converged on me a full, searchinggaze. Going all day without food, for eight hours confined in a fetidatmosphere, and for two hours grilled by a dozen inquisitors, is anordeal calculated to put the nerves of the strongest on edge. 

I simply replied, "I didn't do any such thing. "

"Don't lie!" "Tell the whole truth!" "Make a clean breast of it!" "Nouse holding anything back!" "We have the witnesses who willswear you did!" "Best thing for you is to tell all you know!"

This fusillade of command and accusation they roared andbellowed at me, aiming to break down my defense with thesuddenness of the onslaught. They succeeded for a moment. Icouldn't rally my scattered and worn-out wits to think what thebasis of this preposterous charge might be. 

Then I remembered a Dutchman who had accosted me the daybefore on a street-car. He had volunteered the information that hewas taking people by automobile out through Liege into Holland, giving one thus the opportunity to see a great many troops andruins along the way. I told him I had some money and would beglad to invest in such a trip, at the same time giving him myaddress at the Hotel Metropole. Guileless as he appeared, heturned out to be an agent of the German Government. He naturallywanted to make himself solid with his masters by delivering the goods, so he had twisted all my words into the most damning evidence, and had fixed up two or three witnesses ready to swear anything. 

"No use wasting time or effort to save this man, " they told de Levalat the American Embassy, later. "We've got a cast-iron caseagainst him, with witnesses to back it up. "

Javert no doubt proved himself an invaluable ally of the Dutchmanin fixing up the charges. I don't believe he would manufacture astory out of whole cloth, but once his mind was set in a certaindirection he could build up a good one on very shaky foundations. Perhaps he had an animus against these bumptious, undeferential, overcritical Americans, and thought it was time to give one of thema lesson. Perhaps he was tired of trapping ordinary garden varietyspies of the Belgian brand. It would be a pleasing variation in themonotony of convicting defenseless, helpless Belgians if hecould show that one of these fellows masquerading as Americanswas a sham. Especially one of that journalistic tribe that had beensending out reports of German atrocities. Furthermore, it wouldredound greatly to his professional glory to hand me over to theGeneral with a case proved to the hilt. 

There was no trick in the repertory of a prosecutor that wasunknown to Javert. He now shifted to the confidential and droppingHis voice very low, he said to me:

"You know that if you make a full, complete confession, I'll promiseto do my very best for you. And as a matter of fact you have beenunder the eyes of our Secret Service ever since you came toBelgium. We are aware of everything that you have done. "

Was that a bluff or the truth? If it was true then they knew aboutmy capture near Louvain on the day before in suspiciousobservation of the signaling-balloon. If this was a bluff, then myconfession would be simply a case of gratuitously damning myselfand likewise endangering my companion of yesterday's adventure--theBritish lieutenant with the American passport. Yet again if Javertknew all he pretended to, silence about that episode would makeit appear doubly heinous. So while with my tongue I retailed a simple, harmless version of my doings in Belgium in my brain I carried on adebate whether to make an avowal of the Louvain escapade or not. 

I came to the decision that Javert was just bluffing. Laterdevelopments proved me right. He knew nothing about it. Eventhe German Secret Service is not omniscient. Getting no resultsthen from these wheedling tactics Javert shifted back to hisbullying and essayed once more to browbeat me into a confession. Calling to his aid two officers who had been but casual onlookersthey began volleying charges at me with machine-gun rapidity. 

"You know that you are a spy. " "We know that you are a spy. ""Why do you deny it?" "You know that you have been lying. ""Better own up to all that you have done. " "Out with it now!"

When one officer grew tired, he rested. Then the next one took upthe attack, and then he rested. But not one moment's respite forme. I don't know what they call it in German, but it was the thirddegree with a vengeance. Under this sweating process my nerveswere being torn to tatters. I felt like screaming and it seemed that ifthis continued I would smash an officer with a chair and put an endto it all. But the fact that I am writing these lines shows that I didn't. Human nature is so constituted that it can always endure a littlemore, and though they kept the tension high for many minutes Idid not buckle under the strain. However, I couldn't call up anyarguments to show the utter absurdity of the charge against me. And my defense was very feeble. 

The onslaught now ceased as suddenly as it had begun. Therewas a coming and going of officers and some consultation in anundertone. The judge left the room and the impassive-facedJavert began that machine-like writing. After a while he stopped. 

"Will you give me some idea of what you expect to do with me?" Iqueried. 

"A full report of your case goes up to the General for decision andsentence, " was his response. 

My spirits took a downward plunge. Then a fierce resentmentamounting almost to rage came surging up within me. Masking itas well as I could, I asked permission to send word to theAmerican authorities. Javert's reply was evasive. 

"I have had nothing to eat all day, " I announced. "Can't you dosomething for me?"

"Go to that door there and open it, " said Javert. 

I did so and there stood four soldiers of the Kaiser, who rangedthemselves two in front and two behind, and marched me away. Javert had a well-developed sense of the dramatic. 

While I am excoriating Javert as representing the genius ofGerman officialdom, it is only fair that I should present hisantithesis. By continually referring to the German army as amachine one gets the idea that it is an impersonal collection ofinhuman beings remorselessly and mechanically devoted to duty. For a broad general impression that is perhaps a fair enoughstatement to start with; but when I am tempted to let it go at that, there is one striking exception that always rises up to point thefinger of denial at this easy and common generalization. It is that ofa young German officer, a mere stripling of twenty or thereabouts, with the most frank, open, ingenuous expression. One wouldexpect to find him presiding at a Christian Endeavor social, ratherthan right here at the very pivot of the most terrible militaryorganization of the world. 

I had caught his look riveted upon me in my trial, and recognizedhim when he came into the detention-room, to which the foursoldiers had led me. Hurriedly, he said to me: "Really, you know, Iought not to come in here, but I heard your story, and it looksrather bad; but somehow I almost believe in you. Tell me the wholetruth about your affair. "

I proceeded vehemently to point out my innocence, when heinterrupted my story by asking, "But why did you make thatSchreibfehler on your paper?" He followed my recital anxiouslyand sympathetically, and, looking me full in the face, asked, "Canyou tell me on your Ehrenwort (word of honor) that you are not aspy? Remember, " he added, solemnly, "on your Ehrenwort. "

Grasping both of his hands and looking him in the eye, I said, mostfervently, "On my Ehrenwort, I am not a spy. "

There was an earnestness in my heart that must havecommunicated itself to my hands, because he winced as he drewhis hands away; but he said, "I shall try to put in a word for you; Ican't do much, but I shall do what I can. I must go now. Good-by. "

Chapter III

A Night On A Prison Floor

"Prisoners are to be taken over into the left wing for the night, " saidan orderly to the guards. 

We had scarcely turned the corner, when an officer cried: "Not thatway, Dummkopf!"

"Our orders are for the left wing, sir, " said the orderly. 

"Never saw such a set of damned blockheads!" yelled the officerin exasperation. "Can't you tell the difference between right andleft? Right wing, right wing, and hurry up!"

A little emery had gotten into the perfect-running machine. Thecorridors fairly clanged with orders and counter orders. After muchconfusion the general mix-up of prisoners was straightened outand we were served black bread and coffee. 

The strain of the day, along with the fever I had from exposure onthe battlefields, made the rough food still more uninviting, especially as our only implements of attack were the greasypocketknives of the peasants and canteen covers from thesoldiers. The revolt of my stomach must have communicated itselfto my soul. I determined for aggressive action on my own behalf. Iresolved to stand unprotesting no longer while a solid case againstme was being constructed. Not without a struggle was I to berailroaded off to prison or to Purgatory. Pushing up to the nextofficer appearing in the room, in firm but courteous tones Irequested, as an American citizen, the right to communicate withthe American authorities. 

He replied very decently that that was quite within my privileges, and forthwith the opportunity would be accorded me. I was lookingfor paper, when there came the order for all of us to move out intothe courtyard. With a line of soldiers on either side, we weremarched through labyrinthine passages and up three flights ofstairs. Here we were divided into two gangs, my gang being led offinto a room already nearly filled. We were told that it was ourtemporary abode, and we were to make the best of it. It was anadministrative office of the Belgian Government now turned into aprison. There were the usual fixtures, including a rug on the floorand shelves of books. Ours was only one of many cells forprisoners scattered through the building. The spy-hunters hadswooped down upon every suspect in Belgium and all who hadbeen caught in the dragnet were being dumped into these rooms. 

We were thus informed by the officer whose wards we were. Hewas a fussy, quick-tempered, withal kind-hearted little fellow, andkept dashing in and out of the room, really perplexed over housingaccommodations for the night. The spy-hunters had been successfulin their work of rounding up their victims from all over the country andcorralling them here until the place was filled to overflowing. Ourofficial in charge was puffed up with pride in the prosperity of hisinstitution, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, petulantly belecturedus on adding ourselves to his already numerous burdens. Thiswas highly humorous, yet we all feared to commit lese-majesteby expressing to him our collective and personal sorrow forso inconveniencing him, and our willingness to make amendsfor our thoughtlessness in getting arrested. 

After more hesitation than I had hitherto observed, arrangementsfor the night were completed and we were ordered to draw outblankets from the pile in the corner. The new arrivals and the oldinmates maneuvered for the softest spots on the floor, which wassoon covered over with bodies and their sprawling limbs, while ahost of guards, fully armed, were posted at the door and along thehall. 

"I would give my right arm or my leg if I could get a flashlight ofthis, " said Obels, the reporter, enthusiastically. This elation madehim reckless as he went about, probing the experiences of eachvictim. 

"Great stuff!" "Great stuff!" he kept exclaiming. "Won't this open upsome eyes in Chicago, eh!"

He couldn't believe that the Providence which had led him to thisBonanza would now deny him the opportunity of getting out someof this wealth. 

In the midst of these activities he was haled before the tribunal. Hereturned, the spring out of his step and his zest for stories quitegone. Javert had successively branded him an "Idiot" a "Liar" anda "Spy. "

The information that several of the inmates had been imprisonedfor a month or more spurred my drooping spirits and put me intoaction. I uncovered a pile of the office writing-paper and, with theaid of the Belgian who could speak English, I set to work preparinga letter to Ambassador Whitlock. Whether Javert was apprised ofthe doings of his charges or not I do not know, but in the midst ofmy writing he glided into the room, and, pouncing upon mymanuscript, gathered it to himself, saying, "I'll take these. " MyBelgian friend protested that a superior officer had given mepermission to do this. Javert handed back the paper, smiled, anddisappeared. Knowing that every word would be closely scrutinizedat the Staff Office, and that the least hint of anything derogatory tothe German authorities would keep the letter in the building, I couchedit in as pointed and telling terms as possible, having in mind theeyes of the Germans, quite as much as the Ambassador. 

Brand Whitlock, United States Ambassador, Brussels. 

DEAR SIR:

As a native American citizen, born in Ohio, and now imprisoned bythe German authorities, I claim your intervention in my behalf. I amthirty years of age, resident of East Boston, Massachusetts, for sixyears. I am a graduate of Marietta College, Hartford Seminary, andstudied in Cambridge University in England, and MarburgUniversity in Germany. 

Saturday Mr. Van Hee, the American consul at Ghent, brought mehere by automobile with Mr. Fletcher. Obliged to take back in hiscar three ladies for whom he obtained permission from theGerman Government, I was necessarily left behind; Mr. Van Heepromising to return for me when diplomatic business brought himto Brussels in a few days. Meantime I took a room at the HotelMetropole. From it I was taken by the German authorities thismorning. I do not know exactly what the charge against me is. I amaccused of offering money for information relative to themovement of the German troops. I think that the man who workedup the case against me is a Dutchman with whom I spoke upon acar. He volunteered the information that he had been everywhereby automobile; and I asked him if he was the one who carriedpassengers out of Brussels by way of Liege and Aix-la-Chapelle. Won't you look into my case at once? Mr. Fletcher, who called onyou Saturday, lent me some fifty dollars, so I am all right that way;but this is not a comfortable situation to be in, though the officersare very decent. If you want proof of my identity, you cancommunicate with the following people in America; they are mypersonal friends, and will confirm my absence from home on anextended vacation. 

His Excellency Governor Walsh, of the Commonwealth ofMassachusetts; Dr. Charles Fleischer, Chief Rabbi in theRabbinate of New England. 

(If there was any Jewish blood on the German Staff I was going totry to get the benefit of it. )

The Honorable George W. Coleman, of the Ford Hall ConvocationMeetings and President of the Pilgrim Amalgamated AssociatedAdvertising Clubs of America. 

(Coleman being a cross between a Baptist deacon and ananarchist, I knew that he would not object to this bit of sabotage. )

The Right Honorable William W. Mills, Esquire, President of theFirst National Bank of Marietta, Ohio, Treasurer of the University ofMarietta, and Member of the National Council of CongregationalChurches of America, etc. , etc. 

If you will cablegram any of these, you will get an immediate reply. While I have no money for this now, I feel certain Mr. Fletcher, whois associated with Mr. Lane, of the United States Cabinet, will backyou up, and there will be unlimited funds in America. 

Sincerely yours, ALBERT R. WILLIAMS. 

My attention has been called to the omission of the Angel Gabriel, Mary Pickford and Ty Cobb from the list of my intimate friends inthe above document. That was not meant as a slight--purely anoversight. At any rate, I felt that the long list of men whose nameswere written here would make the right response to any cablegram. To atone for dragging them into the affray I call attention to the highlydeferential and decorative manner in which I referred to them. Be it remembered that this document was prepared quite asmuch for German eyes as for the Ambassador's, and nothinggives a man standing and respect in the Teutonic mind as muchas a name fearfully and wonderfully adorned. I resolved that myimportance was not to suffer from lack of glory in my friends. I bestowed more honorary degrees on them than the averagesmall college does in ten commencements. So lavish was I thatmy friends hardly recognize their own titular selves. An officerdesignated the guard who would deliver the letter. I gave it tohim along with a franc, which he protestingly accepted. He reportedthat it was delivered to Javert. That was the last I ever heard fromthat message. I imagine that it was by no means the last that theGerman authorities heard from it, for when I related the story tothe Ambassador some time later I saw a characteristic BrandWhitlock letter a-brewing. My message to Vice-Consul Naesmithand to the Hotel Metropole shared a like fate--they were undelivered. 

I simply offer the facts as they are. It may be that the courtesies ofpolite intercourse are not easy to observe in war. Certainly theywere not obtrusive in Belgium. In extenuation it may be said thatthe Brussels postmen had struck about this time; but, on the otherhand, through the forbidden shutters I saw fully fifty German BoyScouts marshaled in the courtyard below. 

I had noticed them before as messengers going down the mostunguarded by-ways of the slums, quite as if they were agents of awelcomed instead of hated army. They rode along serenely as iftotally unconscious of the shining targets that they made. I feltcertain that no American gang would let slip this opportunity for theheaving of a brick. Were Brussels boys made of flabbier stuff? Notif Belgian sons were of the same stripe as Belgian fathers. The factthen that none of these German Scouts were massacred, as wasto be expected by all the rules of the game, showed how the threatof reprisals operated to curb the strongest natural impulses of thespirit. I presumed that one of these Scouts was speedingposthaste to the Ambassador with my note, but he never did. 

I am not berating the Germans. They were running their own waraccording to their own code. In this code reporters, onlookers, anduplifters of any brand were anathema. 

We had no rights. Our only right was to the convictions within ourminds, provided we kept them there. I believe that were it not forthe surmises of the English lieutenant who took them to theAmbassador I would be in prison yet. On second thought, Iwouldn't, either. I couldn't have endured the strain much longer. If Ihad been caged in there a few hours more than I was, in mynervous tension I probably would have vented my sense ofoutraged justice by assaulting one of the officers myself. I wouldn'thave had a long time then to speculate upon the immortality of thesoul. I would have possessed first-hand information. One canunderstand why, for their own protection, the Germans imposedtheir iron laws upon the Belgians with their terrible penalties. Whatis hard to understand is the long-suffering patience and self-restraint of the Belgians. Occasionally some high-spirited or high-strung fellow was no longer able to keep the lid on the volcano ofhatred and rage seething within him. This blowup brought down, not only upon his own head, but upon the whole community, themost hideous reprisals. 

By the time my writing was completed the men were pretty wellsettled down for the night. On the outside the roaring of theAustrian guns, which for days had been bombarding their way intoAntwerp, now became less constant; less and less frequently thehoarse commands of the officers, mingled with the rumbling of theautomobiles, came up from the courtyard below. At midnight theonly sounds were the groans and moans of the twisting sleepersand the measured tread of the sentry as he paced up and downthe hall, his silhouette darkening at regular intervals the glass doorat the end of our little room. 

I was placed in a. Sort of adjoining closet with six others. A motleymixture indeed; a Russian, an American, four Belgians, and aGerman--all prisoners awaiting our sentences. As a last move, theGerman soldier guards sandwiched themselves into the openspaces on the floor, their long bayonets glistening in the electriclight that blazed down upon us. The peasants had characteristicallyclosed the windows to keep out the baneful night air. In the mainroom a drop-light with shade flung its radiance on a table and lit upthe anxious faces of the few men gathered round it. It showed onepoor fellow bolt upright, unspeaking, unmoving, his fixed whiteeyeballs staring into space, as though he would go stark mad. Those eyes have forever burned themselves into my brain, a pitifulprotest against a mad, wild world at war. 

Sleep was entirely out of the question with me. It wasn't the bad airor the hard floor or the snores of my comrades, but just plain coldfear. Now I possess an average amount of courage. Quite alone Iwalked in and out of Liege when the Germans were painting theskies red with the burning towns. My ribs were massaged all theway by ends of revolvers, whose owners demanded me to giveforthwith my reasons for being there, they being sole arbiters ofwhether my reasons were good or bad. I got so used to a bayonetpointing into the pit of my stomach that it hardly looks natural in avertical position. 

But this was a thrust from a different quarter. In the open a manfeels a sporting chance, at any rate, even if a bullet can beat himon the run; but cooped up within four walls he is paralyzed by hishorrible helplessness. He feels that a military court reversesordinary procedure, holding that it is better for nine innocent tosuffer than for one guilty one to escape. He knows that his fate isin the hands of a tribunal from whose arbitrary decision there is noappeal, and that decision he knows may depend upon the whim ofthe commandant, to whom a poor breakfast or a bad night's sleepmay give the wrong twist. The terrible uncertainty of it preys uponone's mind. 

I certainly prayed that the commandant was getting a better nightthan mine, as I lay there staring up at the electric light with ahundred hates and fears pounding through my brain. "I'm aprisoner, " was one thought. "Supposing the silence of the gunsmeans that the Germans, beaten, are being pressed back intoBrussels by the Allies. They may let us go. No, the Germans, maddened by defeat, might order us all to be shot, " was one idea. "How does it feel to be blindfolded and stood up against a wall by afiring squad?" was another pleasant companion idea that kept vigilwith me through the midnight hours. Then my fancies took afrenzied turn, "Suppose these be brutes of soldiers and they runus through, saying we were trying to escape. "

"Escape!" The word no sooner leaped into my mind than analmost uncontrollable impulse to escape seized me, or at least Ithought one had. I got upon my feet, observing that the twosoldiers lying beside me on the floor were fast asleep and theguards at the outer door were nodding. I stepped over theirsleeping forms arid made a reconnoiter of the hallway. There in thesemi-darkness stood seven soldiers of the Kaiser with their sevenguns and their seven glistening bayonets. 

Cold steel is not supposed to act as a soothing syrup; but oneglance at those bayonets and my uncontrollable impulse utterlyvanished. You will observe that the bayonet is continually croppingup in my story. It does, indeed. A bayonet looks far different fromwhat it did on dress parade. Meet one in war, and its truesignificance first dawns upon you. It is not simply a decoration atthe end of a rifle, but it is made to stick in a man's stomach andthen be turned round; and when you realize that this particular oneis made to stick in your particular stomach, it takes on a stilldifferent aspect. 

I crawled back into my lair, resolved to seek for deliverance bymental means, rather than by physical; and as the first rays of lightstole through the window I composed the following document toHis Excellency:

The Officer who has the case of the American, Albert B. Williams, under supervision: SIR:

As you seem willing to be fair in hearing my case, may I take theliberty this morning of addressing you upon my charge? I fear thatI made but a feeble defense of myself yesterday; but when I wasaccused of offering much money for information relative to themovements of German troops, the accusation came so suddenlythat I could only deny it. May I now offer a few observations uponthis charge, the nature of which just begins to become clear tome?

In the first place, it was a sheer impossibility for me to offer "muchmoney, " because all I had was that which, as Mr. Van Hee knows, Mr. Fletcher gave me when I was left behind. 

In the second place, were I a spy, I certainly would not be offeringmoney in a voice loud enough to be heard by the severalwitnesses that you have ready to testify. 

In the third place, while not attempting to impeach the character ofmy accuser, may I submit the fact that my own standing will bevouched for by His Excellency the Governor of Massachusetts, thePresident of the Pilgrim Amalgamated Associated AdvertisingClubs of America, the chief Rabbi in the Rabbinate of NewEngland, etc. , etc. 

These men will attest the utter absurdity of any such charge beingmade against me. 

In the last place, may I suggest that the theory of an unintentionalmistake throws the best light upon the case? For any conversationwith my accuser was either in German or English. You know myGerman linguistic ability and the error that might be made there;and as for English, I challenge my accuser to understand threeconsecutive sentences in English. 

I trust you will take these facts into account before sentence ispassed upon me. 

Respectfully yours, ALBERT R. WILLIAMS. 

By the time this was finished a stir in the courtyard below heraldedthe beginning of the day's activities. And what did this day hold instore for me?

Chapter IV

Roulette And Liberty

Our morning toilet was completed with the aid of one small, flimsytowel for thirty of us. Hot water tinctured with coffee and milk wasserved from a bucket with two or three cups. Bread which hadbeen saved from the previous day was brought forth from pocketsand hiding-places, and for some unaccountable reason a piece ofgood butter was brought in. Apparently the Germans were trying toescape the stigma of mistreating or underfeeding their prisoners. 

Orders were given to get ready to move out. After an hour, theywere changed to "Clean up the room. " When we had accomplishedthis, an inspecting officer entered and began to sniff and snortuntil his eyes fairly blazed with wrath, and then in a torrent of wordshe expressed his private and official opinion of us. So fast andfreely did his language flow that I couldn't catch all the complimentshe showered upon us; but "Verdammte!" "Donnerwetter!" and"Schwein!" were stressed frequently enough for me to retaina distinct memory of the same. One did not have to be a Germanlinguist to get the drift of his remarks. 

