In German hands : the diary of a severely wounded prisoner

39.

Presented to the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO
LIBRARY

by the

ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE
LIBRARY

1980

IN GERMAN HANDS

SOLDIERS' TALES OF THE
GREAT WAR

Each Volume Cr. 8vo, Cloth, 3s 6d net

a

I. WITH MY REGIMENT. By "Platoon

Commander "

II. DIXMUDE. A chapter in the history of
the Naval Brigade, Oct. -Nov. 1914. By
Charles le Goffic Illustrated

III. IN THE FIELD (1914-15). The impressions

of an Officer of Light Cavalry

IV. PRISONER OF WAR. By Andr6 Warned

V. UNCENSORED LETTERS FROM THE
DARDANELLES. Notes of a French
Army Doctor Illustrated

VI. ON THE ANZAC TRAIL. By"Anzac"

VII. "CONTEMPTIBLE." By "Casualty"

VIII. IN GERMAN HANDS. By Charles

Hennebois

L'ONDONi WILLIAM HBINEMANN

IN GERMAN HAND

*

THE DIARY OF A SEVERELY WOUNDP ^
PRISONER

BY
CHARLES HENNEBOIS

WVvMOw^

WITH A PREFACE BY

ERNEST DAUDET

LONDON

CA,

UBF**^'

O^ M&Y

6 '

19»1

V

London t William Heinentann, 1916

PREFACE

ON August 24, 1915, I received a letter
in the country, where I was then staying,
from a depot for convalescent soldiers in the
South. I will make it the exordium of this
preface, for it will tell better than I could
myself the circumstances in which I made
the author's acquaintance. It ran as
follows :

" Mon cher Maitre, — Do you still remember
the young aspirant to a literary career for
whom you got a post as reader in the Plon
printing press at Meaux ? Up to the present
year, I have always sought to express my
lasting gratitude by the modest card I have
sent you every first of January. This year
I was unable to send it, and I must make my
excuses.

" I enlisted as a volunteer for the duration
of the war, and was severely wounded on
October 12, 1914, before Saint-Mihiel. The
Germans picked me up on the i6th, amputated
my leg, and took me to Metz. On New Year's
Day I was in a Boche hospital at Metz-la-
Pucelle ; and as might have been expected

6 IN GERMAN HANDS

my executioners — the word is not too severe
— would not allow me to write. Now that
I am back in France, where I returned on
July 2 ist of this year, minus a leg and in
despair at being unable to fight any more, I
recall the kindness with which, three years
ago, you received the modest beginner, the
young apprentice in versifying.

" I have brought back with me from
Germany a diary of my experiences in the
field and in captivity, which I have not
courage to offer to any Parisian publisher in
these troubled times. But I thought that
you would perhaps do this generous action ;
and therefore, as soon as I have made a fair
copy of my manuscript I will venture to send
it to you, if you will allow me, and to beg
you for a short preface."

This letter was signed " Charles Hennebois."
The incident it recalled was still fresh in my
memory. I remembered a young man, gay
and attractive of mien, entering my study one
morning with two volumes under his arm, and
modestly excusing himself for venturing to ask
me to read them and give my opinion of them ;
further, to help him to find a situation which
would secure his little household from want —
he had lately married — and enable him to
devote his leisure to poetry and the literary

PREFACE 7

work which seemed at that time the goal of his
ambitions.

Everything about him interested me, and
moreover, remembering the help I myself
received when I arrived in Paris, poor and
obscure, I have always tried to be friendly
to young people when they have done me the
honour of applying to me.

There was a great deal of talent in the two
volumes brought me by Charles Hennebois.
He had called one La VeilUe ardente, and
the other La Loi de vivre ; had they not
been published by a provincial firm, and
written by an unknown poet lacking any
connexion with the Parisian press, they
would certainly have attracted attention. As
I have said above, I was greatly interested
in him, and I was happy enough to be able
to procure him the means of livelihood
he needed. His conduct at the outbreak of
the war, his voluntary enlistment when he
had been discharged, his bravery, the sim-
plicity with which he spoke of his misfortune,
the patriotism I felt still vibrating in him, and
finally, the perusal of his diary, naturally
increased the sympathy I had felt for him
from the beginning. On my recommenda-
tion my dear friends and publishers, Plon-
Nourrit, whose employt he had been, agreed

8 IN GERMAN HANDS

to publish his book, and my other friend,
Edouard Trogan, the editor of the Corres-
pondantt gave him hospitality in his great
periodical. Finally, my prottg£ asked me to
write the preface to his journal, and here it is.

Among all the innumerable books inspired
by the war, I do not think there is any more
moving than this. Descriptions of battle and
the incidents of these bloody struggles occupy
little place in it ; on the other hand, we follow
a tragic sequence of the painful impressions a
vanquished combatant feels, when Fortune
snatches his weapons from his hands, and
seems bent on his destruction. Charles Henne-
bois had only been at the front a week when
he fell with a shattered leg ; for four days he
lay on the ground without any help, and dur-
ing those hours of unspeakable suffering, it
was a miracle he was not murdered, for at
such moments the victorious Germans are
merciless to the unhappy wounded left within
their reach.

" Some of those wounded the previous day,"
he writes, " called out to them, begging for
water ; the Germans finished them off with
the butt-ends of their rifles or with their
bayonets, and then robbed them."

No one will contest the sincerity of this
testimony, and the same may be said of all the

PREFACE 9

martyrology which forms our wounded man's
journal. Directly he was brought into the
ambulance station, a German surgeon, as if
anxious to be rid of him, decided that his
leg must be amputated ; this was done ; when
his wound was examined again at another
hospital to which he was transported, he heard
the head surgeon declare that he could have
saved that leg, if he had been present, and
after asking the name of the place where the
operation had been performed, he muttered :

" I will go and see about it to-morrow ;
there is too much slashing there ; I must
inquire into this business."