They had an electric effect upon the prisoners, who with oneaccord got busy picking up microscopic and invisible bits from thefloor. To see these men crawling around upon their stomachsmust have been highly gratifying to His Self-inflated Highness. Thehighly gratifying thing to myself now is the fact that I did not do anycrawling, but sat stolidly in my chair and stared back at him, lettingmy indignation get enough the better of my discretion even tosneer--at least I persuade myself now that I did. Outside of thislittle act of gallantry I am heartily ashamed of my conduct at theGerman Staff Headquarters. It was too acquiescent and obsequiousfor some of those bureaucrats rough riding it over those helpless, long-suffering, beaten Belgians. 

Having called us "Schwein, " at high noon they brought in the swill. It was a gray, putrid-looking mess in a big, battered bucket. Theytold us that it came dried in bags and all that was necessary was tomix the contents with hot water. The mixture was put up in 1911and guaranteed to keep for 20 years. It looked as though it mighthave already forfeited on its guarantee. There was nothing toserve it with, and search of the room uncovered no implements ofattack. Our discomfiture furnished a young soldier with muchentertainment. 

"Nothing to eat your stew with? Well, just stand on that table thereand dive right into the bucket. "

He was quite carried away with his own witticism, so that in sheergood nature he went and returned with six soup plates which werecovered over with a thick grease quite impervious to cold water. Ihad my misgivings about the mess and dreaded its steamingodors. At last I summoned up courage and approached thebucket, using my fingers in lieu of a clothes-pin as a defense formy olfactory nerves. A surprise was in store for me; its palatabilityand quality were quite the opposite of its appearance. While Iwouldn't enjoy that stew outside of captivity, and while the Brusselsmen refused in any way to succumb to its charm, it was at leastvery nutritious and furnished the strength to keep fighting. 

But it is hard to battle against the blues, especially when all one'scomrades capitulate to them. Each man vied with the other inradiating a blue funk, until the air was as thick as a London fog. 

Picture, if you will, the scene. By a fine irony, the books on theshelves were on international law, and by a finer irony the book ingreen binding that caught my eye as it stood out from the blackarray of volumes was R. Dimmont's "The Origins of BelgianNeutrality. " The Belgians who were enjoying the peculiar blessingsof that neutrality were sprawled over the floor or pacing restlesslyup and down the room, or, in utter despair, buried their heads intheir arms flung out across the table. 

About three o'clock the name "Herr Peters" was called. He hadbeen found guilty of mumbling to his comrades that their captainwas pushing them too hard in an advance. One could believe thecharge, for, as his name was called, he was sullen and unconcerned. "You are sentenced to imprisonment at hard labor in a fortress. You must go at once. "

He muttered in an undertone something about "being luckier inprison in winter than out there on the cold, freezing ground, " and, flinging his knapsack upon his shoulder, lumbered off. In howmany such hearts is there this sullen revolt against the militarysystem, and how much of a factor will it be to reckon with in thefuture?

There were four prisoners quite separated from the rest of us. Itwas said that they were sentenced to be shot. I am not sure thatthey were; but we were strictly forbidden any intercourse withthem. They were the most crestfallen, terror-stricken lot of menthat ever I had laid eyes upon, and at four o'clock they were ledaway by a cordon of soldiers. There was enough mental suggestionabout it to plunge the room into a deep silence. It was oppressive. 

At last Obels, the reporter, walked over and asked me if therewere proofs of the immortality of the soul, excusing himself bysaying that up to this time he had never had any particular time norreason for reflection on this subject. That was the onlypsychological blunder that he made. However, it at last broke theheavy, painful silence, and we speculated together, instead ofsingly, how it might feel to have immortal bliss thrust upon us fromthe end of a German musket. 

I related to him my experience of the previous week. Some warphotographers wanted a picture of a spy shot. I had volunteered toplay the part of a spy, and, after being blindfolded, was led overagainst a wall, where a Belgian squad leveled their rifles at me. Iassured him that the sensation was by no means terrible; but hewould not be comforted. Death itself he wouldn't mind so much, ifhe could have found it in the open fighting gladly for his country;but it seemed a blot on his good name to be shot for just snoopingaround the German lines. 

On the whole, after weighing all the pros and cons, we decidedthat our pronounced aversion to being shot had purely an altruisticorigin. It was a wicked, shameful loss to the human race. Thatpoint was very clear to us. But there was the arrant stupidity of theGermans to be reckoned with. They have such a distorted senseof real values. Rummaging through my pockets during thesereflections, I fished up an advertising folder out of a corner where Ihad tucked it when it was presented to me by Dr. Morse. Theoutside read, "How We Lost Our Best Customer. " Mechanically Iopened it, and there, staring back at me from big black borders onthe inside, were the two words, "HE DIED. "

These ruminations upon matters spiritual were interrupted by thestrains from a brass band which went crashing by, while tenthousand hobnailed boots of the regiment striking the pavementsin unison beat out time like a trip-hammer. 

"Perhaps the Germans are leaving Brussels, " whispered acompanion; "and wouldn't we grow wild or faint or crazy to seethose guards drop away and we should find ourselves free menagain!"

The passing music had a jubilating effect upon our guards, whoparaded gayly up and down the room. One simple, good-heartedfellow harangued us in a bantering way, pointing out our presentsorry plight as evidence of the sad mistake we had made in notbeing born in Germany. He felt so happy that he took a littlecollection from us, and in due time returned with some bread andchocolate and soda water. But even the soda water, as if adjustingitself to the spiritlessness of the prisoners, refused to effervesce. The music had by contrast seemed only to increase the generaldepression. 

Only one free spirit soared above his surroundings. He was ayoung Belgian--Ernest de Burgher by name--a kindly light amidstthe encircling gloom. He took everything in life with a smile. I amsure that if death as a spy had been ordered for him at the door, he would have met that with the same happy, imperturbableexpression. He had quite as much reason as I, if not more, forjoining our gloom-party. He, too, was waiting sentence. For sixdays his wild, untamed spirit had been cabined in these walls; buthe had been born a humorist, and even in bonds he sought to playthe clown. He went through contortions, pitched coins againsthimself, and staggered around the room with a soda-water bottleat his lips, imitating a drunkard. But ours was a tough house evenfor his irrepressible spirit to play to. Despite all his efforts, we sataround like a convention of corpses, and only once did his comicspirit succeed. 

One prisoner sunk down in a comatose condition in his chair, asthough his last drop of strength and life had oozed away. Now deBurgher was one of those who can resist anything but temptation. He stole over and tied the man's legs to his chair. Then he got aGerman soldier to tap the hapless victim on the shoulder. Rousedfrom his stupor to see the soldier standing over him like amessenger of doom, the poor fellow turned ashen pale. He sprangto his feet, but the chair bound to his legs tripped him up and hefell sprawling on the floor. He apparently regarded the chair assome sort of German infernal machine clutching him, and he laythere wrestling with his inanimate antagonist as though it were ademon. As soon as the victim understood the joke he joined in theburst of merriment that ran round the room; but it was of shortduration. The gloom got us again, despite all that de Burgher coulddo, and finally he succumbed to the prevailing atmosphere andgave us up as a bad job. 

He was a diminutive fellow, battered and rather the worse for wear. Ever shall I think of him not only as the happy-souled, but as thegreat-souled. My introduction into the room was at the point of asteel bayonet. With him, that served me far better than any gilt-edged introduction of high estate. He didn't know what crime wascharged against, me, but he felt that it must have been a sacrificefor Belgium's sake. The fact that I was persona non grata to theGermans was a lien upon his sympathy, and gave me high rankwith him at once. He instinctively divined my feelings of fear andloneliness, and straightway set out to make me his ward, hiscomrade, and his master. 

Never shall I forget how, during that long night in prison, hecrawled over and around the recumbent forms to where I lay uponthe floor courting sleep in vain. I was frightened by this maneuver, but he smiled and motioned me to silence. Reaching up beneathmy blanket, he unlaced one shoe and then the other. At first Ireally thought that he was going to steal them, but the reactionfrom the day had set in and I was too tired and paralyzed to makeany protest. Laying the shoes one side, he remarked, "That willease your feet. " Then stripping off his coat and rolling it into abundle, he placed it as a pillow beneath my head. 

A great, big hulking American, treated tenderly by this little Belgian, how could I keep the tears from my eyes? And as they camewelling up--tears of appreciation for the generous fineness of hisspirit--he took them to be tears of grief, brought on by thoughts ofhome and friends and all those haunting memories. But he wasequal to the occasion. 

In a little vacant space he made a circle of cigarettes and smallBelgian coins. In the center he placed a small box, and on it laid aruler. "This is the roulette wheel at Monte Carlo, and you are therich American, " he whispered, and with a snap of the finger hespun the ruler round. Whenever it stopped, he presented me myprize with sundry winkings and chucklings, interrupted by furtiveglances towards the door. 

Rouge-et-noir upon a prison floor! To him existence was such agame--red life or black death, as the fates ordained. His spirit wascontagious, and I found myself smiling through my tears. When hesaw his task accomplished, gathering in his coins, he crawledaway. 

His was a restless spirit. Only once did I see him steadfastly quiet. That was the next morning, when he sat with his eyes fixed uponan opening in the shutter. He insisted upon my taking his seat, andadjusting my angle of vision properly. There, framed in a windowacross the forbidden courtyard, was a pretty girl watering flowers. She was indeed a distracting creature, and de Burgher dancedaround me with unfeigned glee. His previous experience withAmericans had evidently led him to believe that we were allconnoisseurs in pretty girls. I tried valiantly to uphold our nationalreputation, but my thoughts at the time were much more heavenlythan even that fair apparition framed in the window, and I fear Idisappointed de Burgher by my lack of enthusiasm. 

My other comrade, Constance Staes, must not be forgotten. Forsome infraction of the new military regulations he had been hustledoff to prison, but he, too, was born for liberty, a free-ranging spiritthat fetters could never bind. He made me see the Belgian soulthat would never be subservient to German rule. The Germanscan be overlords in Belgium only when such spirits have eitheremigrated or have been totally exterminated. 

To Constance Staes every rule was a challenge. That's the reasonhe had been put in jail. He had trespassed on forbidden way infront of the East Station. Here in prison smoking was forbidden. SoStaes, with one eye upon the listless guard, would slip beneath ablanket, take a pull at his cigarette, and come up again as innocentas though he had been saying his prayers. I refused the offer of apull at his cigarette, but not the morsel of white bread which hedrew from behind a picture and shared with me. That bread, broken and shared between us in that upper room, is to me aneternal sacrament. It fed my body hunger then; never shall itcease to feed the hunger of my soul. 

Whenever temptation to play the cynic or think meanly of myfellow-man shall come, my mind will hark back to those twounpretending fellows and bow in reverence before the selflessnessand immensity of the human soul. Needing bread, they gave itfreely away; needing strength, they poured themselves outunsparingly; needing encouragement, they became the ministersthereof. For not to me alone, but to all, they played this role ofservant, priest, and comforter. 

As I write these lines I wonder where their spirits are now. Speeded thence, they may have already made the next worldricher by their coming. I do not know that; but I do know that theyhave made my soul infinitely richer by their sojourn here; I do notknow whether they were Catholic or Atheist, but I do know howtruly the Master of all souls could say to these two brave littleBelgians: "When I was an hungered, ye gave me food; when I wasthirsty, ye gave me drink; when I was a stranger, ye took me in;when I was sick and in prison, ye visited me. "

The prison is the real maker of democracy. I saw that clearly when, at five o'clock, joy came marching into the room. It was an officerwho was its herald with the simple words, "The theater manager isfree. " That was a trumpet blast annihilating all rank and caste. Themanager, forgetting his office and his dignity, and embracing withhis right arm a peasant and with his left an artisan, danced roundthe room in a delirium of delight. Twenty men were at one timebesieging him to grasp his hand, and tears, not rhetorically, butactually, were streaming down their faces--Russian, German, Belgian, and American, high and low, countrymen and citymen, smocked and frocked. We were fused altogether in the commonemotion of joy and hope. For hope was now rampant. "If one mancan be liberated, " we argued, "why not another? Perhaps theGeneral was thus giving vent to a temporary vein of good humor. "Each man figured that he might be the fortunate one upon whomthis good luck would alight. 

At five-thirty there was much murmuring in the corridor, andpresently my Ehrenwort lad of the previous night came burstinginto the room, crying, "The American! The American!" I do nothave to describe the thrill of joy that those words shot through me;but I wish that I might do justice to the beaming face of my youngofficer friend. I am sure that I could not have looked more radiantthan he did when, almost like a mother, he led me forth to greet deLeval and two other assistants from the American Ambassador. Now de Leval is not built on any sylph-like plan, but he looked tome then like an ethereal being from another world--the angel whoopened the prison door. 

I presumed that I was to walk away without further ado; but not soeasy. We proceeded into another office, where the wholeassemblage was standing. I have no idea who the high superiorofficer was; but he held in his hand a blue book which contained along report of my case, with all the documents except the defenseI had written. Again I was cross-examined, and my papers werecarefully passed upon one by one. 

One they could not or would not overlook, and to it throughout allthis last examination they kept perpetually referring. When I hadmade my thirty-seven-mile journey into Liege on August 20, 1 hadsecured this paper at Maastricht signed by the Dutch and Germanauthorities. Over the Dutch seal were the words, "To the passingover the boundary into Belgian-Germany of Mr. Albert Williamsthere exists on the part of the undersigned no objection. Signed, The Commissioner of Police Souten. " Over the German seal werethe words, "At the Imperial German Vice-Consulate the foregoingsignature is hereby attested to be that of Souten, the PoliceCommissioner of Maastricht. " For this beautifully non-committalaffair I had delivered up six marks. I would have cheerfully paid sixhundred to disown it now. 

"What explanation is there for his possession of that paper?"asked the General sternly. 

De Leval pleaded cleverly, dilating upon the natural inquisitivenessand roaming disposition of the American race. 

"I know what the Wanderlust is, " said the General, "but I fail tounderstand the peculiar desire of this man to travel only indangerous and forbidden war zones. "

"In the second place, " the General continued, "there is no doubtthat he has made some remark to the effect that in the long runGermany cannot win. That was overheard by an officer in a cafeand is undeniable. The other charges we will for the time waive, "said the General, drawing himself up with a fine hauteur. "But hisidentifying evidence is very flimsy. Can you produce any better?"

Suddenly I bethought me of the gold watch in my pocket. It was apresentation from some two hundred people of small means in anindustrial district in Boston. Three of the aides successively andsuccessfully damaged their thumbnails in their eagerness to pryopen the back cover. That is a source of considerable satisfactionto me now; but it was embarrassing in that delicate situation whenmy fate hung almost by a thread, and a trifle could delay myrelease for days. If the General damaged his own thumb on it, Ifeel sure that I would have been remanded back to prison. But, luckily, the cover sprang open and revealed to the eyes the words:"From friends at Maverick. "

De Leval adroitly turned this to the best advantage. It was the laststraw. The General capitulated. Walking over into the adjoiningroom, he wrote on the blue folder: "Er ist frei gelassen. " I wouldgive lots for those folders; but, though safety was by no meanscertain, I found I yet had nerve enough to take a venture. When Iwas bidden to pick up my papers strewn across the desk, I triedmy best to gather in some of the other documents. Besides thecopies of the letter I wrote to the Ambassador the only thing I goton my case was this letter, written by Mr. Whitlock to Baron von deLancken, the official German representative in charge of thedealings with the American Embassy. It has the well-knownWhitlock straight-from-the-shoulder point and brevity to it. 

BRUXELLES, le 29 Septembre, 1914, EXCELLENCE:

J'apprends a l'instant que Mr. Williams, citoyen Americainresidente a l'Hotel Metropole, aurait ete arrete lundi par lesAutorites allemande. 

Pour le cas ou il n'aurait pas encore ete mis en liberte, je voussaurais gre de me faire connaitre les raisons de cette arrestation, et de me donner le moyen de communiquer aussitot avec lui, pourpourvoir eventuellement lui fournir toute protection dont il pourraitavoir besoin. 

Veuillez agreer, Excellence, la nouvelle assurance de ma hauteconsideration. 

(S) BRAND WHITLOCK. A Son Excellence Monsieur le Baron vonder Lancken, Bruxelles. 

Before my final liberation I was escorted into the biggest andbusiest office of all. 

Here I was given an Erlaubnis to travel by military train throughLiege into Germany, and from there on out by way of Holland. Thedestination that I had in mind was Ghent, but passing through thelines thereto was forbidden. Instead of going directly the thirtymiles in three hours, I must go around almost a complete circle, about three hundred miles in three days. But nothing could takethe edge off my joy. A strange exhilaration and a wild desire tocelebrate possessed me. With such a mood I had not hithertobeen sympathetic; on the contrary, I had been much grieved bythe sundry manifestations of what I deemed a base spirit in certainBelgians. One of them had said, "Just wait until the Allies' armycomes marching into Brussels! Oh, then I am going out on oneglorious drunk!" In the light of the splendid sacrifices of his fellow-Belgians, this struck me as a shocking degradation of the humanspirit. 

I could not then understand such a view-point. But I could now. Inthe removal of the long abnormal tension one's pent-up spiritsseek out an equally abnormal channel for expression. I, too, feltlike an uncaged spirit suddenly let loose. I didn't get drunk, but Ivery nearly got arrested again. In my headlong ecstasy I was deafto the warnings of a German guard saying, "Passage into thisstreet is forbidden. " I checked myself just in time, and in chastenedspirit made my way back to the Metropole. 

Three times I was offered the prohibited Antwerp papers that hadbeen smuggled into the city and once the London Times fortwenty-five cents. The war price for this is said often to have run upto as many dollars. 

An English, woman, or at any rate a woman with a beautifulEnglish accent, opened a conversation with the remark that shewas going directly through to Ghent on the following day and thatshe knew how to go right through the German lines. That wasprecisely the way that the Germans had just forbidden me to go. But this accomplice (if such she was) got no rise out of me. To allintents I was stone-deaf. Compared to me, she would have foundthe Sphinx garrulous indeed. She may have been as harmless asa dove but, after my escapade, I wouldn't have talked to my ownmother without a written permit from the military governor. TheKaiser himself would have found it hard work breaking through mycast-iron spy-proof armor of formality. I had good reason, too, notto let down the bars, for I was trailed by the spy-hunters. Not untilten days later when I passed over the Holland border did I feelrelease from their vigilant eyes. My key at the Metropole was neverreturned to me and I know that my room was searched once, if nottwice, after my return to the hotel. 

It would be interesting to see how all this tallies with the officialreport of my case in the archives at Berlin. Perhaps some of thesesurmises have shot far wide of the mark. Javert, for instance, maynot be a direct descendant of the ancient Inquisitor who hadcharge of the rack and the thumb screws, as I believed. In his ownhome town he may be a sort of mild-mannered schoolmaster andprobably is highly astounded as well as gratified to find himselfcast as the villain in this piece. Perhaps I may have been at othertimes in far greater danger. I do not know these things. All I knowis that this is a true and faithful transcript of the feelings and sightsthat came crowding in upon me in that most eventful day andnight. 

PART IIOn Foot With The German Army

Chapter V

The Gray Hordes Out Of The North

The outbreak of the Great War found me in Europe as a generaltourist, and not in the capacity of war-correspondent. Hitherto I hadessayed a much less romantic role in life, belonging rather to thecrowd of uplifters who conduct the drab and dreary battle with theslums. The futility of most of these schemes for badgering the poormakes one feel at times that these battles are shams andunavailing. This is depressing. It is thrilling, then, suddenly toacquire the glamorous title of war-correspondent, and to havebefore one the prospect of real and actual battles. 

Commissioned thus and desiring to live up to the code andrequirement of the office, I naturally opined that war-correspondents rushed immediately into the thick of the fight. LaterI discovered what a mistake that was. Only very young and greenones do so. The seasoned correspondent is inclined to view thewhole affair more dispassionately and with a larger perspective. But being of the verdant variety, I naturally figured that if theGermans were smashing down through Belgium onto Liege thatthat was where I should be. By entering gingerly through the backdoor of Holland, I planned to join them in their march down theMeuse River. 

To The Hague came descriptions of the hordes pressing down outof the north through the fire-swept, blood-drenched plain ofnorthern Belgium. This could be seen from the Dutch frontier atMaastricht. But passage thereto was interdicted by the militaryauthorities. Ambassador Van Dyke's efforts were unavailing. Possessing a red-card, I enlisted the help of Troelstra, the socialistleader of the Netherlands. 

He had just returned from an audience with the Queen. Thegovernment, seeking to rally all classes to face a grave crisis, waspaying court to the labor leaders. Accordingly, the war department, at Troelstra's behest, received me with a handsome show ofdeference. I was escorted from one gold-laced officer to another. Each one smiled kindly, listened attentively and regrettedexceedingly that the granting of the desired permission lay outsidehis own particular jurisdiction. They were polite, ingratiating, obsequious even, but quite unanimous. At the end I came out bythe same door wherein I went--minus a permission. 

Up till now my progress through the fringes of the war zone hadbeen in defiance of all orders and advice. Having failed hereofficially, I took the matter in my own hands. Finding a seat in amilitary train, I stuck steadfastly by it so long as our generaldirection was south. At Eindhoven hunger compelled me to alight. As I was stepping up to the hotel-bar, I felt a tap on my shoulderand some one in excellent English said:

"You are under suspicion, sir. Follow me. Don't look around. Don'tget excited. If you are all right you don't need to get excited; if youaren't it won't do you any good to get excited. "

With this running fire of comment he led me into a side-roomwhere a half-hour's examination satisfied him of my good intent. Without further untoward incident I came to Maastricht inLimbourg. Limbourg is the name of the narrow strip of Dutchterritory which runs down between Germany and Belgium. At oneplace this tongue of land is but a few miles wide. If the Germanscould have marched their troops directly across this they mighthave been spared the two weeks' slaughter at the forts of Liegeand Paris, in all probability, would have fallen before them. It was agreat temptation to the Germans. That's the reason the Dutchtroops had been massed here by the tens of thousands--toprevent Germany succumbing to that temptation. 

At our approach to the great Meuse bridge an officer shouted intoeach compartment:

"Every window closed. All cigars and pipes extinguished. "

"Why?" we asked. 

"The bridge is mined with explosives and a stray spark might setthem off, " a soldier informed us. 

The first German attempt to set foot on the bridge would be thesignal for sending the great structure crashing skywards. 

The end of the run was Maastricht, now become a town of crucialinterest. It was like a city besieged. Barricades of barbed wire andpaving stones ripped from street ran everywhere. Iron rails andties blocked the exits and the small cannon disconcertingly thrusttheir nozzles down upon one out of the windows. 

I lingered here long enough to secure a carriage and with it madequick time across the harvest fields. We were soon up on the littlehill back of Meuse. The sun was sinking and for the first time war, in all its terrible spectacular splendor, smote me hard. From the hillat my feet there stretched away a great plain filled with a densemass of German soldiery. One could scarcely believe that therewere men there so well did their gray-green coats blend with thelandscape. One would think that they were indeed a part of it, could he not feel the atmosphere vibrant with the mass personalityof the myriad warriors tramping down the crops of the peasants. Inthe rear the commissariat vans and artillery still came lumberingup, while in the very front pranced the horses of the dreadedUhlans, who looked with contempt, I imagined, on the Dutchsoldiers as they stood there with the warning that here wasNetherlands soil. 

In the fighting German and Belgian troops had already beenpushed up against this line. Here they were greeted with thechallenge: "Lay down your arms. This is the neutral soil ofHolland. " Thus many were interned until the end of the war. 

As even darkened into night, the endless plain became stippledover with points of flame from countless campfires. There werebeauty and mystery in this vast menace sweeping the soul of theonlooker now with horror, and now with admiration. There was aterrible background to the spectacle--glowing red and luminous. Itwas made of the still blazing towns of Mouland and Vise, burned tothe ground by order of the invaders. The fire had been set as awarning to the inhabitants round about. They were taking thewarning and hastening by the thousands across the border intoHolland, their only haven of safety. 

When we drove down from the hill into Eysden, we were in themidst of these peasants, fleeing before the red wrath rolling up intothe sky. They came shambling in with a few possessions on whichthey had hurriedly laid their hands, singly or in families, a pitifulprocession of the disinherited. 

Some of the men were moaning as they marched along, but mostof them were taking it with the tragic oxlike resignation of thepeasant, stupefied more than terrified, puzzled why these soldierswere coming down into their quiet little villages to fight out theirquarrels. The women were crying out to Mary and all the saints. Indeed all the little crosses along the waysides or in the walls weredecked with flowers in gratitude for what had been spared them. Inmost cases it was little more than their lives, their brood ofchildren, and their dogs that followed on. 

My driver finally landed me in a shack on the outskirts of Eysden, which boasted the name of a hotel. It had the worst bed I everslept in, and the only window was a hole in the roof. 

I wandered out among the unfortunates, now herded in halls andschools and packed in the homes of the friendly villagers. Theywere full of the weirdest tales of loot and murder. And while therewere no tears in their eyes there was tragedy in their voices. 

"It would be worth while getting over to the sources and verifyingthe truth of these stories, " I remarked. 

"A sheer impossibility, and only a fool would want to go, " was onelaconic commentary. 

I kept up my plaint and was overheard by Souten, head of theLimbourg police. 

"American, aren't you?" he interjected. "Well, I have done morework here in the last five days than I did in the five years that I livedin New York. Had the best time in my life there. If you want to gosight-seeing in Belgium, take this paper and get it countersigned atthe German consulate. It's the only one I've given out to-day. "

I hurried off to the consul who, in return for six marks, dulyimpressed it with the German seal. Later on I would gladly havegiven six hundred marks to disown it. 

"Of course you understand that this is simply a paper issued bythe civil authorities, " said the consul, as he passed it out. "Use it atyour own risk. If you go ahead and get shot by the militaryauthorities, don't come back and blame us. "

I promised that I wouldn't and was off again to my hotel. 

As darkness deepened, with two Hollanders come to view thehavoc of war, I sat on the stoop of our little inn. A great rumbling ofcannon came from the direction of Tongres. A sentry shot rang outon the frontier just across the river which flowed not ten rods away. This was the Meuse, which ran red with the blood of thecombatants, and from which the natives drew the floating corpsesto the shore. Now its gentle lapping on the stones mingled with thesubdued murmur of our talk. In such surroundings my new friendsregaled me with stories of pillage and murder which the refugeeshad been bringing in from across the border. All this produced adistinct depreciation in the value that I had hitherto attached to mypermit to go visiting across that border. Souten's declarations offriendship for America had been most voluble. It began dawningon me that his apparently generous and impulsive action mightbear a different interpretation than unadulterated kindness. 

At this juncture, I remember, a great light flared suddenly up. Itwas one of the fans of a wind-mill fired by the Germans. In theforeground we could see the soldiers standing like so many graywolves silhouetted against the red flames. In that light it did seemthat motives other than pure affection might have prompted thePolice Commissioner's action. The hectic sleep of the night wasbroken by the endless clatter of the hoofs of the German cavalrypushing south. 

My courage rose, however, with the rising sun. In the morning Iclimbed to the lookout on the hill. The hosts had vanished. Atrampled, smoldering fire-blackened land lay before me. But therewas the lure of the unknown. I walked down to where the greatNetherlands flag proclaimed neutral soil. The worried Dutchpickets honored the signature of Souten and with one step I wasover the border into Belgium, now under German jurisdiction. Thehelmeted soldiers across the way were a distinct disappointment. They looked neither fierce nor fiery. In fact, they greeted me with asmile. They were a bit puzzled by my paper, but the seal seemedecht-Deutsch and they pronounced it "gut, sehr gut. " I explainedthat I wished to go forwards to Liege. 

"Was it possible?"

For answer they shrugged their shoulders. 

"Was it dangerous?"

"Not in the least, " they assured me. 

The Germans were right. It was not dangerous--that is, for theGermans. By repeatedly proclaiming the everlasting friendship ofGermany and America, and passing out some chocolate, I madegood friends on the home base. They charged me only not toreturn after sundown, giving point to their advice by relating how, on the previous night, they had shot down a peasant woman andher two children who, under the cloak of darkness, sought toscurry past the sentinels. They told this with a genuine note of griefin their voices. So, with a hearty hand-shake and wishes for thebest of luck, they waved adieu to me as I went swinging out on thehighroad to Liege. 

Chapter VI

In The Black Wake Of The War

A half mile and I came for the first time actually face to face withthe wastage of war. There was what once was Mouland, the littlevillage I had seen burning the night before. The houses stoodroofless and open to the sky, like so many tombstones over adeparted people. The whitewashed outer walls were all shining inthe morning sun. Inside they were charred black, or blazing yetwith coals from the fire still slowly burning its way through woodand plaster. Here and there a house had escaped the torch. 

By some miracle in the smashed window of one of these houses abright red geranium blossomed. It seemed to cry for water, but Idared not turn aside, for fear of a bullet from a lurking sentry. Inanother a sewing-machine of American make testified to the thriftand progressiveness of one household. In the last house as I leftthe village a rocking-horse with its head stuck through the opendoor smiled its wooden smile, as if at any rate it could keep goodcheer even though the roofs might fall. 

My road now wound into the open country; and I was heartily gladof it, for the hedges and the houses at Mouland provided finecoverts for prowling German foragers or for Belgians looking forrevenge. Dead cows and horses and dogs with their sides rippedopen by bullets lay along the wayside. The roads were deepprinted with the hoofs of the cavalry. The grain-fields wereflattened out. Nine little crosses marked the place where ninesoldiers of the Kaiser fell. 

This smiling countryside, teeming with one of the densestpopulations in the world, had been stripped clean of everyinhabitant. Along the wasted way not the sign of a civilian, or forthat matter even a soldier, was to be seen. I was glad even of thepresence of a pig which, with her litter, was enjoying the unwontedpleasure of rooting out her morning meal in a rich flower-garden. She did not reciprocate, however, with any such fellow feeling. Perhaps of late she had seen enough of the doings of the genushomo. Surveying me as though I had been the author of all thisdestruction, she gave a frightened snort and plunged into a nearbythicket. 

I craved companionship of any living creature to break the spell ofdeath and silence. I was destined to have the wish gratified inabundance. Fifteen minutes brought me to the outskirts of Vise, and there, coming over the hills and wending their way down to theriver, were two long lines of German soldiers escorting wagons ofthe artillery and the commissariat. They came slowly andnoiselessly trudging on and I was upon them as they crossed themain road before I realized it. The men were covered with dust; sowere the horses. The wagons were in their somber paint of gray. There was something ominous and threatening in the long sullenline which wound down over the hill. The soldiers were evidentlytired with the tedious uneventful march, and the drivers weregoaded to irritability by the difficulty of the descent. Could I haveretreated I would have done so with joy and would never havestopped until my feet were set on Holland soil. 

But I dared not do it. As the train came to a stop, I started bravelyacross the road. A soldier, dropping his gun from his shoulder, cried:

"Halt!"

"Is this the way to Vise?" I asked. 

"Perhaps it is, " he replied, "but what do you want in Vise?"

As he spoke, he kept edging up, pointing his bayonet directly atme. A bayonet will never look quite the same to me again. Totalretreat, as I remarked, was out of the question. My inwardanatomy, however, did the next best thing. As the bayonet pointcame pressing forward, my stomach retired backward. I could feelit distinctly making efforts to crawl behind my spine. At my firstword of German his face relaxed. Ditto my stomach. 

"You are an American, " he said. "Well, good for that. I don't knowwhat we would have done were you a Belgian. Our orders are tosuffer no Belgian in this whole district. "

Then he began an apologia which I heard repeated identicallyagain and again, as if it were learned by rote: "The Germans hadpeacefully entered the land; boiling hot water was showered onthem from upper stories; they were shot at from houses andhedges; many soldiers had thus been killed; the wells had beenpoisoned. Such acts of treachery had necessarily broughtreprisals, etc. , etc. " It was the defense so regularly served up toneutrals that we learned in time to reproduce it almost word forword ourselves. 

We all rise to the glorification of suffering little Belgium. Whateverbrief we may hold for her though, we ought not to picture even herpeasant people as a mild, meek and inoffensive lot. That isn't thesort of stuff out of which her dogged and continuing resistance waswrought. That isn't the mettle which for two weeks stopped up theGerman tide before the Liege forts, giving the allies two weeks tomobilize, and all they had asked the Belgians for was two or threedays of grace. But before the German avalanche hurled itself onLiege it was this peasant population which bore the first brunt ofthe battle. 

A mistake in the branching roads brought this home to me. Iturned off in the direction of Verviers and was puzzled to see theroad on either side strewn with tree-trunks, their sprawling limbsstill green with leaves. It was along this highway that the invadersfirst entered Belgium. The peasants, turning their axes loose onthe poplars and the royal elms that lined the road, had filled it witha tangle of interlocking limbs. 

The Imperial army arrived with cannon which could smash a fort topieces as though it were made of blue china, but of what availwere these against such yielding obstructions? Maddened thatthese shambling creatures of the soil should delay the militarypromenade through this little land, officers rushed out and heldtheir pistols at the heads of the offenders, threatening to blow theirbrains out if they did not speedily clear the way. Many a peasantdid not live to see his house go up in flames--his dwelling dyed byhis own blood was now turned into a funeral pyre. These were thefirst sacrificial offerings of Belgium on the altar of herindependence. 

I now entered Vise, or rather what once had been the little city ofVise. It was almost completely annihilated and its three thousandinhabitants scattered. Through the mass of smoking ruins Ipushed, with the paving-stones still hot beneath my feet. Quiteunawares I ran full tilt into a group of soldiers, looking as ugly anddirty as the ruins amongst which they were prowling. 

The green-gray field-uniform is a remarkable piece of obliterativecoloration. I had seen it blend with grass and trees, but in thisinstance it fitted in so well with the stones and debris they werepoking over that I was right amongst them without warning. Theystraightened up with a sudden start and scowled at me. Hollandersand Belgians had faithfully assured me that such marauding bandswould shoot at sight. Here was an excellent test-case. Threehundred marks, a gold watch and a lot of food which crammed mypockets would be their booty. 

I took the initiative with the bland inquiry, "What are you huntingfor, corpses?"

"No, " they responded, pointing to their mouths and stomachs, "awful hungry. Hunting something to eat. "

I bade a mental farewell to my food-supplies as I emptied out mypockets before these ravagers. I expected everything to begrabbed with a summary demand for more. From these despoilersof a countryside I was ready for any sort of a manifestation--any, except the one that I received. With one accord they refused totake any of my provisions. I recovered from my surprise sufficientlyto understand that they were thanking me for my good will whilethey were constantly reiterating:

"It is your food and you will need every bit of it. "

In the name of camaraderie I persuaded each to take a piece ofbread and chocolate. They received this offering with profoundgratitude. With much cautioning and many solemn Auf Wiedersehensbestowed upon me, I was off again. 

Below Vise an entirely new vista opened to me. Tens of thousandsof soldiers were marching over the pontoon bridges already flungacross the river. Perhaps five hundred more were engaged inbuilding a steel bridge which seemed to be a hurried butremarkable piece of engineering. It was replacing the old structurewhich had been dynamited by the Belgians, and which now lay atangled mass of wreckage in the river. 

For the next eight miles to Jupilles the country was quite as muchalive as the first four miles were dead. It was swarming with themilitary. Through all the gaps in the hills above the River Meusethe German army came pouring down like an enormous tidalwave--a tidal wave with a purpose, viz: to fling itself against theAllies arranged in battle line at Namur, and with the overwhelmingmass of numbers to smash that line to bits and sweep onresistlessly into Paris. I thought of the Blue and Red wall of Frenchand English down there awaiting this Gray-Green tide of Teutons. 

By the hundreds of thousands they were coming; patrols of cavalryclattering along, the hoof-beats of the chargers coming withregular cadence on the hard roads; silent moving riders mountedon bicycles, their guns strapped on their backs; armoredautomobiles rumbling slowly on, but taking the occasional spaceswhich opened in the road with a hollow roaring sound and at aterrific pace; individual horsemen galloping up and down the roadwith their messages, and the massed regiments of dust-begrimedmen marching endlessly by. 

I was glad to have the spell which had been woven on me brokenby strains of music from a wayside cafe, or rather the remains of acafe, for the windows had been demolished and wreckage wasstrewn about the door, but the piano within had survived theravages. Though it was sadly out of tune, the officer, seated on abeer keg, was evoking a noise from its battered keys, and to itsaccompaniment some soldiers were bawling lustily:

"Deutschland, Deutschland uber Alles!"

The only other music that echoed up along those river cliffs camefrom a full-throated Saxon regiment. 

Evidently the Belgians from Vise to Liege had not roused the ire ofthe invaders as furiously as had the natives on the other side ofVise. They had as a whole established more or less friendlyrelations with the alien hosts. 

On the other side of Vise nothing had availed to stay the wrath ofthe Germans. Flags of truce made of sheets and pillow-cases andwhite petticoats were hung out on poles and broom handles; butmany of these houses before which they hung had been burned tothe ground as had the others. 

One Belgian had sought for his own benefit to conciliate theGermans, and as the Kaiser's troops at the turn of the road cameupon his house, there was the Kaiser's emblem with the double-headed eagle raised to greet them. The man had nailed it high upin an apple tree, that they might not mistake his attitude of trucklingdisloyalty to his own country, hoping so to save his home. But let itbe said to the credit of the Germans, that they had shown theircontempt for this treachery by razing this house to the ground, andthe poor fellow has lost his earthly treasures along with his soul. 

I now came upon some houses that were undamaged andshowed signs of life therein. Below Argenteau there was a vine-covered cottage before which stood a peasant woman guardingher little domain. Her weapon was not a rifle but several buckets ofwater and a pleasant smile. I ventured to ask how she used thewater. She had no time to explain, for at that very moment acolumn of soldiers came slowly plodding down the dusty road. Shemotioned me away as though she would free herself from whateverstigma my presence might incur. A worried look clouded her face, as though she were saying to herself: "I know that we have beenspared so far by all the brigands which have gone by, but perhapshere at last is the band that has been appointed to wipe us out. "

This water, then, was a peace-offering, a plea for mercy. 

As soon as the soldiers looked her way she put a smile on herface, but it ill concealed her anxiety. She pointed invitingly to herpails. At the sight of the water a thirsty soldier here and therewould break from the ranks, rush to the pails, take the profferedcup, and hastily swallow down the cooling draught. Then returningthe cup to the woman, he would rush back again to his place in theranks. Perhaps a dozen men removed their helmets, and, extractinga sponge from the inside, made signs to the woman to pour wateron it; then, replacing the sponge in the helmet, marched on refreshedand rejoicing. 

A mounted officer, spying this little oasis, drew rein and gave theorder to halt. The troopers, very wearied by the long forced march, flung themselves down upon the grass while the officer's horsethrust his nose deep into the pail and greedily sucked the waterup. More buckets were being continually brought out. Some ofthem must surely have been confiscated from her neighbors whohad fled. The officer, dismounting, sought to hold converse with hishostess, but even with many signs it proved a failure. They bothlaughed heartily together, though her mirth I thought a bit forced. 

I do not remember witnessing any finer episode in all the war thanthat enacted in this region where the sky was red with flames fromthe neighbors' houses, and the lintels red with blood from theirveins. A frail little soul with only spiritual weapons, she fought forher hearth against a venging host in arms; facing these rough war-stained men, she forced her trembling body to outward calm andgraciousness. Her nerve was not unappreciated. Not one soldierreturned his cup without a word of thanks and a look of admiration. 

Nor did this pluck go unrewarded. Three months later, passingagain through this region as a prisoner, I glimpsed the little cottagestill standing in its plot by the flowing river. I want to visit it againafter the war. It will always be to me a shrine of the spirit's splendiddaring. 

Chapter VII

A Duelist From Marburg

A squad of soldiers stretched out on a bank beckoned me to jointhem; I did so and at once they begged for news. They were not ofan order of super-intelligence, and informed me that it was theFrench they were to fight at Liege. Unaware that England hadentered the lists against Germany, "Belgium" was only a word tothem. I took it upon myself to clear up their minds on these points. An officer overheard and plainly showed his disapproval of suchmissionary activity, yet he could not conceal his own curiosity. Isought to appease him by volunteering some information. 

"Japan, " I blandly announced, "is about to join the foes ofGermany. " As the truth, that was unassailable; but as diplomacy itwas a wretched fluke. 

"You're a fool!" he exploded. "What are you talking about? Japanis one of our best friends, almost as good as America. Those twonations will fight for us--not against us. You're verruckt. "

That was a severe stricture but in the circumstances I thought bestto overlook the reflection upon my mentality. One of the soldierspassed some witticism, evidently at my expense; taking advantageof the outburst of laughter, I made off down the road. They did notoffer to detain me. The officer probably reasoned that my beingthere was guarantee enough of my right to be there, taking it forgranted that the regular sentries on the road had passed upon mycredentials. However, I made a very strong resolution hereafter tobe less zealous in my proclamation of the truth, to hold my tongueand keep walking. 

In the midst of my reflections I was startled by a whistle, and, looking back, saw in the distance a puff of steam on what Isupposed was the wholly abandoned railway, but there, sureenough, was a train rattling along at a good rate. I could make outsoldiers with guns sitting upon the tender, and presumed that theywere with these instruments directing the operations of someBelgian engineer and fireman. In a moment more I saw I wasmistaken, for at the throttle was a uniformed soldier, and anothercomrade in his gray-green costume was shoveling coal into thefurnace. One of the guards, seeing me plodding on, smilinglybeckoned to me to jump aboard. When I took the cue and made amove in that direction he winked his eye and significantly tappedupon the barrel of his gun. The train was loaded with iron rails andtimbers, and I speculated as to their use, but farther down the line Isaw hundreds of men unloading these, making a great noise asthey flung them down the river bank to the water's edge. Theywere destined for a big pontoon bridge which these men were, withthousands of soldiers, throwing across the stream. Ceaselesslythe din and clangor of hammerings rang out over the river. My waynow wound through what was, to all purposes, one German camp, strung for miles along the Meuse. The soldiers were busy withdomestic duties. Everywhere there was the cheer and rhythm ofwell-ordered industry in the open air. In one place thousands ofloaves of black bread were being shifted from wagon to wagon. Inanother they were piling a yard high with mountains of grain. Theair was full of the drone of a great mill, humming away at fullspeed, while the Belgian fields were yielding up their goldenharvests to the invaders. Apples in great clusters hung downaround the necks of horses tethered in the orchards. With theirkeepers they were enjoying a respite from their hard fatiguingexertions. 

Here and there among the groves, or along the wayside, was acontrivance that looked like a tiny engine; smoke curled out of itschimney and coals blazed brightly in the grate. They were thekitchen-wagons, each making in itself a complete, compactcooking apparatus. Some had immense caldrons with a spoon aslarge as a spade. In these the stews, put up in dry form andguaranteed to keep for twenty years, were being heated. A savorysmell permeated the air and at the sound of the bugle the menclustered about, each looking happy as he received his dish filledwith steaming rations. 

Through this scene the native Belgians moved freely in and out. Tables had been dragged out into the yard, and around themofficers were sitting eating, drinking, and chatting with the peasantwomen who were serving them and with whom they had set up anentente cordiale. Indeed, these Belgians seemed to be ratherenjoying this interruption in the monotony of their lives, and a fewwere making the most of the great adventure. In one case I couldnot help believing that a certain strikingly-pretty, self-possessed girlwas not altogether averse to a war which could thus bring to herside the attentions of such a handsome and gallant set of officersas were gathered round her. At any rate, she was equal to theoccasion, and over her little court, which rang with laughter, shepresided with a certain rustic dignity and ease. 

The ordinary soldier could make himself understood only withmotions and sundry gruntings, and consequently had to contenthimself with smoking in the sun or sleeping in the shade. Everywhere was the atmosphere of physical relaxation after thelong journey. So far did my tension wear off, that I even forgot theresolution to hold my tongue. Two officers leaning back in theirchairs at a table by the wayside surveyed me intently as I camealong. Rather than wait to be challenged, I thought it best to turnaside and ask them my usual question, "How does one get toLiege?"

One of them answered somewhat stiffly, adding, "And where didyou learn your German?" "I was in a German university a fewmonths, " I replied. "Which one?" the officer asked. "Marburg, " Ireplied. 

"Ah!" he said, this time with a smile; "that was mine. I studiedphilology there. "

We talked together of the fine, rich life there, and I spoke of thestudents' duels I had witnessed a few miles out. 

"Ah!" he said, uncovering his head and pointing to the scarsacross his scalp; "that's where I got these. Perhaps I will get somedeeper ones down in this country, " he added with a smile. 

Ofttimes in the early morning hours I had trudged out to astudents' inn on the outskirts of Marburg. As many times I hadheard the solemn announcement of the umpire warning allassembled to disperse as the place might be raided by the policeand all imprisoned. That was a mere formality. No one left. Theumpire forthwith cried "Los, " there was a flash of swords in the airas each duelist sought, and sometimes succeeded, in cutting hisopponent's face into a Hamburg steak. It was a sanguinary affairand undoubtedly connived at by the officials. When I had askedwhat was the point of it all, I was told that it developed Mut andEnschlossenheit--a fine contempt of pain and blood. That duelingwas not without its contribution to the general program of Germanpreparedness. Only now the bloodletting was gone at on acolossal scale. 