It is not only by scenes of this kind that
German barbarity is revealed, but also by
things the prisoner saw and heard in the course
of his captivity. Episodes even more signifi-
cant and suggestive follow one upon the other
in his narrative, interspersed with portraits
of persons in whose souls flashes of compassion
and generosity are rare. The one or two faces
with a benevolent expression are heavily
counterbalanced by many full of malice, and
hatred gleams in most of the eyes, sometimes
manifesting itself in a revolting fashion.
The German savages seem to have avenged
themselves on the French wounded for their
failure to conquer Paris.

io IN GERMAN HANDS

Thus this book, written by one outside the
zone of military operations for the most part,
is nevertheless terribly instructive. The ex-
periences of a single one of our prisoners shows
what a large number must have suffered. I
will not say more, lest I should minimize the
deep and varied impressions the story will
make on the mind of the reader, who will
recognize the transparent truth of the narra-
tive. The writer sets it forth with a simplicity
which makes it the more striking, and if I
may say so, more poignant and incontestable.

When I finished these pages which it il-
luminates so vividly, they left me in the frame
of mind I remember to have experienced years
ago, when I read Silvio Pellico's immortal book.
They have the same accent and the same
resignation, the same modest attitude. Hen-
nebois claims no kind of pre-eminence ; he
knows that his tragic adventure is by no means
unique ; that those who have endured the
same martyrdom as himself are legion ; and
he seems to aspire to no other glory than that
of avenging them by invoking the curses of
posterity upon their tormentors.

For the rest, his sufferings have no more
shaken his patriotism than his faith in God,
and it is this, perhaps, which gives his book
its best title to live.

PREFACE ii

" If," he says in conclusion, " my physical
strength has been diminished by the ordeal,
my vision has been enlarged, and embraces
new things. My faith has not foundered in
the tragic encounter with the realities of
conflict ; I have purified it, set it free from
doubt, and I no longer believe in death."

It is the cry of youth, the cry of the poet,
but also of the patriot and the Christian,
breathing an ardent faith in the glorious
destinies of our country, and an invincible
confidence in the triumph of Justice and
Right over the criminal attacks of barbarism.

ERNEST DAUDET

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE. BY ERNEST DAUDET 5

I. WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 15

II. THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M 44

III. AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR OF

. MONTIGNY-LES-METZ 60

IV. CRUEL HOURS; SAN KLEMENS 87
V. AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 154

VI. EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 219

VII. THE WONDERFUL RETURN 235

I. WOUNDED AND A PRISONER

October 3, 1914. Morning. — Chaumont. Day
is breaking. In the large deserted station
where our train stops some lounging employes
bring us the latest news.

A great recent success. . . . Our troops
are entering Lorraine. . . . The first forts of
Metz are under our fire.

We reply by exclamations :

" Really ? Is it official ? "

" How did you hear it ? "

" From the trains that have been going
through . . . with the wounded . . . and
provisions."

The words " Metz bombarded " flew from
mouth to mouth. A murmurous sound ran
along the whole train. Eager heads were
enframed in every window. The men who
were dozing in their seats sprang up suddenly,
moved by some invisible spring. Then, all was
going well ! The young major who had ad-
dressed us before we started, in the courtyard of
the college that had been transformed into a
barrack, had said what was right and true.
The " beast " had been started ; what we had

15

16 IN GERMAN HANDS

to do now was to follow and harass it, without
respite.

A short, sharp trumpet-call, and the train
started again. I came out of my compart-
ment, which had become unbearable with
the mingled odours of food and tobacco-
smoke, and climbing into a truck in front of
our carriage, I examined the sky. Two or
three men and a sergeant, their rifles between
their legs, were also scouring the horizon. The
clouds were a dirty grey.

The plain seems to be absorbing us. Right
and left, the shaven slopes " drag their slow
length along " in boundless monotony. Some
early tillers of the soil halt by the roadside to
see us pass.

Sometimes we pull up suddenly ; the guard
gets down, has a paper signed, and on we go
again. A munition train is just a few minutes
ahead of us.

In each station now we see conspicuous
notices, describing the characteristics of the
German aeroplanes in large type : they are
more squat and massive than ours ; the
Imperial cross is painted on their sides, and
they end in a fish-tail.

Our destination has not yet been divulged.
We are going down to the Meuse region, to
Saint-M."*. . . or T. . . .

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 17

Some say to M. ... A field -wagon,
destined for the 6ist Regiment, has this
address. And this makes us thoughtful.

The same day, about i o'clock. — In the court-
yard of the station. We are at B. . .-le-D. . .

The soldiers stretch and yawn. Two days
and two nights in the train is a very tiring
experience. Ten in each compartment,
wedged in with bags and haversacks, and all
the equipment.

Presently we start off in column, towards
Saint-M. . . . Thirty-two kilometres. I feel
rather nervous, for I am not used to marching.
I am a very good walker when I can travel
light, but how shall I be able to stand this
experience ? . . . Better than I expected.

Here we are at N. . .-le-D. . . Halt for
ten minutes. A woman passes, pushing a hand-
cart full of loaves. In a few seconds we have
taken all her wares and paid her. Soldiers
have a habit — I may call it a mania — of
devouring all their rations at once, without
ever thinking of the morrow. When we
started we were given provisions to last us
three days. After the second day, the most
careful had nothing left. What is there to
do but eat ?

The ribbon of the road unrolls itself before
us in all its uniformity. Left and right there

i8 IN GERMAN HANDS

are woods. Not a ray of sunshine. Some-
times we meet patrols ; dusty foresters or
gendarmes on bicycles. Farther on, a con-
voy of motor-omnibuses emerges from a
cloud of dust. We march in silence ; some
stragglers have already fallen out of the
column. One more hill to climb ; then we
shall come to V. . . ., where we hope to
rest.