"Yes, that's where I received these cuts, " this young officer said, "and if I do not get some too deep down here I'll write to you afterthe war, " he added with another smile. As I gave him my address, I asked for his. 

"It's against all the rules, " he answered. "It can't be done. But youshall hear from me, I assure you, " he said with a heartyhandshake. 

Only once all the way into Liege did I feel any suspicion directedtowards me. That was when I presented my paper to the nextguard, a morose-looking individual. He looked at it very puzzled, and put several questions to me. His last one was, "Where is your home?"

"I come from Boston, Massachusetts, " I replied. 

Encouraged with my success with the last officers, I ventured toask him where he came from. 

Looking me straight in the eyes, he replied very pointedly, "Ichkomme aus Deutschland. "

Good form among invading armies, I found, precluded the guestmaking inquiry into anyone's antecedents. I made a secondresolution to keep my own counsel, as I hurried down the road. 

There was no release from his searching eyes until a turn in thehighway put an intervening obstacle between myself and him. Butthis relief was short-lived, for no sooner had I rounded the bendthan a cry of "Halt!" shot fear into me. I turned to see a man on awheel waving wildly at me. I thought it was a summons back to myinquisitor, and the end of my journey. Instead, it was my officerfrom Marburg, who dismounted, took two letters from his pocket, and asked me if I would have the kindness to deliver them to theFeld Post if I got through to Liege. He said that seemed like a God-given opportunity to lift the load off the hearts of his mother and hissweetheart back home. Gladly I took them, with his caution not todrop them into an ordinary letter-box in Liege, but to take them tothe Feld Post or give them to an officer. I went on my way rejoicingthat I could add these letters to my credentials. I now passed downthe long street of Jupilles, which was plastered with notices fromthe German authorities guaranteeing observance of the rights ofthe citizens of Jupilles, but threatening to visit any overt actsagainst the soldiers "with the most terrible reprisals. "

I arrived on the outskirts of Liege with the expectation of seeing asorry-looking battered city, as the reports which had drifted to theouter world had made it; but considering that it had been thecenter around which the storm of battle had raged for over twoweeks, it showed outwardly but little damage. The chief marks ofwar were in the shattered windows; the great pontoon bridge ofbarges, which replaced the dynamited structure by the RueLeopold, and hundreds of stores and public buildings, flying thewhite flag with the Red Cross on it. The walls, too, were fairly whitewith placards posted by order of the German burgomaster Klyper. It was an anachronism to find along the trail of the forty-twocentimeter guns warnings of death to persons harboring courierpigeons. 

Another bill which was just being posted was the announcement ofthe war-tax of 50, 000, 000 francs imposed on the city to pay for the"administration of civil affairs. " That was the first of those war-levies which leeched the life blood out of Belgium. 

The American consul, Heingartner, threw up his hands inastonishment as I presented myself. No one else had comethrough since the beginning of hostilities. He begged fornewspapers but, unfortunately, I had thrown my lot away, notrealizing how completely Liege had been cut off from the outerworld. He related the incidents of that first night entry of Germantroops into Liege. The clatter of machine gun bullets sweeping bythe consulate had scarcely ceased when the sounds of gun-buttsbattering on the doors accompanied by hoarse shouts of "AufSteigen" (get up) reverberated through the street. As the doorsunbolted and swung back, officers peremptorily demandedquarters for their troops, receiving with contempt the protests ofHeingartner that they were violating precincts under protection ofthe American flag. 

On the following day, however, a wholehearted apology wastendered along with an invitation to witness the first firing of the bigguns. 

"Put your fingers in your ears, stand on your toes, and open yourmouth, " the officer said. There was a terrific concussion, a blackspeck up in the heavens, and a ton of metal dropped down out ofthe blue, smashing one of the cupolas of the forts to pieces. Thatone shot annihilated 260 men. I shuddered as we all do. But itshould not be for the sufferings of the killed. For they did not sufferat all. They were wiped out as by the snapping of a finger. 

The taking of those 260 bodies out of the world, then, was apainless process. But not so the bringing of these bodies into theworld. That cost an infinite sum of pain and anguish. To bringthese bodies into being 260 mothers went down into the veryValley of the Shadow of Death. And now in a flash all this life hadbeen sent crashing into eternity. "Women may not bear arms, butthey bear men, and so furnish the first munitions of war. " Thus arethey deeply and directly concerned in the affairs of the state. 

The consul with his wife and daughter gave me dinner along with acordial welcome. At first he was most appreciative of my exploits. Then it seemed to dawn on him that possibly other motives thansheer love of adventure might have spurred me on. The harboringof a possible spy was too large a risk to run in the uncertaintemper of the Germans. In that light I took on the aspects of aliability. 

The clerks of the two hotels to whom I applied assumed a likeattitude. In fact every one with whom I attempted to hold conversebecame coldly aloof. Holding the best of intents, I was treated likea pariah. The only one whom I could get a raise from was abookseller who spoke English. His wrath against the spoilersovercame his discretion, and he launched out into a bitter tiradeagainst them. I reminded him that, as civilians, his fellow-countrymen had undoubtedly been sniping on the German troops. That was too much. 

"What would you do if a thief or a murderer entered your house?"he exploded. "No matter if he had announced his coming, youwould shoot him, wouldn't you?"

Realizing that he had confided altogether too much to a casualpasserby, he suddenly subsided. The only other comment I coulddrag out of him was that of a German officer who had told him that"one Belgian could fight as good as four Germans. " My request fora lodging-place met with the same evasion from him as from theothers. 

Chapter VIII

Thirty-Seven Miles In A Day

"Death if you try to cross the line after nightfall. " Thus my soldierfriends picketing the Holland-Belgium frontier had warned me inthe morning. That rendezvous with death was not a roseateprospect; but there was something just as omnious about thesituation in Liege. To cover the sixteen miles back to the Dutchborder before dark was a big task to tackle with blistered feet. Iknew the sentries along the way returning, but I knew not thepitfalls for me if I remained in Liege. This drove me to a promptdecision and straightway I made for the bridge. 

It was no prophetically favorable sight that greeted me at theoutset. A Belgian, a mere stripling of twenty or thereabouts, hadjust been shot, and the soldiers, rolling him on a stretcher, werecarrying him off. I made so bold as to approach a sentry and ask:"What has he been doing?" For an answer the sentry pointed to anearby notice. In four languages it announced that any one caughtnear a telegraph pole or wire in any manner that looked suspiciousto the authorities would be summarily dealt with. They werecarrying him away, poor lad, and the crowd passed on in heedlessfashion, as though already grown accustomed to death. 

When the troops at the front are taking lives by the thousands, those guarding the lines at the rear catch the contagion of killing. Knowing that this was the temper of some of the sentries, Ispeeded along at a rapid rate, daring to make one cut across afield, and so came to Jupilles without challenge. Stopping to get adrink there, I realized what a protest my feet were making againstthe strain to which I was putting them. Luckily, a peasant'svegetable cart was passing, and, jumping on, I was congratulatingmyself on the relief, when after a few hundred yards the cartturned up a lane, leaving me on the road again with one franc lessin my pocket. 

There were so few soldiers along this stretch that I drove myselfalong at a furious pace, slowing up only when I sighted a soldier. Iwas very hot, and felt my face blazing red as the natives gazedafter me stalking so fiercely past them. But the great automobilesplunging by flung up such clouds of dust that my face was beingcontinually covered by this gray powder. What I most feared waslest, growing dizzy, I should lose my head and make incoherentanswers. 

Faint with the heat I dragged myself into a little wayside place. Everything wore a dingy air of poverty except the gracious keeperof the inn. I pointed to my throat. She understood at once my signsof thirst and quickly produced water and coffee, of which I drankuntil I was ashamed. 

"How much!" I asked. 

She shook her head negatively. I pushed a franc or two across thetable. 

"No, " she said smilingly but with resolution. 

"I can't take it. You need it on your journey. We are all just friendstogether now. "

So my dust and distress had their compensations. They hadbrought me inclusion in that deeper Belgian community of sorrow. 

It was apparent that the Germans were going to make this richregion a great center for their operations and a permanent base ofsupply. There must have been ten thousand clean-looking cattleon the opposite bank of the river; they were raising a great noiseas the soldiers drove their wagons among them, throwing downthe hay and grain. Otherwise, the army had settled down from thehustling activities of the morning, and the guards had been postedfor the oncoming evening. I knew now that I was progressing at agood pace because near Wandre I noticed a peasant's wagonahead, and soon overtook it. It was carrying eight or nine Belgianfarm-hands, and the horse was making fair time under constantpressure from the driver. 

I did not wish to add an extra burden to the overloaded animal, butit was no time for the exercise of sentiment. So I held up a two-franc piece to the driver. He looked at the coin, then he looked atthe horse, and then, picking out the meekest and the mostinoffensive of his free passengers, he bade him get off andmotioned me to take the vacated seat at my right as a first-classpaying passenger. Two francs was the fare, and he seemed highlygratified with the sum, little realizing that he could just as well havehad two hundred francs for that seat. We stopped once more tohitch on a small wood-cart, and with that bumping behind us, wetrailed along fearfully slowly. Gladly would I have offered agenerous bounty to have him urge his horse along, but I feared toexcite suspicion by too lavish an outlay of money. So I sat tightand let my feet dangle off the side, glad of the relief, but feelingthem slowly swelling beneath me. 

I was saving my head as well as my feet, for the perpetualmatching of one's wits in encounters with the guards wascontinually nerve-frazzling. But now as the cart joggled past, theguard made a casual survey of us all, taking it for granted that Iwas one of the local inhabitants. For this respite from constantinquisition I was indebted to the dust, grime and sweat thatcovered me. It blurred out all distinction between myself and thepeasants, forming a perfect protective coloration. 

To slide past so many guards so easily was a net gain indeed. However, the end of such easy passing came at the edge ofCharrate, where the driver turned into his yard, and I was dumpeddown into an encampment of soldiers. Acting on the militarists'dictum that the best defensive is a strong offensive I pushed myway boldly into the midst of a group gathered round a pump andmade signs that I desired a drink. At first they did not understand, or, thinking that I was a native Belgian, they were rather takenaback by such impertinence; but one soldier handed me his cupand another pumped it full. I drank it, and, thanking them, startedoff. This calm assurance gained me passage past the guard, whohad stood by watching the procedure. In the next six hundredyards I was brought to a standstill by a sudden "Halt!" At one of theposts some soldiers were ringed around a prisoner garbed in thelong black regulation cassock of a priest. Though he wore a whitehandkerchief around his arm as a badge of a peaceful attitude, hewas held as a spy. His hands and his eyes were twitchingnervously. He seemed to be glad to welcome the addition of mycompany into the ranks of the suspects, but he was doomed todisappointment, for I was passed along. The next guard took meto his superior officer directly. But the superior officer was theincarnation of good humor and he was more interested in a littlerepast that was being made ready for him than in entering into thequestions involved in my case. 

"Search him for weapons, " he said casually, while he himselfmade a few perfunctory passes over my pockets. No weaponsbeing found, he said, "Let him go. We've done damage hereenough. "

These interruptions were getting to be distressingly frequent. I hadjourneyed but a few hundred yards farther when a surly fellowsprang out from behind a wagon and in a raucous voice bade me"Stand by. " He had an evil glint in his eye, and was ready to go outof his way hunting trouble. Totally dissatisfied with any answer Icould make, he kept roaring louder and louder. There was nodoubt that he was venting his spleen upon an unprotected andhumble civilian, and that he was thoroughly enjoying seeing mecringe under his bulldozing. It flashed upon me that he might be aself-appointed guardian of the way. So when he began to wax stillmore arrogant, I simply said, "Take me to your superior officer. "

He softened down like a child, and, standing aside, motioned mealong. 

I would put nothing past a bully of that stripe. He was capable ofcommitting any kind of an atrocity. And his sort undoubtedly did. But what else can one expect from a conscript army, which, as itputs every man on its roster, must necessarily contain the worst aswell as the best? Draft 1, 000 men out of any community in anycountry and along with the decent citizens there will be a certainnumber of cowards, braggarts and brutes. When occasion offersthey will rob, rape and murder. To such a vicious strain this fellowbelonged. 

The soldier whom next I encountered is really typical of theGemutlichheit of the men who, on the 20th of August, wereencamped along the Meuse River. I was moving along fast nowunder the cover of a hedge which paralleled the road when a voicecalled out "Halt!" In a step or two I came to a stop. A large fellowclimbed over the hedge, and, coming on the road, fell, or ratherstumbled over himself, into the ditch. I was afraid he was drunk, and that this tumble would add vexation to his spirits; but he wasonly tired and over-weighted, carrying a big knapsack and a gun, anumber of articles girdled around his waist, along with too muchavoirdupois. It seems that even in this conquered territory theGermans never relaxed their vigilance. Fully a thousand menstood guarding the pontoon bridge, and this man, who had goneout foraging and was returning with a bottle of milk, carried his fullfighting equipment with him, as did all the others. I gave him ahand and pulled him to his feet, offering to help carry something, as he was breathing heavily; but he refused my aid. As we walkedalong together I gave him my last stick of chocolate, and, beingassured by my demeanor that I was a friend, he showed a realkindly, fatherly interest in me. 

"A bunch of robbers, that's what these Belgians are, " he assertedstoutly. "They charged me a mark for a quart of milk. "

I put my question of the morning to him: "Is it dangerous travelingalong here so late?" His answer was anything but reassuring. "Yes, it is very dangerous. "

Then he explained that one of his comrades had been shot by aBelgian from the bluffs above that very afternoon and that the menwere all very angry. All the Belgians had taken to cover, for theroad was totally cleared of pedestrians from this place on toMouland. 

"Well, what am I to do?" I asked. 

"Go straight ahead. Swerve neither to the right nor left. Be sureyou have no weapons, and stop at once when the guard cries'Halt!' and you will get through all right. But, above all, be sure tostand stock still immediately at the challenge. Above all--that, " heinsisted. 

"But did I not stop still when you cried 'Halt!' a minute ago?" Iasked. 

"No, " he said; "you took two or three steps before you came to aperfect stop. See, this is the way to do it. " He started off briskly, and as I cried "Halt!" came to a standstill with marvelous andsudden precision for a man of his weight. 

"Do it that way and cry out, 'Ready, here!' and it will be all right. "

I would give a great deal for a vignette of that ponderous fellowacting as drillmaster to this stray American. The intensity of thesituation rapidly ripened his interest into an affection. I was frettingto get away, but the amenities demanded a more formal leave-taking. At last, however, I broke away, bearing with me his paternalbenediction. Far ahead a company of soldiers was forming intoline. Just as I reached the place they came to attention, and at agesture from the captain I walked like a royal personage downpast the whole line, feeling hundreds of eyes critically playing uponme. I suspect that the captain had a sense of humor and wasenjoying the discomfiture he knew I must feel. 

Estimating my advance by the signboards, where distances weremarked in kilometers, it appeared that I was getting on withwretched slowness, considering the efforts I was making. At thisrate, I knew I should never reach the Holland frontier by nightfall, and from the warnings I had received I dreaded to attemptcrossing after sundown. Sleeping in the fields when the wholecountry was infested by soldiers was out of the question, so Iturned to the first open cottage of a peasant and asked him to takeme in for the night. He shook his head emphatically, and gave meto understand it would be all his life were worth if he did so. So Irallied my energies for one last effort, and plunged wildly ahead. 

The breeze was blowing refreshingly up the river, the road wasclear, and soon I was rewarded by seeing the smoke still curlingup from the ruins of Vise. I looked at my watch, which pointed tothe time for sunset, and yet there was the sun, curiously enough, some distance up from the horizon. The fact of the matter is that Ihad reset my watch at Liege, and clocks there had all beenchanged to German time. With a tremendous sense of relief Idiscovered that I had a full hour more than I had figured on. 

There was ample time now to cover the remaining distance, andso I rested a moment before what appeared to be a desertedhouse. Slowly the shutters were pushed back and a sweet-facedold lady timorously thrust her head out of an upper window. Sheapparently had been hiding away terror-stricken, and there wassomething pathetic in the half-trusting way she risked her fateeven now. In a low voice she put some question in the local patoisto me. I could not understand what she was asking, but concludedthat she was seeking comfort and assurance. So I sought toconvey by much gesturing and benevolent smiling that all wasquiet and safe along the Meuse. She may have concluded that Iwas some harmless, roaming idiot who could not answer a plainquestion; but it was the best I could do, and I walked on to Visewith the fine feeling of having played the role of comforter. 

At Vise I was heartened by two dogs who jumped wildly andjoyously around me. I gathered courage enough here to swerve tothe right, and from the window of a still burning roadside cafeextracted three wine-glasses as souvenirs of the trip. 

Presently I was in Mouland, whose few forlorn walls grouped aboutthe village church made a pathetic picture as they glowedluminously in the setting sun. A flock of doves were cooing in theblackened ruins. Now I was on the home-stretch; and, that theremight be no mistake with my early morning comrades, I cried outin German, "Here comes a friend!" With broad smiles on theirfaces, they were waiting there to receive me. 

They made a not unpicturesque group gathered around theircamp-fire. One was plucking a chicken, another making the strawbeds for the night. A third was laboriously at work writing a post-card. I ventured the information that I had made over fiftykilometers that day. They punctured my pride somewhat by statingthat that was often the regular stint for German soldiers. But, pointing to their own well-made hobnailed boots, they added, "Never in thin rubber soles like yours. " After emptying my pocketsof eatables and promising to deliver the post-card, I passed oncemore under the great Dutch banner into neutral territory. 

My three Holland friends were there with an automobile, and, greeting me with a hearty "Gute Knabe!" whisked me off toMaastricht. For the next three days I did all my writing in bed, nursing a, couple of bandaged feet. I wouldn't have missed thattrip for ten thousand dollars. I wouldn't go through it again for ahundred thousand. 

Part 3With the War Photographers in Belgium

Chapter IX

How I Was Shot As A German Spy

IN the last days of September, the Belgians moving in and throughGhent in their rainbow-colored costumes, gave to the city adistinctively holiday touch. The clatter of cavalry hoofs and thethrob of racing motors rose above the voices of the mobs thatsurged along the streets. 

Service was normal in the cafes. To the accompaniment of musicand clinking glasses the dress-suited waiter served me a five-course lunch for two francs. It was uncanny to see this blaze of lifewhile the city sat under the shadow of a grave disaster. At anymoment the gray German tide might break out of Brussels andpour its turbid flood of soldiers through these very streets. Evennow a Taube hovered in the sky, and from the skirmish-line anoccasional ambulance rumbled in with its crimsoned load. 

I chanced into Gambrinus' cafe and was lost in the babbling sea ofFrench and Flemish. Above the melee of sounds, however, Icaught a gladdening bit of English. Turning about, I espied a littlegroup of men whose plain clothes stood out in contrast to thecolored uniforms of officers and soldiers crowded into the cafe. Wearied of my efforts at conversing in a foreign tongue, I wentover and said: "Do you really speak English!" "Well, rather!"answered the one who seemed to act as leader of the group. "Weare the only ones now and it will be scarcer still around here in afew days. " "Why!" I asked. 

"Because Ghent will be in German hands. " This brought anemphatic denial from one of his confreres who insisted that theGermans had already reached the end of their rope. A certaincorrespondent, joining in the argument, came in for a deal ofbanter for taking the war de luxe in a good hotel far from the front. 

"What do you know about the war?" they twitted him. "You'vepumped all your best stories out of the refugees ten miles from thefront, after priming them with a glass of beer. "

They were a group of young war-photographers to whom dangerwas a magnet. Though none of them had yet reached the age ofthirty, they had seen service in all the stirring events of Europe andeven around the globe. Where the clouds lowered and the seastossed, there they flocked. Like stormy petrels they rushed to thecenter of the swirling world. That was their element. A free-lance, arepresentative of the Northcliffe press, and two movie-mencomprised this little group and made an island of English amidstthe general babel. 

Like most men who have seen much of the world, they hadceased to be cynics. When I came to them out of the rain, carryingno other introduction than a dripping overcoat, they welcomed meinto their company and whiled away the evening with tales of theBalkan wars. 

They were in high spirits over their exploits of the previous day, when the Germans, withdrawing from Melle on the outskirts of thecity, had left a long row of cottages still burning. As the enemytroops pulled out the further end of the street, the movie mencame in at the other and caught the pictures of the still blazinghouses. We went down to view them on the screen. To the gentlethrobbing of drums and piano, the citizens of Ghent viewed theunique spectacle of their own suburbs going up in smoke. 

At the end of the show they invited me to fill out their automobileon the morrow. Nearly every other motor had been commandeeredby the authorities for the "Service Militaire" and bore on the frontthe letters "S. M. " Our car was by no means in the blue-ribbonclass. It had a hesitating disposition and the authorities, regardingit as more of a liability than an asset, had passed it over. 

But the correspondents counted it a great stroke of fortune to haveany car at all; and, that they might continue to have it, they kept itat night carefully locked in a room in the hotel. 

They had their chauffeur under like supervision. He was one oftheir kind, and with the cunning of a diplomat obtained the permitto buy petrol, most precious of all treasures in the field of war. Indeed, gasoline, along with courage and discipline, completed thetrinity of success in the military mind. 

With the British flag flying at the front, we sped away next morningon the road to Termonde. At Melle we came upon the blazingcottages we had seen pictured the night before. Here weencountered a roving band of Belgian soldiers who were in a freeand careless mood and evinced a ready willingness to putthemselves at our disposal. Under the command of the photographers, they charged across the fields with fixed bayonets, wriggled upthrough the grass, or, standing behind the trenches, blazed awaywith their guns at an imaginary enemy. They did some good acting, grim and serious as death. All except one. 

This youth couldn't suppress his sense of humor. He could not, orwould not, keep from laughing, even when he was supposed to beblowing the head off a Boche. He was properly disciplined and putout of the game, and we went on with our maneuvers to theaccompaniment of the clicking cameras until the photographershad gathered in a fine lot of realistic fighting-line pictures. 

One of the photographers sat stolidly in the automobile smokinghis cigarette while the others were reaping their harvest. 

"Why don't you take these too?" I asked. 

"Oh, " he replied, "I've been sending in so much of that stuff that Ijust got a telegram from my paper saying, 'Pension off that Belgianregiment which is doing stunts in the trenches. '"

While his little army rested from their maneuvers the Director-in-Chief turned to me and said:

"Wouldn't you like to have a photograph of yourself in these war-surroundings, just to take home as a souvenir?"

That appealed to me. After rejecting some commonplacesuggestions, he exclaimed: "I have it. Shot as a German Spy. There's the wall to stand up against; and we'll pick a crack firing-squad out of these Belgians. A little bit of all right, eh?"

I acquiesced in the plan and was led over to the wall while amovie-man whipped out a handkerchief and tied it over my eyes. The director then took the firing squad in hand. He had butrecently witnessed the execution of a spy where he had almostburst with a desire to photograph the scene. It had beenexcruciating torture to restrain himself. But the experience hadmade him feel conversant with the etiquette of shooting a spy, as itwas being done amongst the very best firing-squads. He made itnow stand him in good stead. 

"Aim right across the bandage, " the director coached them. I couldhear one of the soldiers laughing excitedly as he was warming upto the rehearsal. It occurred to me that I was reposing a lot ofconfidence in a stray band of soldiers. Some one of thoseBelgians, gifted with a lively imagination, might get carried awaywith the suggestion and act as if I really were a German spy. 

"Shoot the blooming blighter in the eye, " said one movie manplayfully. 

"Bally good idea!" exclaimed the other one approvingly, while oneeager actor realistically clicked his rifle-hammer. That wasaltogether too much. I tore the bandage from my eyes, exclaiming:

"It would be a bally good idea to take those cartridges out first. "Some fellow might think his cartridge was blank or try to fire wild, just as a joke in order to see me jump. I wasn't going to take anyrisk and flatly refused to play my part until the cartridges wereejected. Even when the bandage was readjusted "Didn't-know-it-was-loaded" stories still were haunting me. In a moment, however, it was over and I was promised my picture within afortnight. 

A week later I picked up the London Daily Mirror from anewsstand. It had the caption:

Belgian Soldiers Shoot a German Spy Caught at Termonde

I opened up the paper and what was my surprise to see a bigspread picture of myself, lined up against that row of Mellecottages and being shot for the delectation of the British public. There is the same long raincoat that runs as a motif through all theother pictures. Underneath it were the words:

"The Belgians have a short, sharp method of dealing with theKaiser's rat-hole spies. This one was caught near Termonde and, after being blindfolded, the firing-squad soon put an end to hisinglorious career. "

One would not call it fame exactly, even though I played the star-role. But it is a source of some satisfaction to have helped a royallot of fellows to a first-class scoop. As the "authentic spy-picture ofthe war, " it has had a broadcast circulation. I have seen it inpublications ranging all the way from The Police Gazette to"Collier's Photographic History of the European War. " In auniversity club I once chanced upon a group gathered around thisidentical picture. They were discussing the psychology of this "poordevil" in the moments before he was shot. It was a further sourceof satisfaction to step in and arbitrarily contradict all theirconclusions and, having shown them how totally mistaken theywere, proceed to tell them exactly how the victim felt. This high-handed manner nettled one fellow terribly:

"Not so arbitrary, my friend!" he said. "You haven't any right to beso devilish cocksure. "

"Haven't I?" I replied. "Who has any better right? I happen to bethat identical man!" But that little episode has been of real value tome. It is said that if one goes through the motions he gets theemotions. I believe that I have an inkling of how a man feels whenhe momentarily expects a volley of cold lead to turn his skull into asieve. 

That was a very timely picture. It filled a real demand. For spieswere at that time looming distressingly large in the public mind. The deeds they had done, or were about to do, cast a cold fearover men by day and haunted them by night. They were in theAllies' councils, infesting the army, planning destruction to thenavy. Any wild tale got credence, adding its bit to the generalparalysis, and producing a vociferous demand that "something bedone. " The people were assured that all culprits were being dulysentenced and shot. But there was no proof of it. There were nopictures thereof extant. And that is what the public wanted. 

"Give the public what it wants, " was the motto of this enterprisingnewspaper man. Herewith he supplied tangible evidence on whichthey could feast their eyes and soothe their nerves. 

As to the ethics of these pictures, they are "true" in that they arefaithful to reality. In this case the photographer acted up to hisprofessional knowledge and staged the pictures as he had actuallyseen the spy shot. They must find their justification on the samebasis as fiction, which is "the art of falsifying facts for the sake oftruth. " And who would begrudge them the securing of a fewpictures with comparative ease?

Most of the pictures which the public casually gazes on have beensecured at a price--and a large one, too. The names of these menwho go to the front with cameras, rather than with rifles or pens, are generally unknown. They are rarely found beneath thepictures, yet where would be our vivid impression of courage indaring and of skill in doing, of cunning strategy upon the field ofbattle, of wounded soldiers sacrificing for their comrades, if we hadno pictures? A few pictures are faked, but behind most picturesthere is another tale of daring and of strategy, and that is the taleconcerning the man who took it. That very day thrice these samemen risked their lives. 

The apparatus loaded in the car, we were off again. Past a fewbarricades of paving-stones and wagons, past the burned houseswhich marked the place where the Germans had come within fivemiles of Ghent, we encountered some uniformed Belgians wholooked quite as dismal and dispirited as the fog which hung abovethe fields. They were the famous Guarde Civique of Belgium. OurUnion Jack, flapping in the wind, was very likely quite the mostthrilling spectacle they had seen in a week, and they hailed it with acheer and a cry of "Vive l'Angleterre!" (Long live England!) TheGuarde Civique had a rather inglorious time of it. Wearisomely intheir wearisome-looking uniform, they stood for hours on theirguns or marched and counter-marched in dreary patrolling, oftendoomed not even to scent the battle from afar off. 

Whenever we were called to a halt for the examination of ourpassports, these men crowded around and begged for newspapers. We held up our stock, and they would clamor for the ones withpictures. The English text was unintelligible to most of them, butthe pictures they could understand, and they bore them away toenjoy the sight of other soldiers fighting, even if they themselveswere denied that excitement. Our question to them was alwaysthe same, "Where are the Germans?"

Out of the conflicting reports it was hard to tell whether theGermans were heading this way or not. That they were expectedwas shown by the sign-posts whose directions had just beenobliterated by fresh paint--a rather futile operation, because theGermans had better maps and plans of the region than theBelgians themselves, maps which showed every by-path, well andbarn. The chauffeur's brother had been shot in his car by theGermans but a week before, and he didn't relish the idea of thusflaunting the enemy's flag along a road where some Germanscouting party might appear at any moment. The Union Jack haddone good service in getting us easy passage so far, but the driverwas not keen for going further with it. 

It was proposed to turn the car around and back it down the road, as had been done the previous day. Thus the car would beheaded in the home direction, and at sight of the dreaded uniformwe could make a quick leap for safety. At this juncture, however, Iproduced a small Stars and Stripes, which the chauffeur hailedwith delight, and we continued our journey now under the aegis ofa neutral flag. 

It might have secured temporary safety, but only temporary; for ifthe Englishmen with only British passports had fallen into thehands of the Germans, like their unfortunate kinsmen who didventure too far into the war zone, they, too, would have had achance to cool their ardor in some detention-camp of Germany. This cheerful prospect was in the mind of these men, for, when weespied coming around a distant corner two gray-looking men onhorseback, they turned white as the chauffeur cried, "Uhlans!"

It is a question whether the car or our hearts came to a deadstandstill first. Our shock was unnecessary. They proved to beBelgians, and assured us that the road was clear all the way toTermonde; and, except for an occasional peasant tilling his fields, the country-side was quite deserted until at Grembergen we cameupon an unending procession of refugees streaming down theroad. They were all coming out of Termonde. Termonde, afterbeing taken and retaken, bombarded and burned, was for themoment neutral territory. A Belgian commandant had allowed therefugees that morning to return and gather what they might fromamong the ruins. 

In the early morning, then, they had gone into the city, and now athigh noon they were pouring out, a great procession of thedispossessed. They came tracking their way to where--God onlyknows. All they knew was that in their hearts was set the fear ofUhlans, and in the sky the smoke and flames of their burninghomesteads. They came laden with their lares and penates, --mainly dogs, feather beds, and crayon portraits of their ancestors. 

Women came carrying on their heads packs which looked liketheir entire household paraphernalia. The men were moreunassuming, and, as a rule, carried a package considerably lighterand comporting more with their superior masculine dignity. I recallone little woman in particular. She was bearing a burden heavyenough to send a strong American athlete staggering down to theground, while at her side majestically marched her faithful knight, bearing a bird-cage, and there wasn't any bird in it, either. 

Nothing could be more mirth-provoking than that sight; yet, strangely enough, the most tear-compelling memory of the war isconnected with another bird-cage. Two children rummagingthrough their ruined home dug it out of the debris. In it was theirlittle pet canary. While fire and smoke rolled through the house ithad beat its wings against the bars in vain. Its prison had becomeits tomb. Its feathers were but slightly singed, yet it was dead withthat pathetic finality which attaches itself to only a dead bird--itssilver songs and flutterings, once the delight of the children, nowstilled forever. 

The photographers had long looked for what they termed a first-class sob-picture. Here it was par excellent. The larger child stoodstroking the feathers of her pet and murmuring over and over"Poor Annette, " "Poor Annette!" Then the smaller one snugglingthe limp little thing against her neck wept inconsolably. 

Instead of seizing their opportunity, the movie man was clearinghis throat while the free lance was busy on what he said was acinder in his eye. Yet this very man had brought back from theBalkan War of 1907 a prime collection of horrors; corpses throwninto the death-cart with arms and legs sticking out like so muchstubble; the death-cart creeping away with its ghastly load; and thedumping together of bodies of men and beasts into a pit to beeaten by the lime. This man who had gone through all this withgood nerve was now touched to tears by two children crying overtheir pet canary. There are some things that are too much for theheart of even a war-photographer. 

To give the whole exodus the right tragic setting, one is tempted towrite that tears were streaming down all the faces of the refugees, but on the contrary, indeed, most of them carried a smile and apipe, and trudged stolidly along, much as though bound for a fair. Some of our pictures show laughing refugees. That may not befair, for man is so constituted that the muscles of his faceautomatically relax to the click of the camera. But as I recall thatpitiful procession, there was in it very little outward expression ofsorrow. 

Undoubtedly there was sadness enough in all their hearts, butpeople in Europe have learned to live on short rations; they rarelyindulge in luxuries like weeping, but bear the most unwontedafflictions as though they were the ordinary fortunes of life. Warhas set a new standard for grief. So these victims passed alongthe road, but not before the record of their passing was etched forever on our moving-picture films. The coming generation will nothave to reconstruct the scene from the colored accounts of thejournalist, but with their own eyes they can see the hegira of thehomeless as it really was. 

The resignation of the peasant in the face of the great calamitywas a continual source of amazement to us. Zola in "Le Debacle"puts into his picture of the battle of Sedan an old peasant plowingon his farm in the valley. While shells go screaming overhead heplacidly drives his old white horse through the accustomedfurrows. One naturally presumed that this was a dramatic touch ofthe great novelist. But similar incidents we saw in this Great Warover and over again. 

We were with Consul van Hee one morning early before theclinging veil of sleep had lifted from our spirits or the mists from thelow-lying meadows. Without warning our car shot through a bankof fog into a spectacle of medieval splendor--a veritable Field ofthe Cloth of Gold, spread out on the green plains of Flanders. 

A thousand horses strained at their bridles while their thousandriders in great fur busbies loomed up almost like giants. Athousand pennons stirred in the morning air while the sun burningthrough the mists glinted on the tips of as many lances. The crackBelgian cavalry divisions had been gathered here just behind thefiring-lines in readiness for a sortie; the Lancers in their cherry andgreen and the Guides in their blue and gold making a blaze ofcolor. 

It was as if in a trance we had been carried back to a tourney ofancient chivalry--this was before privations and the new drabuniforms had taken all glamour out of the war. As we gazed uponthe glittering spectacle the order from the commander came to us:

"Back, back out of danger!"

"Forward!" was the charge to the Lancers. 

The field-guns rumbled into line and each rider unslung hiscarbine. Putting spurs to the horses, the whole line rode pastsaluting our Stars and Stripes with a "Vive L'Amerique. " Bringingup the rear two cassocked priests served to give this pageantry atouch of prophetic grimness. 

And yet as the cavalcade swept across the fields thrilling us with itscolor and its action, the nearby peasants went on spreadingfertilizer quite as calm and unconcerned as we were exhilarated. 

"Stupid, " "Clods, " "Souls of oxen, " we commented, yet aprotagonist of the peasant might point out that it was perhaps asnoble and certainly quite as useful to be held by a passion for thesoil as to be caught by the glamour of men riding out to slaughter. And Zola puts this in the mind of his peasants. 

"Why should I lose a day? Soldiers must fight, but folks must live. It is for me to keep the corn growing. "

Deep down into the soil the peasant strikes his roots. Urbanpeople can never comprehend when these roots are cut away howhopelessly-lost and adrift this European peasant in particularbecomes. Wicked as the Great War has seemed to us in itsbearing down upon these innocent folks, yet we can neverunderstand the cruelty that they have suffered in being uprootedfrom the land and sent forth to become beggars and wanderersupon the highroads of the world. 

Chapter X

The Little Belgian Who Said, "You Betcha"

In the fighting around Termonde the bridge over the Scheldt hadbeen three times blown up and three times reconstructed. Wiresnow led to explosives under the bridge on the Termonde side, andon the side held by the Belgians they led to a table in the room ofthe commanding officer. In this table was an electric button. By thebutton stood an officer. The entrance of the Germans on thatbridge was the signal for the officer to push that button, and thus toblow both bridge and Germans into bits. 

But the Belgians were taking no chances. If by any mishap thatelectric connection should fail them, it would devolve upon theartillery lined upon the bank to rake the bridge with shrapnel. Aroofed-over trench ran along the river like a levee and bristled withmachine guns whose muzzles were also trained upon the bridge. Full caissons of ammunition were standing alongside, ready tofeed the guns their death-dealing provender, and in the rear, allharnessed, were the horses, ready to bring up more caissons. 

Though in the full blaze of day, the gunners were standing orcrouching by their guns. The watchers of the night lay stretchedout upon the ground, sleeping in the warm sun after their long, anxious vigil. Stumbling in among them, I was pulled back by oneof the photographers. 

"For heaven's sake, " he cried, "don't wake up those men!"

"Why?" I asked. 

"Because this picture I'm taking here is to be labeled 'Dead Men inthe Termonde Trenches, ' and you would have them starting up asthough the day of resurrection had arrived. "

After taking these pictures we were ready to cross the bridge; butthe two sentries posted at this end were not ready to let us. Theywere very small men, but very determined, and informed us thattheir instructions were to allow no one to pass over without apermit signed by the General. We produced scores of passes andpassports decorated with stamps and seals and covered withmyriad signatures. They looked these over and said that ourpapers were very nice and undoubtedly very numerous, butungraciously insisted on that pass signed by the General. 

So back we flew to the General at Grembergen. I waited outsideuntil my companions emerged from the office waving passes. They were in a gleeful, bantering mood. That evening theyapprised me of the fact that all day I had been traveling as a richAmerican with my private photographers securing pictures for theBelgian Relief Fund. 

Leaving our automobile in charge of the chauffeur, we cautiouslymade our way over the bridge into the city of Termonde, or whatwas once Termonde, for it is difficult to dignify with the name of citya heap of battered buildings and crumbling brick--an ugly scarupon the landscape. 

I was glad to enter the ruins with my companions instead of alone. It was not so much fear of stray bullets from a lurking enemy asthe suggestion of the spirits of the slain lingering round thesetombs. For Termonde appeared like one vast tomb. As we firstentered its sepulchral silences we were greatly relieved that thethree specter-like beings who sat huddled up over a distant ruinturned out not to be ghosts, but natives hopelessly and patheticallysurveying this wreck that was once called home, trying to rake outof the embers some sort of relic of the past. 

A regiment of hungry dogs came prowling up the street, and, remembering the antics of the past week, they looked at us as ifspeculating what new species of crazy human being we were. Tothem the world of men must suddenly have gone quite insane, andif there had been an agitator among them he might well haveasked his fellow-dogs why they had acknowledged a race ofmadmen as their masters. Indeed, one could almost detect asense of surprise that we didn't use the photographic apparatus tocommit some new outrage. They stayed with us for a while, but atthe sight of our cinema man turning the crank like a machine gun, they turned and ran wildly down the street. 

Emptied bottles looted from winecellars were strung along thecurbs. To some Germans they had been more fatal than theBelgian bullets, for while one detachment of the German soldiershad been setting the city blazing with petrol from the petrol flasks, others had set their insides on fire with liquors from the wine flasks, and, rolling through the town in drunken orgy, they had fallenheadlong into the canal. 

There is a relevant item for those who seek further confirmation asto the reality of the atrocities in Belgium. If men could get sodrunken and uncontrolled as to commit atrocities on themselves (i. E. , self-destruction), it is reasonable to infer that they could commitatrocities on others--and they undoubtedly did. The surprise liesnot in the number of such crimes, but the fewness of them. 

Three boys who had somehow managed to crawl across thebridge were prodding about in the canals with bamboo poles. 

"What are you doing?" we inquired. 

"Fishing, " they responded. 

"What for?" we asked. 

"Dead Germans, " they replied. 

"What do you do with them--bury them?"

"No!" they shouted derisively. "We just strip them of what they'vegot and shove 'em back in. "

Their search for these hapless victims was not motivated by anysentimental reasons, but simply by their business interest as localdealers in helmets, buttons and other German mementos. 

We took pictures of these young water-ghouls; a picture of theHotel de Ville, the calcined walls standing like a shell, the inside asmoking mass of debris; then a picture of a Belgian mitrailleusecar, manned by a crowd of young and jaunty dare-devils. It cameswinging into the square, bringing a lot of bicycles from a Germanpatrol which had just been mowed down outside the city. Aftertaking a shot at an aeroplane buzzing away at a tremendousdistance overhead, they were off again on another scouting trip. 

I got separated from my party and was making my way alonewhen a sharp "Hello!" ringing up the street, startled me. I turned tosee, not one of the photographers, but a fully-armed, thoughsomewhat diminutive, soldier in Belgian uniform waving his handat me. 

"Hello!" he shouted; "are you an American?"

I could hardly believe my eyes or my ears, but managed to shoutback, "Yes, yes, I'm an American. Are you?" I asked dubiously. 

"You betcha I'm a 'Merican, " he replied, coming quickly up to me. Itwas my turn again. 

"What are you doing down here--fighting?" I put in fatuously. 

"What the hell you think I'm doing?" he rejoined. 

I now felt quite sure that he was an American. Further offerings ofsimilar "language of small variety but great strength" testified to hissojourn in the States. 

"You betcha I'm a 'Merican, " he reiterated, "though I was overthere but two years. My name is August Bidden. I worked in alumber-mill in Wagner, Wisconsin. Came back here to visit myfamily. The war broke out. I was a Reservist and joined myregiment. I'm here on scout-duty. Got to find out when theGermans come back into the city. "

"Been in any battles?"

"You betcha, " he replied. 

"Kill any Germans?"

"You betcha. "

"Did you enjoy it?"

"You betcha. "

"Any around here now?"

"You betcha. A lot of them down in the bushes over the brook. "Then his eyes flashed a sudden fire as though an inspired ideahad struck him. "There's no superior officer around, " he exclaimedconfidentially. "Come right down with me and you can take a pot-shot at the damned Boches with my rifle. " He said it with the air ofa man offering a rare treat to his best friend. I felt that it devolvedon me to exhibit a proper zest for this little shooting-party and savemy reputation without risking my skin. So I said eagerly:

"Now are you dead sure that the Germans are down there!"implying that I couldn't afford any time unless the shooting wasgood. 

"You betcha they're down there, " was his disconcerting reply. "Youcan see their green-gray uniforms. I counted sixteen or seventeenof them. "

The thought of that sixteen-to-one shot made my cheeks take onthe color of the German uniforms. The naked truth was my lastresort. It was the only thing that could prevent my zealous friendfrom dragging me forcibly down to the brookside. He may haveheard the chattering of my teeth. At any rate he looked up andexclaimed, "What's the matter? You 'fraid?"

I replied without any hesitation, "You betcha. "

The happy arrival of the photographer at this juncture, however, redeemed my fallen reputation; for a soldier is always peculiarlyamenable to the charms of the camera and is even willing to quitfighting to get his picture taken. 

This photograph happens to hit off our little episode exactly. Itshows Ridden serene, smiling, confident, and my sort of evasivehangdog look as though, in popular parlance, I had just "got oneput over me. "

Then, while seated on a battered wall, Ridden poured out his storyof the last two months of hardships and horrors. It was the singleindividual's share in the terrific gruelling that the Belgian army hadreceived while it was beaten back from the eastern frontier to itsstand on the river Scheldt. Always being promised aid by the Alliesif they would hold out just a little longer, they were led again andagain frantically to pit their puny strength against the overwhelmingtide out of the North. For the moment they would stay it. Eagerlythey would listen for sounds of approaching help, asking everystranger when it was coming. It never came. From position toposition they fell back, stubbornly fighting, a flaming pillar of sparksand clouds of smoke marking the path of their retreat. 

Though smashed and broken that army was never crushed. Itsspirit was incarnate in this cheerful and undaunted Ridden. Herecounted his privations as nonchalantly as if it was just the waythat he had planned to spend his holiday. As a farewell token hepresented me with an epaulet from an officer he had killed, and apin from a German woman spy he had captured. 

"Be sure to visit me when you get back to America, " I cried outdown the street to him. 

He stood waving his hand in farewell as in greeting, the samehappy ingenuous look upon his face and sending after me in replythe same old confident standby, "You betcha. " But I do not cherisha great hope of ever seeing Ridden again. The chances are that, like most of the Belgian army, he is no longer treading the graystreets of those demolished cities, but whatever golden streetsthere may be in the City Celestial. War is race suicide. It kills thebest and leaves behind the undermuscled and the under-brainedto propagate the species. 

Striking farther into the heart of the ruins, we beheld in a section allburned and shattered to the ground a building which stood straightup like a cliff intact and undamaged amidst the general wreckage. As we stumbled over the debris, imagine our surprise when an oldlady of about seventy thrust her head out of a basement window. She was the owner of the house, and while the city had been thefighting ground for the armies she had, through it all, bravely stuckto her home. 

"I was born here, I have always lived here, and I am going to diehere, " she said, with a look of pride upon her kindly face. 