Now a sound as of distant thunder makes
itself heard. It gains in volume as we advance,
it is the harsh voice of the guns. A strange
feeling of mingled melancholy and impatience
suddenly lays hold of the soldiers. Those
among us who know, having already fought
in Lorraine, do not share the gaiety of my
right-hand neighbour, an incorrigible jester,
the true type of the Paris street - boy.
Several hang their heads. A Territorial on
my right looks steadily at the fields and sighs.
We shall all feel better for a halt. The Terri-
torial will shake off his wave of melancholy.
Some of the men who were wounded at Etain
and Spincourt give various details : that
terrific roar was a Prussian 105 mm. At
dinner-time the Boches are fond of adding
their marmiUs to the French menu. These
are not so very dangerous, however, according
to the soldiers. Much ado about nothing.

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 19

. . . And now the roars are coming in quick
succession.

We are not to sleep at V. ... Barns and
houses are all full to overflowing. Army
Service Corps and reserves ; cattle ; an en-
gineers' park, with enormous pontoons resting
on their supports ; artillery parks and their
train, the ammunition wagons concealed under
branches to escape the notice of aviators.

And away in the distance, the bombard-
ment continues. A biplane hovers on the
horizon, high up in the evening air.

However, at eight o'clock we arrive at
R. . . . This time we are really to halt.
It is beginning to rain. We pile arms, and
wait patiently.

Where is the regiment ?

Those we meet, infantrymen and artillery-
men, cannot tell us.

In the trenches, perhaps, somewhere on the
left.

No orders come. A fine, icy rain falls
steadily on the road. The more active among
us have thrown off their greatcoats. Clad
in their short tunics, they go off into the
darkness, with that marauding instinct so
general among soldiers, and come back after
a time, some bringing cabbages, others po-
tatoes, beetroot, and 'carrots, which they at

20 IN GERMAN HANDS

once set to work to peel. It is nearly nine
o'clock. A cold wind has risen which drives
the rain before it. In a very short time fires
are made all along the slope . My fine polished
saucepan is unstrapped, filled with water, and
placed on the fire. I make no attempt to
explain how, and with what dry wood, the
fire was lighted at that hour. I am still
one of the uninitiated. I am and I remain
one of those to whom the worthy cooks
apply very unflattering terms and treat some-
what unceremoniously.

Eleven o'clock. — We have had orders to
bivouac in a barn. The soup is almost ready.
We swallow a good quart of it, and go off
to storm our quarters. Alas ! we have to
parley. The owner refuses to let us in,
complaining of some past exaction. We are
obliged to break open the door and get in in
spite of him, as our adjutant orders.

Ten minutes later every one is snoring in
chorus. I try in vain to get to sleep. I
am aching in every limb, and I write these
notes by the light of a lantern.

October 4. Morning. — The day breaks
grey and livid. It is reveille. The men get
up, grumbling. Bugle calls answer one
another. The cooks of last night have taken
my saucepan again. Poor thing ! It was

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 21

such a nice one. I had rubbed it up and it
had shone in the sunshine since we had set out
from the Cevennes ; but now its brilliance is
eclipsed by an ignominious coating of soot.
There is worse before it, however.

" We are going to make the coffee in it,"
says a merry fellow, " and you needn't
grumble. It won't help the Boches to crack
your nut now."

I had not thought of my " nut " ! The
cooks have done me a service !

We drink our coffee in the rain. A ray of
sunshine, pale and mournful, begins to pierce
the clouds. It is not fine weather, but it is a
promise. We are all cheered by it.

Presently we receive orders to go to F. ...
where a non-commissioned officer of the
. . . th Regiment will take us to our Chief.
This unexpected number makes me prick up
my ears. I question the lieutenant. He raises
his long thin arms to Heaven and answers
angrily :

" What on earth does it matter to you
whether you go here or there ? All stations
are good. Did you come here to dance ? "

I say no more. I make off. After all,
there or elsewhere, it's all the same. . . . Still,
as I chose the 6ist when I enlisted, I should
like to have fought in its ranks.

22 IN GERMAN HANDS

At F. ... we get our baptism of shells.
Just as the first group of us entered the village,
a shell suddenly tore a hole in the church
tower, crumpled up the face of the clock,
and fell with a dull noise fifty yards from us,
killing an officer's horse. Not one of us re-
coiled.

We then marched past the General, a tall
man with a long beard, bent like an old oak,
but with an eagle eye. Leaning on the arm
of his orderly officer, he snapped at our
guide :

" Who are all these grandfathers ? "

Well, he dressed us down pretty smartly,
this distinguished Chief ! It is true we have
a great many Territorials in our group. But
all the same, I feel vexed. . . .

We now go into a potato field at the foot of a
hill, and up a narrow path towards the crest
of the woods. After a laborious progress of
three-quarters of an hour, we come to a glade
in the forest.

The Major receives us at the entrance. He
is very thin, and his haggard face is full
of kindness, though drawn by suffering. We
are at once distributed to the different com-
panies and sections.

October 5. — I am in the 5th Battalion.
Combes and the adjutant C. . . . have been

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 23

put in the 6th ; the Marseillais is in the 5th.
We are able to meet sometimes.

The men of my squadron are survivors
of the battles which endangered B. . ,-le-
D. . . in September. Their sufferings were
terrible. Last night, round the fire, they
described to me the struggle the French
infantrymen had to make, one against ten.
And the scene would have tempted a painter.
The background was the forest in a mist of
rain. In the middle of our hut, round a huge
fire of blazing billets, a group of men with
bushy beards, muddy garments, kfyis that
have lost all colour. . . . The talk is carried
on in undertones.

Now and then there is the sound of a footstep.
A hand opens the door, made of branches
fastened together ; and the sergeant on guard
mutters :

" Throw some ashes on the fire. . . . The
flames are too high. . . . You will get us all
killed."

Indeed, when I go out into the glade, I
am aghast. As far as the eye can reach I see
fires, huge fires, but slightly shaded by the
walls of the huts ; their red flames, some
half a yard high, cast a flickering halo on the
dark green of the thickets. . . .

I take a few steps in silence, impressed by

24 IN GERMAN HANDS

the scene. Far off in the coppice, towards
the German trenches, the mournful cry of an
owl evokes an answering cry. A horse gives
a prolonged snort. Silence falls again. Rolled
up in their greatcoats, my comrades are already
asleep, their heads on their bags, their feet
stretched out to the fire.

October 6. — War life has begun for us. We
get shells twice a day, at meal-times. Hard
work all the time. As soon as my new com-
rades heard from the chief that I was a volun-
teer, they allotted all the wearisome tasks to
me. A Southern veteran gave me to under-
stand the situation in the following terms :
" You know, old chap, you could have cut the
whole business. Well, you didn't choose to.
So you didn't come here to stand planted like
a post in front of our saucepans. Be off and
fetch the grub. . . . And after the first battle
you shall tell me all about your wish to serve,
and perhaps some news of one of your limbs.
Now then, away with you ! "

So I do plenty of odd jobs. At seven in
the morning, I walk over a mile to Fresnes
to fetch water. I go down and come up the
horrible little path through the wood with
the straps of nine cans over my shoulders
and a saucepan in each hand. The track is
rough and slippery. As soon as I get back,

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 25

I am pounced upon to plaster earth against
the closely woven branches of the sergeants'
hut ; then I do the same for the commanding
officer's hut. Afterwards I cut wood, and
then it is time to think about dinner. They
give me a pointed stake, and I go off some
thousand yards to fetch a hindquarter of
beef which I impale on my stake and sling
over my shoulder, the raw flesh dangling upon
my fine new overcoat. After this, I go out to
forage.

" We want some potatoes ! Look sharp ! "

So I look sharp. But I rather long to see
the Boches ! It would be more interesting.
The more so as, in reward for my services, I
only have the right to about half a yard of
ground ; my head is sheltered from the ram,
but my feet are out of doors.

" The deuce ! " says the corporal, " the hut
is very small, and you were the last to come."

" In the next attack," says the Marseillais,
who does not forget to come and see me,
" some will be killed, and then we shall take
their places ! "
, A delightful prospect !

October 7. — Last evening I passed a touch-
ing group on the pathway : two colonial
stretcher-bearers supporting a wounded man.
He was walking with great difficulty, his tall

26 IN GERMAN HANDS

figure towering above the orderlies. When I
came close to him, I saw how terribly he was
wounded. A large fragment of shell had
broken his jaw, laying his cheek open from top
to bottom, and slashing his chin. The eye
above was all swollen, and was no doubt
destroyed. The blood was pouring down his
face and soaking his tunic. He might have
been tracked by the great drops that rolled
to the ground.

I stopped short suddenly, stiffening into
a salute of pride and respect. I admire the
courage, the extraordinary strength thanks
to which the quivering flesh does not succumb,
crushed to the earth, but reacts, and obeys the
commanding will unflinchingly. This man
seemed very great to me.

A few yards farther on I met another group :
two other orderlies carrying a stretcher.
A wounded man was lying on it, both his
thighs torn open ; he seemed to be trying to
clasp his pale trembling hands together. But
here again there were no groans, no cries, but
high courage, the highest perhaps, that which
is not called forth by present danger.

Very soon I heard what had happened to
these men. The first was a lieutenant, the
standard-bearer, they said of the . . . th
Colonial Regiment. The second was a cap-

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 27

tain. In the rustic hut which serves as the
officers' mess, they were just sitting down
to dinner when a high explosive shell burst
in the middle of the group, killing and wound-
ing several men.

October 8. — Every evening we go out as
supporting troops. Others are attacking at
the barracks, below the rifle range, towards
the suburbs of Saint-M. . . . We are held
in reserve. Our regiment, which suffered
severely at V. . . ., was decimated at B. . . .
and at H. . . ., and later, in September, at
the time of the taking of Saint-M. . . . and
the sudden advance of the German troops
towards the road to B. . . ., has men, but very
few officers. We are expecting reinforcements
to give us these.

Oh ! those nights in the woods ! . . . We
go off at seven o'clock. It is already very
dark. We advance cautiously towards the
crest, skirting the rifle range. We march
quietly, in silence. The Boches are quite
close, some two hundred yards off in the plain.
Their machine-guns are trained on the thicket.
Should the sound of our footsteps or the click
of our arms give the alarm, we should be
mown down mercilessly.

My Marseillais is quite pleased when the
battalion musters. He slips away from his

28 IN GERMAN HANDS

company, makes his way from rank to rank,
takes up his position beside me, and we gossip
together in whispers. He suffers horribly
from the cold. My winter fishing on the Marne
and also at Mauvezin have accustomed me
to motionless silence under icy north winds,
but I could not have imagined such misery.
We are forbidden to stir. The grass comes up
to our loins. We are ordered to keep silence.
The majority crouch down, resting their knap-
sacks on the bushes. They put their loaded
rifles within reach of their hands, spread their
check handkerchiefs over their mouths to
stop the exhalations, and sleep soundly in
this deadly temperature. As for me, I cannot
sleep. P. ... comes over to me, and presses
close to me, but is none the warmer. Some-
times a shot is fired. It is answered at once
by others, and the machine-guns close at
hand begin their deafening crackle. At such
moments all one's martial instincts urge one
forward, to take part in the battle. Our
nerves are exasperated by the dullness of
inaction.

The firing soon ceases. The mistake of
some patrol or some nervous sentry caused
this useless noise. The cold makes our im-
mobility cruel. We begin to stir, to jump
on one foot and come down upon the other.

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 29

The moon rises, clear and brilliant. Its white
metallic lustre glances on our pannikins
and the handles of our bayonets. A white
frost is falling. The horrible cold lays hold
of you ; a numbness steals over you. You
have to make an heroic effort not to succumb
and sink into a sleep that would indeed be
mortal.

But the hours pass somehow. Dawn
whitens the crest of the hill. Our task is
finished. We may go now, staggering like
drunken men, to our bivouacs.