Madame Callebaut-Ringoot was her name. During thebombardment of the town she had retired to the cellar; but whenthe Germans entered to burn the city she stood there at the doorwatching the flames rolling up from the warehouses and factoriesin the distance. Nearer and nearer came the billowing tide of fire. Afountain of sparks shooting up from a house a few hundred yardsaway marked the advance of the firing squad into her street, butshe never wavered. Down the street came the spoilers, relentless, ruthless, and remorseless, sparing nothing. They came like priestsof the nether world, anointing each house with oil from the petrolflasks and with a firebrand dedicating it to the flames. Every one, panic-stricken, fled before them. Every one but this old lady, whostood there bidding defiance to all the Kaiser's horses and all theKaiser's men. 

"I saw them smashing in the door of the house across the way, "said Madame Callebaut, "and when the flames burst forth theyrushed over here, and I fell down on my knees before them, cryingout, 'For the love of Heaven, spare an old woman's house!'"

It must have been a dramatic, soul-curdling sight, with the wail ofthe woman rising above the crashing walls and the roaring flames. And it must have been effective pleading to stop men in their wildrush lusting to destroy. But Madame Callebaut was endowed withpowerful emotions. Carried away in her recital of the events, shefell down on her knees before me, wringing her hands andpleading so piteously that I felt for a moment as if I were a fiendishTeuton with a firebrand about to set the old lady's house afire. Ican understand how the wildest men capitulated to such pleadings, and how they came down the steps to write, in big, clear words, "NICHT ANBRENNEN"(Do not set fire)

Only they unwittingly wrote it upon her neighbor's walls, thussaving both houses. 

How much a savior of other homes Madame Callebaut had beenTermonde will never know. Certainly she made the firing squadfirst pause in the wild debauch of destruction. For frequently nowan undamaged house stood with the words chalked on its front, "Only harmless old woman lives here; do not burn down. "Underneath were the numbers and initials of the particular corps ofthe Kaiser's Imperial Army. Often the flames had committed Lesemajeste by leaping onto the forbidden house, and there amidst thecharred ruins stood a door or a wall bearing the mockinginscription, "Nicht Anbrennen. "

Another house, belonging to Madame Louise Bal, bore the words, "Protected; Gute alte Leute hier" (good old people here). A greatshell from a distant battery had totally disregarded this sign andhad torn through the parlor, exploding in the back yard, ripping theclothes from the line, but touching neither of the inmates. As theChinese ambassador pertinently remarked when reassured byWhitlock that the Germans would not bombard the embassies, "Ah! but a cannon has no eyes. "

These houses stood up like lone survivors above the wreckagewrought by fire and shell, and by contrast served to emphasize thedismal havoc everywhere. "So this was once a city, " one mused tohimself; "and these streets, now sounding with the footfalls ofsome returning sentry, did they once echo with the roar of traffic?And those demolished shops, were they once filled with the babbleof the traders? Over yonder in that structure, which looks so muchlike a church, did the faithful once come to pray and to worshipGod? Can it be that these courtyards, now held in the thrall ofdeath-like silence, once rang to the laughter of the little children?"One said to himself, "Surely this is some wild dream. Wake up. "

But hardly a dream, for here were the ruins of a real city, and freshruins, too. Still curling up from the church was smoke from theburning rafters, and over there the hungry dogs, and the stragglersmournfully digging something out of the ruins. However preposterousit seemed, none the less it was a city that yesterday ran high withthe tide of human life. And thousands of people, when they recallthe lights and shadows, the pains and raptures, which make up thething we call life, will think of Termonde. Thousands of people, when they think of home and all the tender memories that clusterround that word, say "Termonde. "' And now where Termonde wasthere is a big black ragged spot--an ugly gaping wound in thelandscape. There are a score of other wounds like that. 

There are thousands of them. 

There is one bleeding in every Belgian heart. 

The sight of their desolated cities cut the soldiers to the quick. 

They turned the names of those cities into battle cries. Shouting"Remember Termonde and Louvain, " these Belgians sprang fromthe trenches and like wild men flung themselves upon the foe. 

Chapter XI

Atrocities And The Socialist

"With these sentries holding us up at every cross-roads, there is nouse trying to get to Antwerp, " said the free-lance. 

"Yes, there is, " retorted the chauffeur. "Watch me the next time. "He beckoned to the first sentry barring the way, and, leaning over, whispered into the man's ear a single word. The sentry saluted, and, stepping to one side, motioned us on in a manner almostdeferential. We had hardly been compelled to stop. 

After our tedious delays this was quite exhilarating. How ourchauffeur obtained the password we did not know, nor did wechallenge the inclusion of 8 francs extra in his memorandum ofexpenses. As indicated, he was a man of parts. The magic word ofthe day, "France, " now opened every gate to us. 

Behind the Antwerp fortifications the Belgian sappers and minerswere on an organized rampage of destruction. On a wide zoneevery house, windmill and church was either going up in flames orbeing hammered level to the ground. 

We came along as the oil was applied to an old house and sawthe flames go crackling up through the rafters. The black smokecurled away across the wasted land and the fire glowed upon thestolid faces of the soldiers and the trembling woman who owned it. To her it was a funeral pyre. Her home endeared by lifetimememories was being offered up on the altar of Liberty andIndependence. Starting with the invaders on the western frontier, clear through to Antwerp by the sea, a wild black swathe had beenburnt. 

By such drastic methods space was cleared for the guns in theBelgian forts, and to the advancing besiegers no protection wouldbe offered from the raking fire. The heart of a steel-stock ownerwould have rejoiced to see the maze of wire entanglement that raneverywhere. In one place a tomato-field had been wired; the greenvines, laden with their rich red fruit, were intertwined with the steelvines bearing their vicious blood-drawing barbs whose intent wasto make the red field redder still. We had just passed a gangdigging man-holes and spitting them with stakes, when an officercried:

"Stop! No further passage here. You must turn back. "

"Why?" we asked protestingly. 

"The entire road is being mined, " he replied. 

Even as he spoke we could see a liquid explosive being pouredinto a sort of cup, and electric wires connected. The officerpictured to us a regiment of soldiers advancing, with the full tide oflife running in their veins, laughing and singing as they marched inthe smiling sun. Suddenly the road rocks and hell heaves upbeneath their feet; bodies are blown into the air and rained back tothe earth in tiny fragments of human flesh; while brains arespattered over the ground, and every crevice runs a rivulet ofblood. He sketched this in excellent English, adding:

"A magnificent climax for Christian civilzation, eh! And that's mybusiness. But what else can one do?"

For the task of setting this colossal stage for death, the entirepeasant population had been mobilized to assist the soldiers. Inself-defense Belgium was thus obliged to drive the dagger deepinto her own bosom. It seemed indeed as if she suffered as muchat her own hands, as at the hands of the enemy. To arrest theadvancing scourge she impressed into her service dynamite, fireand flood. I saw the sluice-gates lifted and meadows which hadbeen waving with the golden grain of autumn now turned into silverlakes. So suddenly had the waters covered the land that hay-cocks bobbed upon the top of the flood, and peasants went out inboats to dredge for the beets and turnips which lay beneath thewaters. 

The roads were inundated and so we ran along an embankmentwhich, like a levee, lifted itself above the water wastes. The sun, sinking down behind the flaming poplars in the west, was touchingthe rippling surface into myriad colors. It was like a trip throughFairyland, or it would have been, were not men on all sides busypreparing for the bloody shambles. 

After these elaborate defensive works the Belgians laughed at anyone taking Antwerp, the impregnable fortress of Western Europe. The Germans laughed, too. But it was the bass, hollow laugh oftheir great guns placed ten to twenty miles away, and pouring intothe city such a hurricane of shell and shrapnel that they forced itsevacuation by the British and the Belgians. Through this vast arrayof works which the reception committee had designed for theirslaughter, the Germans came marching in as if on dress parade. 

A few shells were even now crashing through Malines and hadplayed havoc with the carillon in the cathedral tower. During a lullin the bombardment we climbed a stairway of the belfry where, above us, balanced great stones which a slight jar would sendtumbling down. On and up we passed vents and jagged holeswhich had been ripped through these massive walls as if theywere made of paper. It was enough to carry the weight of one'ssomber reflections without the addition of cheerful queries of themovie-man as to "how would you feel if the German gunnerssuddenly turned loose again?"

We gathered in a deal of stone ornaments that had been shotdown and struggled with a load of them to our car. Later theybecame a weight upon our conscience. When Cardinal Mercierstarts the rebuilding of his cathedral, we might surprise him withthe return of a considerable portion thereof. To fetch thesesouvenirs through to England, we were compelled to resort to allthe tricks of a gang of smugglers. 

I made also a first rate collection of German posters. By day Iobserved the location of these placards, announcing certain deathto those who "sniped on German troops, " "harbored courier-pigeons, " or "destroyed" these self-same posters. 

At night with trembling hands I laid cold compresses on them untilthe adhering paste gave way; then, tucking the wet sheetsbeneath my coat, I stole back to safety. At last in England I feastedmy eyes on the precious documents, dreaming of the time whenposterity should rejoice in the possession of these posters relatingto the German overlordship of Belgium, and give thanks to thecourage of their collector. Unfortunately, their stained and tornappearance grated on the aesthetic sensibilities of the maid. 

"Where are they?" I demanded on my return to my room one time, as I missed them. 

"Those nasty papers?" she inquired naively. 

"Those priceless souvenirs, " I returned severely. She did notcomprehend, but with a most aggravatingly sweet expression said:

"They were so dirty, sir, I burned them all up. "

She couldn't understand why I rewarded her with something akinto a fit of apoplexy, instead of a liberal tip. That day was a red-letterone for our photographers. They paid the price in the risks whichconstantly strained their nerves. But in it they garnered vastly morethan in the fortnight they had hugged safety. 

But, despite all our efforts, there was one object that we were afterthat we never did attain. That was a first-class atrocity picture. There were atrocity stories in endless variety, but not one that thecamera could authenticate. People were growing chary of verbalassurances of these horrors; they yearned for some photographicproof, and we yearned to furnish it. 

"What features are you looking for?" was the question invariablyput to us on discovering our cameras. 

"Children with their hands cut off, " we replied. "Are there anyaround here?"

"Oh, yes! Hundreds of them, " was the invariable assurance. 

"Yes, but all we want is one--just one in flesh and bone. Wherecan we find that?"

The answer was ever the same. "In the hospital at the rear, or atthe front. " "Back in such-and-such a village, " etc. Alwayssomewhere else; never where we were. 

Let no one attempt to gloss the cruelties perpetrated in Belgium. My individual wish is to see them pictured as crimson as possible, that men may the fiercer revolt against the shame and horror ofthis red butchery called war. But this is a record of just oneobserver's reactions and experiences in the war zone. After weeksin this contested ground, the word "atrocity" now calls up to mymind hardly anything I saw in Belgium, but always the savageries Ihave witnessed at home in America. 

For example, the organized frightfulness that I once witnessed inBoston. Around the strikers picketing a factory were the police infull force and a gang of thugs. Suddenly at the signal of a shrillwhistle, sticks were drawn from under coats and, right and left, men were felled to the cobblestones. After a running fight a scorewere stretched out unconscious, upon the square. As bloodpoured out of the gashes, like tigers intoxicated by the sight andsmell thereof, the assailants became frenzied, kicking and beatingtheir victims, already insensible. In a trice the beasts within hadbeen unleashed. 

If in normal times men can lay aside every semblance of restraintand decency and turn into raging fiends, how much greater causeis there for such a transformation to be wrought under the stress ofwar when, by government decree, the sixth commandment issuspended and killing has become glorified. At any rate myexperiences in America make credible the tales told in Belgium. 

But there are no pictures of these outrages such as the Germanssecured after the Russian drive into their country early in the war. Here are windrows of mutilated Germans with gouged eyes andmangled limbs, attesting to that same senseless bestial ferocitywhich lies beneath the veneer. 

All the photographers were fired with desire to make a similarpicture in Belgium, yet though we raced here and there, andeverywhere that rumor led us, we found it but a futile chase. 

Through the Great Hall in Ghent there poured 100, 000 refugees. Here we pleaded how absolutely imperative it was that we shouldobtain an atrocity picture. The daughter of the burgomaster, whowas in charge, understood our plight and promised to do her best. But out of the vast concourse she was able to uncover but onecase that could possibly do service as an atrocity. 

It was that of a blind peasant woman with her six children. Thephotographers told her to smile, but she didn't, nor did the olderchildren; they had suffered too horribly to make smiling easy. When the Germans entered the village the mother was in bed withher day-old baby. Her husband was seized and, with the othermen, marched away, as the practice was at that period of theinvasion, for some unaccountable reason. With the roof blazingover her head, she was compelled to arise from her bed and dragherself for miles before she found a refuge. I related this to aGerman later and he said: "Oh, well, there are plenty of peasantwomen in the Fatherland who are hard at work in the fields threedays after the birth of their child. "

The Hall filled with women wailing for children, furnishedheartrending sights, but no victim bore such physical marks as themost vivid imagination could construe into an atrocity. 

"I can't explain why we don't get a picture, " said the free lance. "Enough deviltry has been done. I can't see why some of the stuffdoesn't come through to us. "

"Simply because the Germans are not fools, " replied the movie-man; "when they mutilate a victim, they go through with it to thefinish. They take care not to let telltales go straggling out to damnthem. "

Some one proposed that the only way to get a first-class atrocitypicture was to fake it. It was a big temptation, and a fine field forthe exercise of their inventive genius. But on this issue the chorusof dissent was most emphatic. 

The nearest that I came to an atrocity was when in a car with VanHee, the American vice-consul at Ghent. Van Hee was a man oflaconic speech and direct action. I told him what Lethbridge, theBritish consul, had told me; viz. , that the citizens of Ghent mustforthwith erect a statue of Van Hee in gold to commemorate hispriceless services. "The gold idea appeals to me, all right, " saidVan Hee, "but why put it in a statue!" He routed me out at five onemorning to tell me that I could go through the German lines withMr. Fletcher into Brussels. We left the Belgian Army cheering theStars and Stripes, and came to the outpost of sharpshooters. Crouching behind a barricade, they were looking down the road. They didn't know whether the Germans were half a mile, two miles, or five miles down that road. 

Into that uncertain No-Man's-Land we drove with only our honkingto disturb the silence, while our minds kept growing specters ofUhlans the size of Goliath. Fletcher and I kept up a hecticconversation upon the flora and fauna of the country. But VanHee, being of strong nerves, always gleefully brought the talk backto Uhlans. 

"How can you tell an Uhlan?" I faltered. 

"If you see a big gray man on horseback, with a long lance, spearing children, " said Van Hee, "why, that's an Uhlan. "

Turning a sharp corner, we ran straight ahead into a Belgianbicycle division--scouting in this uncertain zone. In a flash theywere off their wheels, rifles at their shoulders and fingers ontriggers. 

Two boys, gasping with fear, thrust their guns up into our veryfaces. In our gray coats we had been taken for a party of Germanofficers. They were positive that a peasant was hanging in a barnnot far away. But we insisted that our nerves had had enough forthe day. Even Van Hee was willing to let the conversation driftback to flowers and birds. We drove along in chastened spirit untilhailed by the German outpost, about five miles from where we hadleft the Belgians. No-Man's-Land was wide in those days. 

But what is it that really constitutes an atrocity? In a refugee shed, sleeping on the straw, we found an old woman of 88. All that wasleft to her was her shawl, her dress, and the faint hope of seeingtwo sons for whom she wept. Extreme old age is pitiful in itself. With homelessness it is tragic. But such homeless old age as this, with scarce one flickering ray of hope, is double-distilled tragedy. Ifsome marauder had bayoneted her, and she had died therefrom, itwould have been a kindly release from all the anguish that thefuture now held in store for her. Of course that merciful act wouldhave constituted an atrocity, because it would have been a breachin the rules of the war game. 

But in focusing our attention upon the violations of the code, weare apt to forget the greater atrocity of the violation of Belgium, andthe whole hideous atrocity of the great war. That is getting thingsout of proportion, for the sufferings entailed by these technicalatrocities are infinitesimal alongside of those resulting from the waritself. 

Another point has been quite overlooked. In recounting theatrocities wrought by Prussian Imperialism, no mention is made ofthose that it has committed upon its own people. And yet at anyrate a few Germans suffered in the claws of the German eaglequite as cruelly as any Belgians did. One fine morning inSeptember three Germans came careening into Ghent in a greatmotor car. They were dazed to find no evidence of their armywhich they supposed was in possession. Before the men becameaware of their mistake, a Belgian mitrailleuse poured a stream oflead into their midst, killing two of them outright. The third German, with a ball in his neck, was rescued by Van Hee and placed underthe protection of the American flag. 

Incidentally that summary action, followed by a quick visit to theGerman general in his camp on the outskirts, saved the city. Thatis a long story. It is told in Alexander Powell's "Fighting inFlanders, " but it suffices here to state that by a pact between theBelgian burgomaster of Ghent and the German commandant itwas understood that the wounded man was not to be considered aprisoner, but under the jurisdiction of the American Consulate. 

A week after this incident Van Hee paid his first visit to thiswounded man in the Belgian hospital. He was an honest fellow ofabout forty--the type of working-man who had aspired to nothingbeyond a chance to toil and raise a family for the Fatherland. Weltpolitik, with its vaunting boast of "World-power or Downfall, "was meaningless to him and his comrades gathered in the beer-gardens on a Sunday. 

Suddenly out of this quiet, uneventful life he was called to thecolors and sent killing and burning through the Belgian villages. His officers had told him that it would be a sorry thing for anyGerman soldier to be captured, for these Belgians, maddened bythe pillage of their country, would take a terrible revenge upon anyluckless wretches that fell into their hands. Now, more suddenlythan anything else had ever happened in his life, a bullet hadstabbed him in the throat and he found himself a prisoner at themercy of these dreaded Belgians. 

"Why are they tending me so carefully during these last sevendays?" "Are they getting me ready for the torturing?" "Are theymaking me well in order that I may suffer all the more?" Grimspeculation of that kind must have been running through hissimple mind. For when we opened the door of his room, he slunkcowering over to his bed, staring at us as if we were inquisitorsabout to lead him away to the torture chamber, there to suffervicariously for all the crimes of the German army. 

His body, already shrunken by overwork, visibly quivered beforeus, the perspiration beading on his ashen face. 

We had come to apprise him of his present status as a citizenunder the protectorate of America. 

Van Hee approached the subject casually with the remark: "Yousee, you are not a Frenchman!"

"No, I am not a Frenchman, " the quailing fellow mechanicallyrepeated. 

"And you are not a Belgian, " resumed Van Hee. 

He was not quite sure about disclaiming that, but he saw what wasexpected of him. So he faltered: "No, I am not a Belgian. " "Andyou are not an Englishman, eh?" According to formula heanswered: "No, I am not an Englishman!" but I sensed a bit moreof emphasis in the disavowal of any English taint to his blood. 

Van Hee was taking this process of elimination in order to clear thefield so that his man could grasp the fact that he was to all intentsan American, and at last he said:

"No longer are you a German either. "

The poor fellow was in deep seas, and breathing hard. Everythingabout him proclaimed the fact that he was a German, even to hisfield-gray uniform, and he knew it. But he did not venture tocontradict Van Hee, and he whispered hoarsely: "No, I am not aGerman either. "

He was completely demoralized, a picture of utter desolation. 

"If you are not German, or Belgian, or French, or English, what areyou then?"

The poor fellow whimpered: "0 Gott! I don't know what I am. "

"I'll tell you what you are. You're an American!" exclaimed Van Heewith great gusto. "That's what you are--an American! Get that? AnAmerican!"

"Ja, ja ich bin ein Amerikaner!" he eagerly cried ("Yes, yes, I am anAmerican!"), relieved to find himself no longer a man without acountry. Had he been told that he was a Hindoo, or an Eskimo, hewould have acquiesced as obediently. 

But when he was shown an American flag and it began to dawn onhim that he had nothing more to fear from his captors, histenseness relaxed. And when Van Hee said: "As the Americanconsul I shall do what I can for you. What is it you want the most?"a light shone in the German's eyes and he replied:

"I want to go home. I want to see my wife and children. "

"I thought you came down here because you wanted to see thewar, " said Van Hee. 

"War!" he gasped, and putting hands up to his eyes as if to shutout some awful sights, he began muttering incoherently about"Louvain, " "children screaming, " "blood all over his breast, "repeating constantly "schrecklich, schrecklich. " "I don't want to seeany more war. I want to see my wife and my three children!"

"The big guns! Do you hear them?" he said. 

"I don't want to hear them, " he answered, shaking his head. 

"They're killing you Germans by the thousands down there, "announced Van Hee. "I should think you would want to get out andkill the French and the English. "

"I don't want to kill anybody, " he repeated. "I never did want to killanybody. I only want to go home. " As we left him he was repeatinga refrain: "I want to go home"--"Schrecklich, schrecklich. " "I neverdid want to kill anybody. "

Every instinct in that man's soul was against the murder he hadbeen set to do. His conscience had been crucified. A ruthlesspower had invaded his domain, dragged him from his hearthside, placed a gun in his hands and said to him: "Kill!"

Perhaps before the war, as he had drilled along the Germanroads, he had made some feeble protest. But then war seemed sounreal and so far away; now the horror of it was in his soul. 

A few days later Van Hee was obliged to return him to the Germanlines. Again he was marched out to the shambles to take up thekillings against which his whole nature was in rebellion. No slaveever went whipped to his task with greater loathing. 

Once I saw slowly plodding back into Brussels a long gray line ofsoldiers; the sky, too, was gray and a gray weariness had settleddown upon the spirits of these troops returning from thedestruction of a village. I was standing by the roadside holding inmy arms a refugee baby. 

Its attention was caught by an officer on horseback and in babyfashion it began waving its hand at him. Arrested by this suddengleam of human sunshine the stern features of the officer relaxedinto a smile. Forgetting for the moment his dignity he waved hishand at the baby in a return salute, turning his face away from hismen that they might not see the tears in his eyes. But we couldsee them. 

Perhaps through those tears he saw the mirage of his ownfireside. Perhaps for the moment his homing spirit rested there, and it was only the body from which the soul had fled that was inthe saddle here before us riding through a hostile land. Perhapsmore powerfully than the fulminations of any orator had thisgreeting of a little child operated to smite him with the senselessfolly of this war. Who knows but that right then there came flashinginto his mind the thought: "Why not be done with this cruelorphaning of Belgian babies, this burning down of their homes andturning them adrift upon the world?"