October 12. Morning. — This evening we
shall see them at last. We are no longer in
reserve. We have received our reinforce-
ments, and the battalion is complete. We
have even a captain, a luxury of which our
company has been deprived for a whole month.
And he is a good fellow. Every morning
when he gets up, a splendid cotton nightcap
appears under his k£pi. This morning he
called me : " You are a volunteer ? " " Yes,
mon capitaine" " You will be a corporal
after the first engagement." " I don't care
for promotion, mon capitaine." " But we
do. We want men, and men of determination.
You will be a sergeant as soon as possible,
and then an officer." Oho ! the good captain
goes ahead !

30 IN GERMAN HANDS

But this is no moment for laughter. It
will be a serious business to-night. Leaning
on my knapsack, I have just written a letter
to my wife. I have said nothing of the attack.
When we have taken the enemy's trench, I
will write her a long letter. But I get a card
off. I have had no word since I left home.
I am not complaining. I know they have
written, and that their letters have been held
up.

The General comes to us. He speaks to
several men.

" Have you finished your soup ? I want
you, my children."

A military salute. " We are ready, General."
I don't know where the attack is to be,
but I believe it is on the plateau. I saw the
Chief just now, making his way among the
branches, and examining that portion of the
ground through his glasses.

Come, take heart of grace ! I have un-
buckled my haversack. There were so many
things in it that it was heavy, and marching
would have been difficult with that friend
on my back. I should not like to lag behind.

The artillery is already preparing our attack.
It has been thundering from a hundred mouths
for the last hour.

I think of my Jean, my little N.C.O. Does

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 31

he know that now, on this October night,
his elder brother is rushing forward to his
baptism of bullets ? . . . He knows these
well enough. He fired the first shell into the
Prussian masses which were marching on
Longwy in August. Brother, God keep you !

* The same day. Evening.* — This is an
unforgettable hour. The guns which have
been thundering since the afternoon are silent
now; the I55's with their dull roar; the
grave, hoarse 120*3; the shrieking 75's ;
the furious 65 's have done their work, holding
up the enemy. This work is made manifest
by a red glow, high on the horizon. The
suburbs of C. ... are on fire. The flames
are spreading below Saint-M. . . ., close by.
The village of M. ... is blazing like a torch.
Now it is the turn of the little infantrymen to
get a footing down there, and conquer those
ruins, evading the sinister ambush of the
machine-guns.

We are lying on the ground, close to the edge
of the wood. A tragic silence hangs over the
column. The men who are to form the
liaison between the companies detach them-

1 The passages in this diary which are marked with an
asterisk were written after the event, and inserted in their
proper places.

32 IN GERMAN HANDS

selves from the rest at the word of command
of the captain, who is acting major this evening.
I answered for my company. My voice did not
tremble. I am exasperated by the delay, but I
am master of my will. My legs are ready for the
rush. The others, lying in a stubble-field,
are waiting for the signal. The first trench
must be only a few yards off. We crawl along
over this dangerous piece of ground. Before
us is the unknown, darkness and silence.
The ground is torn up by the innumerable
shells that have rained upon it. Here is a
parapet. The captain is there, facing the
earthwork.

" Liaison-men ! "

He says this under his breath. We answer
in the same way.

" Present."

" You will pass to the right, the i8th to the
left, 1 9th and 2Oth to the rear ; you will
advance in support."

We crawl a little way. The order is soon
transmitted. We have rejoined our sections.
There is an unspeakable silence, then all of a
sudden, a ringing, formidable shout, repeated
by furious voices : " Forward ! " and a sud-
den rush. I hear the clash of arms, short
gasping breaths ; a tornado of shadowy

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 33

forms, yells of pain, cries of distress. Flashes
of light pierce the darkness. In the field of
lucerne where we are charging, we are de-
cimated by rifle-fire. Voices choke and die
away. Ah ! where are we going ?

Suddenly a white glare from the direction of
Saint-M. . . . shifts and passes over us. It
is the German searchlight. It dazzles us,
seizes us, and keeps tight hold of us. Then
the machine-guns begin. The charge slackens.
It whirls round and round, like a horse
wounded in the forehead, and its shouts
become fainter. Then there is an evident
movement towards the declivity which offers
some natural cover. The bullets follow our
desperate rush with a buzzing as of wasps.
We clutch our rifles convulsively. Suddenly,
in front of us, a hollow in the ground. The
flash of the rifles shows it to us : " This way !
This way ! Courage ! We've got them ! "
Bodies tumble into the shadow. When the
searchlight releases its howling prey, we grope
our way along distractedly, like drunken
men.

The rush on the right is stronger. Pre-
sently there are twenty of us, led by a non-
commissioned officer. There is a machine-
gun in front of us. " Forward ! Forward ! "
The searchlight blinds us. Are there ten of

34 IN GERMAN HANDS

us left ? . . . Then our leader collapses.
Raising himself on his elbows, he yells :

"Fall back! I'm done for! Clear out!
My God, you haven't a chance ! "

I stand stock still, utterly bewildered, an
admirable target for the rifles. What ? Is
this all ? Is the attack broken, repulsed, an
utter failure ? . . . Despairing cries, groans,
and noises reach me from the farther end of
the field. Oh ! the horror of the end of a
battle ! I am about to leave the hollow,
when the searchlight grips me again. The
fire has not diminished. The machine-gun
goes on with its mowing, in infernal rhythm.
And my body too collapses suddenly, facing
the enemy who is aiming at it. In vain I
get up and try to stand. I fall again, helpless.
My right leg is broken.

The firing continues. The metallic flashes
never cease, nor the crackling flight of veno-
mous little bullets across my forehead. Our
group, lying on the ground, serves as a target
for the marksmen. How many of us are still
living ? Perhaps I am the only one. And
then the projectiles come thick and fast. They
whistle by ruthlessly, grazing my haversack,
my pannikin, severing the strap of my water-
bottle. And a prayer goes up from my heart,
while the warm blood runs along my leg, a

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 35

prayer for all who are dear to me, and for all
those who lie on the vast plateau, killed in
this battle.

Now the guns begin to roar again. Volleys
of shells sweep over the field in the distance.
Have they found the remnant, the contingent
that had survived ? The blinding ray dis-
appears and reappears. It is seeking us,
surely and mercilessly, stopping sometimes
on our heads. We lie motionless. It goes
off again. But the machine-guns rage away.
What time can it be ? I look at my watch ;
it is not yet midnight. Oh ! if I could get
out of this, crawl gently back to the hollow
close by, in a field of lucerne. A great body
has fallen on me. I roll it away laboriously.

The roar of the guns has ceased. The
rifle-fire is dying down. . . . Shadows pass
near me. . . . Are they friends or enemies ?
I lie still. They melt away into the fog. A
little yellow smoke down towards Saint-M. . . .
and towards Ch. . . . show that fires are burn-
ing there. I lift up my haversack and get rid
of it. What cries I hear in the distance, the
vain calls and groans of the dying ! A childish
voice rises shrilly, begging for water.

The firing has ceased. A few reports, less
and less distinct . . . and at last silence.
Then I begin to drag myself along slowly.

36 IN GERMAN HANDS

It is a long, difficult business. My leg does not
follow. My foot, twisted and pendulous,
catches in the grass, and I have to take it in
both hands every few seconds and pull it out
carefully. It takes me rather more than
three hours to travel about five yards.

At last I am in shelter, but utterly exhausted.
I have left my knapsack, my haversack, and
all my equipment beside the dead bodies of
my comrades. So I have nothing to drink.
Lying on my back, I look up at a few stars
above me. A drowsiness comes over me.
It is fever, no doubt ; but I do not sleep, and
so I wait for the morning.

October 13. Ten o'clock. — I am about
thirty yards from the German trenches. I
can see them if I lift my head a little. My
right leg is broken below the knee, the calf
is torn and pendulous. I had some terrible
visitors. But God protected me.

I am not in very great pain. I have not
lost consciousness. But I am very thirsty,
and I cannot move.

* October 13. About jive o'clock. — I was
lying at this moment on the edge of the field
of lucerne, somewhat hidden by the tall grass,
and in the pale morning light, through the
mists that were rising from the ground, I saw
three German patrols moving over the ground.

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 37

Some of the wounded called out to them,
begging for water. The Germans finished
them off with the butt-ends of their rifles or
their bayonets, and then robbed them. I saw
this done a few yards from where I was. A
group of seven or eight men were lying there,
struck down by cross-fire from the machine-
guns. Some of them were still alive, and
spoke imploringly to the Germans. They were
butchered as I say, robbed, and thrown in a
heap.

I gathered from the cries that reached me from
other parts of the field, from the laughter, fol-
lowed by dull blows, and the subsequent silence,
that other hapless creatures were sharing the
same fate. I will not describe the anguish I en-
dured. I thought my last hour was at hand,
and if I lifted up my soul to God, it was less
to ask Him to save me — for I had so little
hope for myself at that moment — than to
implore Him to soften and heal the grief of
those dear to me. I prepared for death.

Footsteps approached above me on the left.
A minute before I had determined to die
bravely, denouncing those who were outraging
humanity by such deeds as cowards and mur-
derers. Something stronger than myself made
me close my eyes. I stiffened my body and
lay motionless. The Germans thought I was

38 IN GERMAN HANDS

dead. One of them turned me over with a
violent kick, and greedy, brutal hands began
to strip me of my possessions. I felt them
taking the watch I was wearing on my wrist
in a leather bracelet, my modest purse,
containing a little gold, and a knife with
several blades which I had bought at Toulouse
the day before I left. My pocket-book, my
pencil, and a notebook, which I had slipped
between my shirt and my skin, escaped
their search, and also my tobacco-pouch, my
cigarette-papers, and my matches, which I
had put into my right-hand pocket under
my handkerchief.

The footsteps died away ; but I remained
perfectly still. I gave myself up for lost.
After this patrol another would pass. I
thanked God for His intervention, and I
awaited death, almost desiring to hasten the
end of my tortures.

More than an hour passed in this manner.
I had at last ventured to turn over — by dint
of agonized efforts — and had got into a some-
what less painful position, when fresh foot-
steps drew near. I had neither the time nor
the inclination to feign a second time, for
bayonets were already at my breast. A last
instinctive impulse, an effort of thought,
nevertheless brought the words that were

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 39

to save me to my lips. I know a little
German, of the kind one learns at school.
But I managed to elaborate the following
sentence :

" Why," I asked, " do you want to kill me ?
Is it thus you respect the lives of your fellow-
creatures ? Can a disarmed man be an
enemy ? "

I spare the reader the faults of syntax
which no doubt graced it ; however, it was
effectual. The two weapons were withdrawn
at an authoritative gesture. " Germany is
merciful. She does not kill the wounded,"
said a man, who, as I afterwards learned,
was a Bavarian student.

Alas ! I knew the exact opposite ! I had
seen it with my own eyes. But I refrained
from saying so. It was hardly the moment
for protest.

A fusillade began, distant and intermittent.
The soldiers left me, but not till my protector
had assured me that I need fear nothing. He
was on duty in that sector, and would keep
an eye on me till the stretcher-bearers could
come and fetch me.1

1 It will be seen further on in my notes that he kept his word.
Writing now, after a considerable lapse of time, I can do no
less than assure him of the gratitude of the man. And if
I emphasize this word, it is because the soldier, the French-
man, cannot allow that he owes much gratitude or affection

40 IN GERMAN HANDS

October 14. — The night has been very long
and very cold. The student came back in the
evening and gave me water. He has just
been round again. He expressed surprise at
finding me still here.

" The Germans fall back from one hundred
to two hundred yards every evening, monsieur,
to avoid surprises. Why don't your stretcher-
bearers take the opportunity to come and
fetch you ? "

I might have answered that the Germans
have often fired on the Red Cross, and that
therefore the orderlies no longer dare to
venture into the lines within fire from the
trenches. I thought it wiser to say nothing.
And my visitor left me.

He is a handsome fellow, tall and plump,
with a chestnut beard, and clear, gentle eyes.
He seems grave and sad. He is a non-
commissioned officer. He speaks French fairly
well.