Brutalizing as may be the effect of militarism in action, fortified asits devotees may be by all the iron ethics of its code, I cannot helpbut believe that here again the ever-recurring miracle ofrepentance and regeneration had been wrought by the grace of ababy's smile; that again this stern-visaged officer had become justa human being longing for peace and home, revolting againstlaying waste the peace and homes of his fellowmen. But to whatavail? All things would conspire to make him conform and stifle therevolt within. How could he escape from the toils in which he washeld? Next morrow or next week he would again be in the saddleriding out to destruction. 

The irony of history again! It was this German folk who said, centuries ago: "No religious authority shall invade the sacredprecincts of the soul and compel men to act counter to theirdeepest convictions. " In a costly struggle the fetters of the churchwere broken. But now a new iron despotism is riveted upon them. The great state has become the keeper of men's consciences. The dragooning of the soul goes on just the same. Only the powerto do it has been transferred from the priests to the officers of thestate. To compel men to kill when their whole beings cry outagainst it, is an atrocity upon the souls of men as real as anycommitted upon the bodies of the Belgians. 

Amidst the wild exploits and wilder rumors of those crucial dayswhen Belgium was the central figure in the world-war, thecalmness of the natives was a source of constant wonder. In theregions where the Germans had not yet come they went on withtheir accustomed round of eating, drinking and trading with a sangfroid that was distressing to the fevered outsider. 

Yet beneath this surface calmness and gayety ran a smolderinghate, of whose presence one never dreamed, unless he saw itshoot out in an ugly flare. 

I saw this at Antwerp when about 300 of us had been herded intoone of the great halls. As one by one the suspects came up to theexit gate to be overhauled by the examiners, I thought that therenever could be such a complacent, dead-souled crowd as this. They had dully waited for two hours with scarce a murmur. 

The most pathetic weather-worn old man--a farm drudge, Isurmise--came up to the exit. All I heard were the words of theofficer: "You speak German, eh?"

At a flash this dead throng became an infuriated blood-thirstingmob. "Allemand! Espion!" it shouted, swinging forward until thegates sagged. "Kill him! Kill the damned German!"

The mob would have put its own demand into execution but for thesoldiers, who flung the poor quivering fellow into one corner andpushed back the Belgians, eager to trample him to the stationfloor. 

There was the girl Yvonne, who, while the color was mounting toher pretty face, informed us that she "wanted the soldiers to keelevery German in the world. No, " she added, her dark eyessnapping fire, "I want them to leave just one. The last one I shallkeel myself!"

Yet, every example of Belgian ferocity towards the spoilers onecould match with ten of Belgian magnanimity. We obtained apicture of Max Crepin, carbinier voluntaire, in which he looksseventy years of age--he was really seventeen. At the battle ofMelle he had fallen into the hands of the Germans after a bullethad passed clean through both cheeks. In their retreat theGermans had left Max in the bushes, and he was now safe withhis friends. 

He could not speak, but the first thing he wrote in the little book thenurse handed him was, "The Germans were very kind to me. "There was a line about his father and mother; then "We had to lieflat in the bushes for two days. One German took off his coat andwrapped it around me, though he was cold himself. AnotherGerman gave me all the water in his canteen. " Then came a lineabout a friend, and finally: "The Germans were very kind to me. " Ifear that Max would not rank high among the haters. 

Whenever passion swept and tempted to join their ranks, thefigure of Gremberg comes looming up to rebuke me. He was acommon soldier whose camaraderie I enjoyed for ten days duringthe skirmishing before Antwerp. In him the whole tragedy ofBelgium was incarnated. He had lost his two brothers; they hadgone down before the German bullets. He had lost his home; ithad gone up in flames from the German torch. He had lost hiscountry; it had been submerged beneath the gray horde out of thenorth. 

"Why is it, Gremberg, " I asked, "you never rage against theBoches? I should think you would delight to lay your hands onevery German and tear him into bits. Yet you don't seem to feelthat way. "

"No, I don't, " he answered. "For if I had been born a Boche, I knowthat I would act just like any Boche. I would do just as I wasordered to do. "

"But the men who do the ordering, the officers and the militarycaste, the whole Prussian outfit?"

"Well, I have it in for that crowd, " Gremberg replied, "but, you see, I'm a Socialist, and I know they can't help it. They get their ordersfrom the capitalists. "

The capitalists, he explained, were likewise caught in the vicioustoils of the system and could act no differently. Bayonet in hand, he expounded the whole Marxian philosophy as he had learned itat the Voorhuit in Ghent. The capitalists of Germany were racingwith the capitalists of England for the markets of the world, so theycouldn't help being pitted against each other. The war was simplythe transference of the conflict from the industrial to the militaryplane, and Belgium, the ancient cockpit of Europe, was again thebattlefield. 

He emphasized each point by poking me with his bayonet. As aninstrument of argument it is most persuasive. When I was a bitdense, he would press harder until I saw the light. Then he wouldpass on to the next point. 

I told him that I had been to Humanite's office in Paris after Jaureswas shot, and the editors, pointing to a great pile of anti-warposters, explained that so quickly had the mobilization beenaccomplished, that there had been no time to affix these to thewalls. 

"The French Socialists had some excuse for their going out tomurder their fellow workers, " I said, "and the Germans had to go orget shot, but you are a volunteer. You went to war of your ownfree-will, and you call yourself a Socialist. "

"I am, but so am I a Belgian!" he answered hotly. "We talkedagainst war, but when war came and my land was trampled, something rose up within me and made me fight. That's all. It's allright to stand apart, but you don't know. "

I did know what it was to be passion swept, but, however, I wenton baiting him. 

"Well, I suppose that you are pretty well cured of your Socialism, because it failed, like everything else. "

"Yes, it did, " he answered regretfully, "but at any rate people aresurprised at Socialists killing one another--not at the Christians. And anyhow if there had been twice as many priests and churchesand lawyers and high officials, that would not have delayed thewar. It would have come sooner; but if there had been twice asmany Socialists there would have been no war. "

The free-lance interrupted to call him out for a picture before it wastoo dark. Gremberg took his position on the trench, his handshading his eyes. It is the famous iron trench at Melle from whichthe Germans had withdrawn. 

He is not looking for the enemy. If they were near, ten bulletswould have brought him down in as many seconds. He is lookinginto the West. 

And to me he is a symbol of all the soldiers of Europe, and all thewomen of Europe who huddle to their breasts their white-faced, sobbing children. They are all looking into the West, for there liesHope. There lies America. And their prayer is that the youngrepublic of the West shall not follow the blood-rusted paths ofmilitarism, but somehow may blaze the way out of chaos into anew world-order. 

PART IVLove Among The Ruins

Chapter XII

The Beating Op "The General, "

"The saddest sound in all the world, " says A Sardou, "is the beatingof the General. " On that fateful Saturday afternoon in August, after nearly fifty years of silence through the length and breadth ofFrance, there sounded again the ominous throbbing of the drumscalling for the general mobilization of the nation. At its sound theFrench industrial army melted into a military one. Ploughsharesand pruning-hooks were beaten into machine-guns and Lebelrifles. The civilian straightway became a soldier. 

We were returning from Malmaison, the home where Napoleonspent with Josephine the happiest moments of his life. OurParisian guide and chauffeur were in chatting, cheerful moodthough fully alive to all the rumors of war. They were sons ofFrance, from their infancy drilled in the idea that some day withtheir comrades they were to hear this very drum calling them tomarch from their homes; they had even been taught to cherish thecoming of this day when they should redeem the tarnished glory ofFrance by helping to plant the tricolor over the lost provinces ofAlsace and Lorraine. 

But that the dreaded, yet hoped-for day had really arrived, seemedpreposterous and incredible--incredible until we drove into thevillage of Reuilly where an eager crowd, gathering around a soldierwith a drum, caused our chauffeur to draw sharply up beside thecurb and we came to a stop twenty feet from the drummer. He wasa man gray enough to have been, if not a soldier, at least adrummer boy in 1870. The pride that was his now in being theofficial herald of portentous news was overcast by an evidentsorrow. 

As if conscious of the fact that he was to pound not on the deaddry skin of his drum, but on living human hearts, he hesitated amoment before he let the sticks falls. Then sharp and loudthrobbed the drum through the still-hushed street. Clear andresolute was the voice in which he read the order for mobilization. The whole affair took little more than a minute. Those who knowhow heavily the disgrace and disaster of 1870 lie upon the Frenchheart will admit that it is fair to say that all their life this crowd hadlived for this moment. Now that it had come, they took it with tensewhite looks upon their faces. But not a cheer, not a cry, not ashaking of the fist. 

The only outwardly tragic touch came from our chauffeur. Whenhe heard the words "la mobilization" he flung down his cap, threwup his hands, bowed his head a second, then gripped his steeringwheel and, for fifteen miles, drove desperately, accurately, asthough his car were a winged bullet shooting straight into the faceof the enemy. That fifteen-mile run from Reuilly to Paris wasthrough a long lane of sorrow: for not to one section or class, butto all France had come the call to mobilize. Every home had beensummoned to the sacrifice of its sons. 

We witnessed nowhere any wailings or wringing of hands orfrantic, foolish pleading to stay at home. Long ago the question oftheir dear ones going had been settled. Through the years theyhad made ready their hearts for this offering and now they gavewith a glad exaltation. How bravely the French woman met thedemand upon her, only those of us who moved in and out amongthe homes during those days of mobilization can testify. The"General" was indeed to these mothers, wives and sweetheartsleft behind the saddest sound in all the world. 

But if it were so sad as Sardou said in 1870, when 500, 000answered to its call, how infinitely sadder was it in 1914 when tentimes that number responded to its wild alarum, a million neverreturning to the women that had loved them. But such statisticsare just the unemotional symbols of misery. We can look at thiscolossal sum of human tragedy without being gripped one whit. Ifwe look into the soul of one woman these figures become investedwith a new and terrible meaning. 

Such an opportunity was strangely given me as we stood in a longqueue outside the American embassy waiting for the passportsthat would make our personages sacrosanct when the Germanraiders took the city. A perspiring line, we shuffled slowly forward, thanking God that we were not as the Europeans, but had had thegood sense to be born Americans. While in the next breath wetiraded against the self-same Government for not hurrying theAmerican fleet to the rescue. 

The alien-looking gentleman behind me mopped his brow andmuttered something about wishing that he had not thirsted forother "joys than those of old St. Louis. "

"Pennsylvania has her good points, too, " I responded. 

That random shot opened wide to me the gates of Romance andHigh Adventure. It broke the long silence of the girl just ahead. 

"It's comforting just to hear the name of one's own home state, "she said. "I lived in a little village in the western part ofPennsylvania, " and, incidentally, she named the village where myfather had once been minister of the church. I explained as muchto her and marveled at the coincidence. 

"More marvel still, " she said, "for we come not only from the samestate and the same village, but from the same house. My fatherwas minister in that same church. "

Nickleville is the prosaic name of that little hamlet in westernPennsylvania. Any gentle reader with a cynic strain there mayverify this chronicle and find fresh confirmation for the ancientadage that "Fact is stranger far than Fiction. "

That selfsame evening we held reunion in a cafe off the BoulevardClichy. There I first discerned the slightness of her frame andmarveled at the spirit that filled it. She was exuberant in the joy ofmeeting a countryman and, with the device of laughter, she kept incheck the sadness which never quite came welling up in tears. 

She was typical American but let her bear here the name by whichher new friends in France called her--Marie. One might linger uponher large eyes and golden hair, but this is not the epic of a fair facebut of a fair soul--vigorous and determined, too. To the powertherein even the stolid waiter paid his homage. 

"Pardon, " he interjected once, "we must close now. The orders arefor all lights out by nine. It is the government. They fear theZeppelins. "

"But that's just what I'm afraid of, too, " Marie answered. "How canyou turn us out into that darkness filled with Zeppelins?" Hesuccumbed to this radiant banter and, covering every crevice thatmight emit a ray of light, he let us linger on long after closing time. 

Marie's was one of those classic souls which by some anomaly, passing by the older lineages and cultures of the East, findbirthplace in a bleak untutored village of the West. To this barenesssome succumb, and the divine afflatus dies. Still others roamrestlessly up and down, searching until they find their milieu andthen for the first time their spirit glows. 

Music had breathed upon this girl's spirit, touched with a vagabonddesire. To satisfy it she must have money. So she gave lessons tochildren. Then a publisher bought some little melodies that shehad set to words. And lastly, grave and reverend committeemen, after hesitating over her youth, made her head of music in auniversity of western Montana. 

Early in 1914, with her gold reserves grown large enough for theventure, she set sail for the siege of Paris. To her charm andsterling worth it had soon capitulated--a quicker victory than shehad dared to hope for. Around her studio in a street off theChamps Elysees she gathered a coterie of kindred souls. She toldof the idealism and camaraderie of the little circle, while its foiblesshe touched upon with much merriment. Behind this outwardjesting I gained a glimpse of the fight she had made for heradvance. 

"It's been hard, " I said, "but what a lot you have found along theway. "

"Yes, far more than you can imagine, " she replied; "I have foundRobert le Marchand. "

"And who is he?"

"Well, he is an artist and an athlete, and he is just back fromAlbania--where he had most wonderful adventures. He has writtenthem up for 'Gaulois. ' His home is in Normandy. And he is heir to alarge estate in Italy in the South--in what looks like the heel on themap. And he has a degree from the Sorbonne and he is the realprince of our little court. And, best of all, he loves me. "

Then she told the story of her becoming the princess of the littlecourt. 

"From his ancestral place in Italy, " she said, "Robert sent mebaskets of fruit gathered in his groves by his own hands. In one heplaced a sprig of orange-blossoms. We laughed about it when wemet again and------"

I saw that after this affairs had ripened to a quick conclusion. Indrives along the boulevards, in walks through the moonlit woods, at dinners, concerts, dances--these two mingled their dreams fortheir home in Normandy. The only discord in this summersymphony was a frowning father. 

Marie was the epitome of all charms and graces. Yes. But shecame undowered--that was all. And firm he stood against anybreach in the long established code of his class. But they did notsuffer this to disturb their plans and reveries, and through thosesoft July days they roamed together in their lotus-land. Thensuddenly thundered that dream-shattering cannon out of the north. 

"I was out of town for the week end, " Marie continued; "I heard thebeating of the 'General' and at call for mobilization I flew back hereas quickly as I could. It was too late. There was only a note sayingthat he had gone, and how hard it was to go without one farewell. "

"Now what are you going to do?"

"What can I do with Robert gone and all his friends in the armytoo?"

"Let me do what I can. Let me play substitute, " I volunteered. 

"Do you really mean what you just said?" she queried. 

"I really do, " I answered. 

"Well, then, do you paddle a canoe?"

"Yes, but what has that to do with the question?" I repliedperplexedly. 

"Everything, " she responded. "Robert is stationed at Corbeille, fifteen miles below here on the Seine. I have the canoe andtomorrow I want you to go with me down the river to Robert. ". 

My mind made a swift diagnosis of the situation. All exits fromParis carefully watched; suspicion rife everywhere--strangers off ina canoe; a sentinel challenge and a shot from the bank. 

"Let us first consider------" I began. 

"We can do that in the canoe to-morrow, " she interrupted. 

And I capitulated, quite as Paris had. 

We stepped out into the darkness that cloaked the silent city fromits aerial ravagers. As we walked I mused upon this modernmaiden's Iliad. While a thousand hug the quiet haven, what was itthat impelled the one to cut moorings and range the deep? Achorus of croaking frogs greeted our turn into a park. 

"Funny, " said Marie, "but frogs drove me out of Nickleville! Therewas nothing to do at home but to listen to their eternal noise; tosave my nerves I simply had to break away. "

The prospect of that canoe trip was not conducive to easyslumber. The frog chorus in that Pennsylvania swamp, why had itnot been less demonstrative? Still lots could happen beforemorning. One might develop appendicitis or the Germans mightget the city. With these two comforting hopes I fell asleep. Morningrealizing neither of them, I walked over to Marie's studio. 

"Well, then, all ready for the expedition?" I said, masking mypessimism with a smile. 

For reply she handed this note which read:

"Dear Marie: I have been transferred from Corbeille to Melun. Itmakes me ill to be getting ever farther and farther away. --Robert. "

With the river trip cancelled, life looked more roseate to me. "Andnow we can't go after all, " I said, mustering this time theappearance of sadness. 

"Oh, don't look so relieved, " she laughed, "because we're goinganyhow. "

"But what's the use? He has gone. "

"Well, we are going where he has gone, that's all, " she retorted. 

I pointed out the facts that only military trains were running toMelun; that we weren't soldiers; that the river was out of thequestion; that we had no aeroplane and that we couldn't gooverland in a canoe. 

"But we can with our wits, " Marie added. 

I explained how lame my wits were in French, and that twoconsecutive sentences would bring on trial for high treason to thelanguage. 

"Oh, but you don't furnish the wits, " Marie retorted. "You justfurnish the body. "

In her plan of campaign I gathered that I was to act as a kind ofconvoy, from which she was to dart forth, torpedoing all obstacles. I was quite confident of her torpedoing ability but not of my fitnessto play a star part as a dour and fear-inspiring background. Shepacked her bag and presently we were making our way to thestation through a blighted city. 

At the Gare du Nord a cordon of soldiers had been thrown aboutthe station; crowds surged up against the gates, a few franticallypleading and even crying to get through. The guards, to every pleaand threat returned a harsh "C'est impossible. " Undaunted by thedespair of others, she looked straight into the eyes of the sombergate-keeper and, with every art, told the story of Robert leMarchand, brave young officer of France; of his American girl andhis deep longing for her. When she had stirred this lethargicfunctionary into a show of interest in this girl, with a revealinggesture she said: "And here she is; please, Monsieur, let me go. ""Ah, Mademoiselle, I would like to, " he replied, "but are not all thesoldiers of France longing for wives and sweethearts! Mon Dieu! ifthey all rode there would be no room for the militaire. The Bocheswould take us in the midst of our farewells. There is never any endto leave-takings. "

"But, Monsieur, I did not have one good-by. "

"No, Mademoiselle. C'est impossible. "

The guardian of the second gate took her plea in a way that didmore credit to his heart than to his knowledge of geography. Hethought (and we made no effort to disillusionize him) that she hadcome all the way from America since the outbreak of war. It nearlymoved him to tears. Was he surrendering? Almost. But recoveringhis official negative head-shake and trusting not to words, he fellback upon the formula: "No, Madame, c'est impossible. "

The truth had failed and so had the half-truth. To the nextforbidding guard Marie came as a Red Cross nurse, hurrying toher station. 

"Your uniform, Madame, " he interposed. 

"No time to get a uniform; no time to get a permission, " sheexplained. 

"Take time, Madame, " was his brusque dismissal. 

Each time rebuffed, she tried again, but against the full battery ofher blandishments the line was adamant. 

"It's no use, " I said. "We may as well go home. "

"No retreat until we've tried our last reserves, " she responded, clinking some coins together in her hand. "We'll try a change oftactics. "

We reconnoitered and decided that an opening might be madethrough guardian number two. He had almost surrendered in thefirst engagement. This time, along with the smile, she flashed acoin. Perchance he had already repented of his first refusal. Anyhow, if an officer of France could be made happy with hissweetheart and at the same time a brave gendarme could bemade richer by a five-franc piece, would not La Belle France fightso much the better? The logic was incontestable. "This way, Mademoiselle, Monsieur, and be quick, please. "

We had passed through the lines into a riot of red and blueuniforms. Soldiers were everywhere sprawled over the platforms, knotted up in sleep, yawning, stretching their limbs, eating, smoking and swearing. No one knew anything about tickets, trainsor aught else. 

Swirled about in an eddying tide of entraining troops, we wereflung up against a stationary being garbed as a railway dispatcher. He bluffed and blustered a bit. Our story, however, supplementedby some hard cash, procured calm and presently we foundourselves in a compartment with two tickets marked Melun, a fewrations and sundry admonitions not to converse with fellow-passengers until the train started. 

It is hard to explain why any one should want to communicate inGerman to an American girl in a French railway compartment inwartime. But explain why some people want to play with trip-hammers and loaded guns. We know they do. And so, thoughaware that there were spy-hunting listeners all around, a maddesire to utter the forbidden tongue obsessed me. Wry faces fromMarie, emphasized by repeated pinches at each threatenedoutbreak, brought me back to my senses and to Anglo-Saxon. 

Not only one who spoke, but even one who understood the hatedtongue was a suspect. For the least knowledge of the enemy'slanguage was to some the hall-mark of a spy. The game playedthroughout France and Belgium was to fling a sudden command atthe suspect, catching the unwary fellow off-guard, and thus traphim into self-betrayal. 

An official would say sharply: "Nehmen Sie ihre Hutte ab" (Take offyour hat). Or there would come a sudden challenge on the street, "Wohin gehen Sie?" (Where are you going?) If instinctively oneobeyed or replied in German, he was there caught with the goods. 

Our major domo under the influence of the coin, or what he hadprocured at the vintner's in exchange therefor, grew a bit playful. He suddenly flung open the door and cried, "Steigen Sie auf. " If Ihad comprehended his meaning involuntarily I would haveobeyed, but luckily my brain has a slow shifting language gear. Bythe time it began dawning upon me that we had been told tovacate the car Marie had fixed me with her eyes and gripped melike a vise with her hand so that I knew that I was to stay put. Oneman involuntarily started and then checked himself. He was sopatently a Frenchman though that everybody laughed. The majordomo chuckled and marched away, much pleased with his playfulhumor. 

At last, with much jolting, we started on our crawling journey. Sometimes the snail-pace would be accelerated; our hopes wouldthen expand, only to collapse again with a bang. Again we wouldbe sidetracked to let coal-cars, cattle cars and flat cars with gunsgo by. Civilians were ciphers in the new order, and if it served anymilitary purpose to dump us into the river, in we would have gonewith no questions asked. We sat about, a wilted and dispirited lot. Occasionally some one would thrust his head out the window toobserve progress. He was generally rewarded by a view of theEiffel Tower from a new angle, for it seemed that we were simplybeing shunted in and about and all around the city. 

The most icy reserve must find itself cracked and thawing in theintimacies which a jerking railway car precipitates. There is nodignity which is proof against a sound bump upon the head. Thusour irritations and suspicions gave way to laughter, and laughterbrings all the barriers down. The compartment became a confessional. The anxious looking man opposite was hoping to get to his estateand to bury a few of his most treasured things before the Germanscame. The two young fellows with scraggly beards were brothers, given five days' leave to see a dying father; three days had beenspent in a vain effort to get started there. Another man had a halftelegram which read, "Accident at home you------" Not another wordhad he been able to get through. The silent young man in the cornersmiled pleasantly when his turn came but volunteered no information. I likewise passed. 