I set myself to wait again. How long the
hours are ! And clouds begin to gather
in the sky. I think of all my dear ones. . . .
I do not regret my action. One cannot do
one's duty by halves. ... If I am to die

to an enemy of his race for simply doing his duty. He would
have deserved more if he had begun earlier in the day to save
the wounded who had fallen in this attack.

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 41

without a loving hand to close my eyes
their last look will have been for you,
Agnes, and for the others, our loved ones.
. . . And you will wear your mourning as
one wears a cross, a decoration won on the
battlefield.

October 15. Noon. — It rained all the even-
ing and part of the night. What misery I have
endured ! My greatcoat is wet through. My
wound is soaked. I have nothing to cover it
with . . . and I cannot move.

If I come out of this, I shall be lucky
indeed ! I was very thirsty in the night.
When the rain ceased, I made a cigarette, in
the hope of soothing my parched mouth a
little. My tobacco and papers were not wet,
and I managed to roll my cigarette. But
when I tried to light it, a neighbouring
machine-gun peppered me with bullets.

Is this the way they fall back ? . . . True,
this morning the student apologized. I
must not smoke nor strike matches after
dark.

October 16. — Another night in the rain. I
had a moment of weakness. If my rifle
had been within reach, I should have put an
end to my cruel sufferings.

May God forgive me ! ... But to die
slowly like this, day after day, without relief.

42 IN GERMAN HANDS

I cannot see very well. I am tortured by
fever. My thoughts are confused. How many
days more before I am at rest ?

The same day. Saint-M. . . . Three o'clock.
— God had mercy on me. When I had lost
all hope, He sent the student to me with
two men.

" As your people don't come and fetch you,"
he said simply, " we are going to carry you
down to the end of the field, and the German
stretcher-bearers will take you into the

town."

Alas ! there is no help for it. ... I shall be
a prisoner.

The student and the two men then lifted
me up. Two of them carried me, while the
third, holding up my dangling foot, walked
slowly in front.

We reached our destination after a journey
of a few hundred yards. Some stretcher-
bearers and a German doctor were on the spot.
The doctor examined me, shook his head
several times, and gave a curt order. They
placed me on a stretcher. The student looked
a farewell. I thanked him briefly, and he
returned to his post, followed by his
comrades.

I can feel no affection for him. He has

WOUNDED AND A PRISONER 43

saved my life, but there is no gratitude in my
heart for him. Still, I pray God to spare
his life, or if he should fall some day, to let
him come into compassionate hands, which
will do for him what he has done for me.

II. THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. . . .

October 17. — Carried on a stretcher to the
Hospital of Saint-M. . . . During the long
march thither, my bearers set me down behind
the barracks on the edge of a pit the soldiers
were digging. This was not a very agreeable
sensation. The gaping hole was hardly in-
viting. The stretcher-bearers noted the im-
pression it made on me. They laughed,
opening their great mouths wide, and at last
started again.

We pass the villas of the suburb, burnt and
destroyed. The main street is blocked by
barricades, for fighting goes on there every
evening. Presently we go over a level crossing
and come out on the bridge. Two of its
arches are still intact. The third is of wood.
The French artillery batters this bridge in-
cessantly, and just as my bearers put me down
behind a block of stone, after we have crossed
it, to take breath, a huge shell falls into the
Meuse with a sinister snort, sending up a
column of water several yards high. Never-
theless, a group of old women, careless of
danger, surround me and begin to talk. My

44

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 45

orderlies are a few yards off, speaking to some
engineers. Questions come thick and fast.

" Where were you wounded ? "

" How long ago ? "

" Your leg broken ? . . . Poor fellow ! "

" Would you like some coffee ? "

" They've taken everything here."

" We have nothing left."

" We have to stay on the first floor. The
soldiers live in the basement."

This painful talk is cut short by our de-
parture. And presently we reach the hospital.
The doors fly open for us. There is a smell
of ether and chloroform. Finally, I am taken
into a very light room, and set down at the
end of a blood-stained table.

A doctor in a blouse examines me at once.
He feels my pulse. " 7*u mude ! Noch nicht / "
(" Too tired ! Not yet ! ") He orders some
coffee to be brought for me. For the next
hour, they bring me a hot bowlful, every ten
minutes. At the end of this interval I am
ready.

They are just about to place me on the table
when the door opens. Another wounded man
is brought in on a second stretcher. His poor
face is livid and convulsed with agony. He is
a Territorial, as his badges show. He looks
about forty years old, perhaps not so much.

46 IN GERMAN HANDS

They question him in vain. He seems un-
conscious, perhaps hears nothing. His breast,
rising and falling very feebly, is covered with
blood. His eyes are dim and glazed. He has
no papers to establish his identity. The
number on his badges shows that he belonged
to the reinforcements that came up on the
9th or loth. But what is his name ? A
priest comes in to administer the last rites
of the Church.

When this is over, they bring the stretcher
and the body close to me. I lean over the
dying man. I take one of his hands in mine.
It does not tremble. There is no answer when
I speak to him. His eyes remain dull and
fixed. Then they throw back his coat, and
open his shirt. His breast and abdomen,
riddled with bayonet thrusts, form one large
wound. The doctor bends down suddenly,
with a look of lively surprise. He turns to
me and asks, with some hesitation :

" Was there hand-to-hand fighting in the
trenches on Monday ? "

" No, Monsieur le Docteur. The attack was
broken before we got to your trenches."

I spoke gravely. The doctor looked at me
keenly. He is fair and closely shaven, with
pensive eyes, and a sad expression. He says
simply :

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 47

" Then ? . . . These bayonet wounds ? "
I shrug my shoulders. The doctor under-
stands. He makes a brusque gesture. The
wounded man, who has just breathed his last,
is carried away quickly. Alas ! no one will
ever know where this soldier rests ! His
family will look in vain for news of him.
Stripped of everything that would have made
his identity known, he is only a Frenchman
who died for his endangered Fatherland,
sleeping his last sleep in a piece of waste
ground near the Hospital of Saint-M. . . .
since October 1 5th of the great tragic year.