Marie, wishing to fortify herself with all possible help in her venture, told her tale in full. An immediate proffer came from the hithertotaciturn young man in the corner. "Why, this is romance in earnest. I do wish that I might be of some help, " he said with genuineinterest. 

Our new friend we found had for a grandfather no less a dignitarythan Alexander Dumas. His name he told us was Louis Dumas, anartist, not yet called to the colors, and bound now for Villeneuve, "and before we can really get acquainted, here we are, " he said asthe train came to a stop. 

As he stepped to the door it was flung open by an officer whoshouted, "Everybody out! This car is for the military. " Weprotested. We displayed our tickets. The officer laughed and, seizing one reluctant passenger, dragged him out. A quicklyejected and much dejected band, we found ourselves upon thestreet of a little outlying village nine miles from Paris. It had takenhalf as many hours to get there. 

We fell upon the one village gendarme with a volley of questions. By pitching her voice above the hubbub, Marie got in her inquiryabout the distance to Melun. 

"Thirty kilometers by the main road, " he answered. 

This, then, was the issue of that tense day of strategy and daring:to be stranded in this suburb from which it was impossible to goforward to Melun and almost as difficult to return to Paris. Mariecrumpled under the blow and then I realized how much it had costher to maintain that calm outward demeanor. 

By sheer will-power she had kept the tears from her eyes and thetremor from her limbs. Long held in leash, they now leaped out topossess her. 

Dumas ran hither and thither, hunting conveyance but in vain. Three of his friends had automobiles. He called them bytelephone. All cars had been commandeered. He stood with headdrooping in real dejection. 

"Ah, I have it!" he exclaimed, "my friend Veilleau, he has anaeroplane and he will do it. "

This was quite too much even for Marie's soaring spirit; but shescarcely had time to picture herself ranging the sky when Dumaswas back again, sorrowfully confessing failure. Aeroplanes likewisehad heard the tocsin; they had sterner business than waftinglovers through the sky; they were carrying explosives andmessages in the service of France. Dumas looked almost asdisappointed as the wilted little figure he was trying to help. 

When the villagers understood her plight, they were full ofsympathy, full of condolences, but also full of tales of arrest forthose traveling on the main road. 

"Where was this road, anyhow?"

"Out there, " they replied. 

Turning a corner, we looked down the long row of poplars thatlined the main road to Melun. 

Chapter XIII

America In The Arms Op France

Any poplar-fringed road in France holds its strange lure. Dignityand grace lie in these tall swaying trees sentinelling the way oneither side. To the poet, it is at all times the way to Arcady. But ateventide when the mystic light comes streaming from the west, touching the billowing green into gold, then even to the prosaicthere is a call from the whispering, wind-stirred leaves to go a-grailing and to find at the end the palace or the princess. This timeit was the prince who was calling. This little sad-featured girl was a-tune to hear his call. Perhaps in the purple mist she could evensee her prince and feel the pleading of those outstretched arms. Wistfully she looked down her road to Arcady; but how far awaythe end and so bestrewn with terrors. 

Are psychic forces subject to ordinary physical laws, and do theyact most powerfully along unobstructed ways? At any rate thevoltage was high in the psychic currents that swept the straightroad to Melun that afternoon, for when this saddened girl turnedfrom her long gaze down the road to Melun it was with atransfigured face. Her tear-dimmed eyes shone with a calmresolve and the uplifted chin foreboded, I perceived, no good tomy dreams of rest and resignation. 

To know the worst I ventured: "Well, how are we going to get toParis?"

"You mean Melun?" she gently smiled. 

"Sheer madness, " I replied. "A carriage is out of the question, andif we had one there would be a hundred guards to turn us back. "

We stepped aside while two military trucks in their gray war-paintwent lurching by. She followed them with her eyes until they disappeared into the distant haze where poplar and purple sky melted into one. 

"Going straight to Robert, " she cried, clasping her hands, "and ifthey only knew how much I want to go, I don't believe they wouldrefuse me. "

Preposterous as it was, if they could indeed have seen the longingin her eyes I felt certain they wouldn't either. Discreetly I refrainedfrom saying so. 

We walked slowly back to the partial barricade which compelledthe motors to slow down. A siren heralded the approach of a car. Idrew her aside into the ditch. Wrenching her hand loose she cried:

"I don't care what happens. I'm going to stop this car!" Plantingherself squarely in the path of the great gray thing, she signaledwildly for it to stop. The goggled driver bore straight down upon thelittle figure, then swerving sharply to one side jammed on thebrakes and came to a sudden halt. 

"What's the trouble?" said the other occupant of the car, a thick-set swarthy fellow in a captain's uniform. "Washout, bombs orUhlans?"

"No, it's Robert!" Marie exclaimed. 

"Robert?" he cried, angered at this delay. 

His aroused curiosity took the sting out of his words as heexclaimed, "Who the devil is Robert?"

She told him who Robert was, told it with her soul naming in herface. Her voice implored. Her eyes entreated. The black cloud thathad overcast the captain's countenance at the impertinence of heraction melted slowly away into a genial smile. And yet had fortunebeen unkind she might have brought us some calculating routinistwith pride in strict obedience to the letter of the military law. 

"It's a plain infraction of all the regulations, " he said, "but if you canrisk all this for him, I can risk this much for you. Step up, " headded, lifting her into a seat, and giving me a place behind with thebaggage. It had happened all too swiftly for comprehension. Wewere on the road to Arcady again--and this time in high estate. With fifty horses racing away under the hood of our royal car, wewere speeding forward like a bullet. 

Adown this road in the days of chivalry traveled oft the noblechevaliers and knights. In shining cavalcades they rode forth forglory in their lady's name. But never was there truer tribute to thespirit of High Romance than when down this same road, athroneupon a war-gray car, came this little Pennsylvania music-teacher. 

All the way we rode exalted, with hearts too full for speech. Andour benefactor gave us no occasion for it. His eyes were fixedstraight ahead upon the speeding road, alert for obstacles or raptin visions of his own dear ones; or, more probable still, deep inreconsideration of his rashness in harboring two strangers whomight turn out to be traitors. 

"Ten spies were shot here in the last two days, " was his onelaconic communication. As the Romanesque towers of Melun'sNotre Dame came into view, he drew up by a post which marked amile from the city, saying, "The rest of the way I believe you had better go on foot. " With apolite bow and a smile he bade us adieu and was off, leaving usquite non-plussed. But the swift ride had driven refreshment andresolution into us. After some spirited passages with a fewastounded sentries, we found ourselves in the city of our quest. 

It was a small garrison center. Into it now from every side hadpoured rivulets of soldiers until the street shimmered with its redand blue. Melun had changed roles with Paris. A desert quietbrooded over the gay capital, while this drab provincial place wasnow athrum with activity--not the activity of parade but of theworkshop. The air was vibrant with the clangor of industry. Everywhere soldiers were cleaning guns, grooming horses, pilingsacks. The only touch to lighten this depressing dead-in-earnestness came from a group of soldiers engaged in filling ahuge bolster. They playfully tried to push one of their number inwith the straw. In one doorway two men were seeking to rendertheir uniforms less of a target by inking their brass-buttons black, while two rollicking fellows perched high upon a bread-wagon weremaking the welkin ring with vociferous demands for passage way. That was what everybody wanted. We, too, pressed forward intothe throng. 

Enough other civilians were scattered amidst the masses ofsoldiery to render us not too conspicuous. And such a welteringanarchy it was: men, horses, and guns jammed together in onegrand promiscuous jumble. Who was to organize discipline andvictory out of such a turmoil? But that there was a directing mindmoving through this democratic chaos, the Germans later learnedto know full well. Likewise, the two strangers congratulatingthemselves on being lost in the vast confusion. 

To get our bearings we seated ourselves in a small cafe, and wereintently poring over a map when a shuffling noise made us look up. A detachment of soldiers was entering the cafe. Much to ourastonishment, they came to attention in front of us. Theyconstituted the spy-hunting squad. All day they walked the city onthe trail of suspects. To trap a prospective victim, and just as theywere relishing the shooting of him to be compelled to release him, and then to drag on to the next prospect, and to repeat theprocess was not inspiriting. Apparently luck had gone againstthem, but at sight of us a new hope lit their eyes. 

Two officers, bowing politely, said: "Pardon, Monsieur; pardon, Madame! Your papers. "

Being held up as a spy, however nerve-racking, contributesconsiderably to one's sense of self-importance. It's a rare thrill for acivilian to be waited on by a reception committee in full dressuniform. 

But this was by all odds the most imposing array of military yet. Iremember being distinctly impressed by the comic opera setting;the gay costumed soldiers in a crowded French cafe, the bigAmerican and the little heroine. In a moment the soldier choruswould go rollicking off singing some ditty like:

"Let high respect come to their station, For they are members of amighty nation. "

I deliberated for a few seconds, for presently our papers liketalismen would exorcise all dangers. With a gesture suitablysweeping for the close of this act, I smiled assuringly, reached intothat inner right-hand pocket, and felt a terrific thump of the heart asI clutched an empty void and forthwith drew out an empty hand. The smile turned a little sickly. I repeated. Likewise a third time. The smile died and a cold sweat gathered on my brow. It was nowmore like a Turkish bath than a comic opera. The rollicking soldierchorus began to look curiously like a band of assassins. 

I was positive that I had tucked these papers in that pocket. Hadsome evil spirit whisked them away? I conducted a frantic andfurious search through every pocket. As one after another theyturned out empty an increasing gloom settled down upon my face, and upon the faces of the assassins was registered a correspondingincrement of joy. 

Reader, have you ever been warden of the theater tickets? Asyour party thronged up to the entrance, do you remember thestand-still of your heart when you found that the tickets weren't inthe pocket that you put them, followed by the discovery that theyweren't in any other pocket? Do you remember spasmodicallyramming your hands into all your pockets until your arms took onthe motions of a sailor at the pump, trying to save the old ship atsea? Remember the black looks insinuating you were an idiot andthe growing conviction on your part that they were not far wrong?Multiply and intensify all these sensations a thousandfold and youwill get a faint idea of how one feels when he is trying to locate hispassports and the officials are hoping that he can't. 

Several months elapsed in as many seconds. To break theappalling silence, I began gibbering away in a jargon compound ofgesticulation, English and remnants of High School French. Why, oh, why wouldn't somebody say something? At last the commissionaire, hitherto impassive, said:

"Vielleicht Sie konnen Deutsch sprechen. " ("Perhaps you canspeak German. ") It was so kind of him that I plunged headlong intothe net. "Ja ich kann Deutsch sprechen, " I fairly shouted. 

("Yes, I can speak German. ") I would have confessed to Chineseor Russian, so anxious was I to get on speaking terms with someone. 

"So you speak German, " said the commissionaire significantly; "Ithought as much. " The soldiers looked at their Lebel rifles asthough the not unpleasant duty of making them speak for Francewould soon be theirs. In their eyes now I was a German spy andMarie was my accomplice. I began to be almost convinced of itmyself. 

Now if this were fiction and not just a straight setting down of factsthe papers might here be produced by a breathless courier ordropped from an aeroplane. But they weren't. 

At this crisis when all seemed lost, Marie rallied. She said: "Look inthe lining of your coat. "

I was unaware of any hole in the lining but, duly obedient, Ireached inside and found an opening. Some papers rustled in myhand. I clutched them like a madman, violently drew them forthand, perceiving that they were the precious documents, wavedthem about like a dancing dervish. The soldiers were distinctlydisappointed and cast an evil eye on Marie, as though holding herpersonally responsible for cheating them out of a little target-practice. 

The commissionaires examined the papers, smiled as graciouslyas before they had frowned and, with the crestfallen soldiersresuming their old look of boredom, they disappeared asmysteriously as they had come. 

Out into the gathering gloom we followed too, and trudged to thebarracks upon the hill. 

At the entrance the familiar "Qui va la?" (Who goes there?) rang achallenge to our approach. We informed the subaltern that it wasSergeant le Marchand that we sought. 

A confusion of calls echoed through the court. An orderly thenannounced that Robert le Marchand was sick; this was followed bythe report that he was out; then some more conflicting reports, followed by Robert le Marchand himself. A new-lit lantern in thearchway diffused a wan light around his pale face while he peeredforward into the dusk. He could not see at first, but as by a dream-voice out of the mist came his name, twice repeated: "Robert, Robert. "

Was this some torturing hallucination? Before he had time toconsider that, the reality flung herself into his arms. Again andagain he clasped the nestling figure, as if to assure himself that itwas not an apparition that he held but his very own sweetheart. 

They stood there in the archway, quite oblivious to the passingsoldiers. The soldiers seemed to understand and, smiling approvalof this new entente--America in the arms of France--they silentlypassed along. 

The first transports of surprise and joy being over, he begged foran explanation of this miracle. Briefly I sketched the doings of theday, and as he saw this wisp of a girl braving all dangers for love'ssake, he was in one moment terror-stricken at the risks she hadrun, and in the next aglow with admiration for her splendid daring. Dangers had haloed her and he sat silent like a worshiper. 

"Instead of a tragedy, " he exclaimed, "it's like a story with a happyending. But let me tell how narrowly we escaped a tragic ending, "he added, drawing Marie closer to him. 

On the fifth of August it seems that his squad had been stationedupon the bridge over the Seine at Corbeille. The orders were toprevent any passage over the bridge and under the bridge--particularly the latter, as the authorities suspected an attempt uponthe part of enemy plotters to use the waterways in and out of Paris. Traffic had been suspended and orders had been explicit: "Shootany water-craft, without challenge, as it turns the bend at theCorbeille bridge. "

Corbeille had been the objective of our proposed canoe journey. There had been abundant warrant then in the very constitution ofthings for my psychic shivers at the first broaching of that canoe-trip. 

Our escape had been by a narrow margin. If that telegram, "LeftCorbeille and gone to Melun, " had missed us, Robert le Marchand'sfirst shot might have meant death, not to his enemy but to his ownlife and soul. On the eve of the great war he might have embracedhis dearest one cold and lifeless. But instead of that somber ending, here she was, warm, radiant and laughing--doubly precious by thetrials through which she had passed and the death from whichshe had been delivered. 

Chapter XIV

No-Man's-Land

The movements of the 231ier Regiment d'Infanterie were publiclyannounced. It was scheduled to entrain on the morrow for the frontbetween Metz and Nancy. Robert le Marchand needed not to go. Pronounced unfit by the regimental doctor, his name had beenplaced upon the hospital list. Amidst the bustle of preparation fordeparture he spent the day in quietude, and Marie played nurse tothe invalid. 

Her little tale about being a Red Cross worker told at the Gare duNord turned out to be the truth and not the fable that she hadfancied. Robert's recovery was so rapid that the doctor wasastonished. He was understanding, however; also he was a verykindly doctor. He came and smiled and nodded his approval. 

Then he went away, still leaving Robert on the sick list. 

A long season of such delightful convalescence was now his forthe taking. Golden days they promised to be to him and to Marie, but to France those early August days held portents of defeat anddisaster. So one gathered from the ugly rumors from the frontier. The great battle raging in the north had its miniature in their souls. Theirs to choose days of ease and dalliance or the call to duty. 

When the 231st regiment formed into line the afternoon of August7th, the sergeant, radiant and happy, was with them again. But thetears in his eyes? That perplexed his comrades. Those who knewthe secret let the romance lose none of its glamour in the tellinguntil Marie became, forsooth, the heroine of the regiment. 

At four o'clock the regimental band struck up the Marseillaise andthe regiment moved down the road. The sergeant's feet kept timewith his marching men, while his eyes turned to the blue figure ona balcony, whose hand was fluttering a limp white handkerchief. She was striving her best to wave a cheerful farewell. Therepeated strains: "Ye sons of France awake to glory, " came eachtime more faintly as the regiment moved steadily away. There isalways pain in such a growing distance. But it was not all pain tothe tear-stained girl upon the balcony. She had her part in thatglory. Had she not, too, made her sacrifice. 

It was quite as if the regiment had sailed away under sealedorders. Metz and Nancy had been broadcasted about as theobjective of the 231st. But that had been just a blind for Germaninformers. For the next communiqué mentioning the regimentcame from far to the west, where it had been hurried to hold up thegrave threat upon Paris. At Soissons the gray-green advancerolled itself up against the red and blue of the 231st. 

Back and forth the battle line surged through the old streets, nowlurid with the light of blazing houses. A shell falling on the town-hallfired this ancient land-mark. A great flame-fountain burst up fromthe heart of the city. "Rescue the archives!" was the cry. For this, volunteers were called. The dash of a sergeant and his men intothe burning hall and back again through the bullet-spatteredstreets is related in the Journal Officiel. It tells of the safe return ofthe archives, but of few survivors. For impetuous valor in thisexploit, the name of Sergeant le Marchand was changed toLieutenant le Marchand. 

That was my last tidings of Marie and Robert, until a year later aletter came to me in a shaky but familiar hand. It had the post-mark of Hornell Sanitarium, New York. It was from Marie, and oneglance revealed the tragedy. Briefly it was this:

In the attempted Champagne drive of 1915 the 231st regimentwas ordered to rush the barbed wire barricade and drive a wedgeinto the enemy's line. At command Lieutenant le Marchand leapedfrom cover to lead the charge of his men. Scarcely had he utteredhis cry, "En avant!" when he was dropped in his tracks, a bulletthrough his brain. Over his body, with revenge adding to their fury, the regiment swept like mad. The trenches, a quarry of prisoners, and the thrill of high praise from the general were theirs--a triumphwith a bitter taste, for some, creeping back, had found their younglieutenant crumpled where he fell, the moonlight cold upon hisblood-stained face. "In order that France might live he was willingto close his eyes upon her forever. " Curiously his sword wassticking upright just as it had dropped from his hand. They buriedhim where he lay upon the edge of No-Man's-Land. Tears wereshowered on his grave, and on that fatal bullet many bitter curses. 

But this does not complete the tale of murder wrought by that slugof lead. Each plunging bullet blazes its black trail of the spirit-killed. 

A month later and three thousand miles away this German missilestruck the heart of an American girl with a more cruel impact than ithad struck the brain of this lieutenant of France. She, too, crumpled and fell upon the thorns. His had been a speedy, painless death; one sharp electric stroke and then the closingnight. A like oblivion would have been sweet to her. But she had toface it out alone. Upon her torn heart were beaten a thousandhammer-strokes, and through the endless nights she bore theanguish of a thousand deaths. 

The death-lists of Europe hold 5, 000, 000 other names besidesLieutenant le Marchand's. Behind each name there marches withspringless steps one or more figures shrouded in black. 

A year later one of these figures arose from her burial alive, awhitened shadow of her former self. 

"I know that I ought not to have collapsed, just as I know that Iought not to hate the Germans, " Marie wrote. "I'm pulling myselftogether now, and I am trying to work and to forgive. But mythoughts are always wandering out to just one spot--that is whereRobert lies. When peace comes I'm going straight over there andwith my own hands I shall dig through every trench until I find him. "

Tragic futility indeed! One recompense for the colossal slaughterand the long war; few shall ever find their dead. 

On a recent Sunday morning I stepped into a church of a LakeCity of the West. The organ was filling the large structure with itssounds; gradually out of the dim light came the face of the player. 

A hard road had she traveled since last I saw her, a trim little blue-clad figure waving good-by from that balcony in Melun. It was notstrange that her face was white. There was nothing strange eitherin the passion of that music. 

These experiences of Gethsemane and Calvary had been firstenacted in her own soul. The organ was but giving voice to them. There was a plaintive touch in the minor chords, as if pleading fordays that were gone. It climbed to a closing rapture, as if two whohad parted here had, for the moment, hailed each other in theworld of Souls. 

Afterword

It seems sometimes as if the torch of civilization had been almostextinguished in this deluge of blood. This darkening of the face ofthe earth has cost more than the blood and treasure of the race--ithas involved a terrific strain on the mind and soul of man. 

The blasting of hundreds of villages, the sinking of thousands ofships, and the killing of millions of men is no small monument tothe power of the human will. Deplore as we may the sanguinaryends to which this will has been bent, it has at any rate shown itselfto be no weakling. We must marvel at the grim tenacity with whichit has held to its goal through the long red years. 

But now it is challenged by an infinitely bigger task. 

The great nations sundered apart by this hideous anarchy havebecome hissings and by-words to each other. One group hasbeen cast outside the Pale to become the Ishmaels of theuniverse. The purpose is to keep them there. 

Yet try as we may we cannot live upon a totally disrupted planetwithout bringing a common disaster upon us all. It may be a matterof decades and generations but eventually the reconciliation mustcome. 

To start civilization on the upward path again, to make the worldinto a neighborhood anew, to achieve the moral unity of humanity, is that infinitely bigger task with which the human will is challenged. As in the last years it has relentlessly concentrated its energiesupon the Great War, now through the next decades and generationsit must as steadfastly hold them to the Great Reconciliation. Thetragedy of it all is that humanity must go at this crippled by a hatredlike acid eating into the soul. 

Villages will arise again from their ruins, the plow shall turn anewthe shell-pitted fields into green meadow-lands, a kindly nature willsoon obliterate the scars upon the landscape, but not the deepsearings on the soul. Europe must grapple with this work ofreconstruction handicapped by this black devil poisoning the mindand vitiating every effort. The worst curse bequeathed to thecoming generations is not the mountain of debt but this heritage ofhate. 

It does not behoove Americans to stand on inviolate shores andprate of the wickedness of wrath. Moreover, this evil is not to beexorcised by a pious wish for it not to be. It is. And there is everyexcuse under the arch of heaven for its existence. 

If we had felt the eagles' claws tearing at our flesh; if, like Europe, our soil was crimsoned with the blood of our murdered; if millionsof our women were breaking their hearts in anguish--we too wouldconsider it a gratuitous bit of impertinence to be told not to cherishrancor towards those who had unleashed the hellhounds of lustand carnage upon us. 

As it is, we are not sacrosanct. Three thousand miles have notsufficed to keep the deadly virus out of our system. The violation ofBelgium kindled a fire against the invaders which the successivecruelties served to fan into a flaming resentment. 

Then came our own losses--a mere grazing of the skin alongsideof the bleeding white of Europe. But it has touched us deepenough to rouse even a sense of vindictiveness. This kept toourselves will do injury to ourselves alone. But when we shout orwhisper across the seas that we too despise the barbarians wehelp no one. We simply help to render the heartbreaking task ofreconciliation well-nigh impossible by lashing to a wilder fury thepeople already blinded, embittered and frenzied by their own hate. Those who, above the luxury of giving full rein to their ownpassions, put the welfare of the French, English, Belgians andother broken peoples of earth, will do everything in their power toeradicate this gangrene from their souls.