But my turn has come. They lift me care-
fully and lay me on the table. One orderly
lays his hand over my eyes, to prevent me
from seeing ; the other cuts away the stiffened
cloth and the leather of the boot with a pair of
scissors, and the hideous wound is laid bare.
Taking advantage of a moment of distraction
I see it quite plainly. The bones protrude
through the flesh below the knee ; the calf is a
shapeless pulp. The attendant presses back
my forehead with a swift, imperative gesture.
A cloth soaked in spirit is laid under my
nostrils. And the delicate operation of cleans-
ing the wound is performed quickly enough,
though it seems a long business to me. Bits of
bone fall into a metal basin under the table ;

48 IN GERMAN HANDS

now and again there is a sharper sound ;
these are the fragments of steel that are taken
from the wound. Finally I feel something
that burns and tingles ; tincture of iodine or
spirit, no doubt. There is a smell of benzine.

Then they hold the leg tightly. The foot
is drawn out carefully, turned round, put into
a mould, an apparatus of cast iron. And the
operation is over. It was quite bearable.

I ask the doctor whether they will be able
to save my leg. He looks dubious.

" How soon shall I know ? "

" In two or three days, I think. The wound
is in a very unfortunate place."

" What projectile caused the wound ? "

The doctor makes no reply. Turning to the
orderly, who shrugs his shoulders, he says in
German :

" Sie wollen immer wissen" (" They al-
ways want to know.")

The orderly stoops over me. Perhaps he
divined my thought.

" It was a Granat, monsieur."

Granat means a shell. I argue that the 77
was silent at the moment of the attack. It
fired later, when I was already wounded.

" Oh, that doesn't matter," he replies.
" It often happens so."

The doctor makes a sign of acquiescence

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 49

I am carried away again several stories higher.
We come at last to a very large room with two
rows of white beds.

October 17. Nine o'clock. — Yesterday I
wrote two post cards. The German pastor
who visits our ward promised to send them off
for me.

The doctor comes in about eight o'clock.
He lifts up the sheet that is laid over my
leg, inspects the bandages, which are soaked
with blood, and then, nodding his head,
says :

" They will bring you downstairs at eleven
o'clock. You will be put to sleep. If I can
save your leg, I promise to do so. If not,
I shall cut it off."

The announcement is brutal. But what use
is it to protest ? ... It is true that I am in
great pain. The wound seems to be a very
serious one. . . .

I will pray to God earnestly . . .

October 18. Morning. — Well, now I am
a cripple. I became aware of my misfortune
yesterday when I awoke at noon. I was not
fully conscious. But I put my hand down
to feel the dressing. I have only one leg.

It is a painful sacrifice. . . . God help me
to bear it bravely.

October 20. Morning. — Terrible fever.

50 IN GERMAN HANDS

Yesterday, temperature of 105°. I cannot
sleep ... I live in a miserable dream.

This morning the fever abated. A lady of
the Red Cross Society, Madame S. . . ., a
Frenchwoman, is very kind to me. She tells
me I must not write, so I am scribbling in
secret.

A young French abbt was here just now. He
came to give the Sacrament to a dying man
near me. A volunteer helper in the Medical
Service, a young citizen of Metz, aged 17,
assisted him in his task. How his face
was irradiated as he presented the wafer ! . . .
I have never seen such an expression of gentle-
ness, joy, and love !

October 21. — My notebook and pencil are
always within reach. I generally slip them
under one of my pillows. I hear the guns.
They never cease. At night there are volleys
which make one hope too much. They seem
to be close behind the Meuse, and the hospital
is on the river-bank.

I occupy a bed near a window, on the left
of the hospital. One can see the hill with the
Roman Camp quite plainly from here. Not
I, of course. I cannot move. It would be
dangerous to raise myself in bed. Every day
the fort is covered with shells and grape-
shot. The Boches wanted to repair it and

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 51

make use of it. They have had to give up
that idea, I am told.

I suffer more than I did yesterday.

October 23. — The fever has left me. I am
extremely weak and often fall into a stupor.
Madame S. . . . revives me by injections
that smell strongly of camphor. I also take
grog, provided by the brandy the doctors
drink. They are quite amiable. Ours in
particular, Herr F. . . ., is full of kindness
and devotion. He is often in the wards till
past midnight, dressing wounds.

I can't say as much of the orderlies. They
do as little as they possibly can for us. They
refuse to help the Sisters and the female
staff. This morning one of them unbosomed
himself thus in broken French :

"It's very unlucky : two wounded Ger-
mans, who were picked up at once, had each
a leg amputated ; Kaput ! You, a French-
man, a good-for-nothing, who had been lying
out for a long time, amputated, and saved ! "

The poor fellow is grieved to the heart ! I
laugh feebly. The good-for-nothing is well
pleased.

October 25. — Nearly every evening now
there are departures. All the French wounded
who can bear the journey are sent to Metz.
It seems that I am to go next.

52 IN GERMAN HANDS

The thought of this journey alarms me. I
have got out of it twice, pleading exhaustion.
The wards are almost empty. I am left alone
in my corner, with a Provencal basket-maker
at the other end. He seems to be seriously
wounded.

Madame S. ... is admirable. She arrives
at daybreak, and does not leave the hospital
till late in the evening. The doctors respect
her, and call her " Sister " ; they rarely refuse
her anything she asks for us.

She has a daughter living with her at Saint-
M. . . ., and a little grandchild. Only yester-
day they were in their home, a large house
to the left of the Place du Grand March6,
that is to say, near the front. The shells
were raining incessantly on that part of the
town, and yesterday, while the ladies were
breakfasting in the unvaulted cellar of their
house, a French " 155 " came through the
ceilings and exploded in the cellar. When the
smoke cleared, the ladies got up. The child
in its cot had escaped, and they themselves,
as by a miracle, had only a few scratches. The
mother and the grandmother rushed to the
little creature and covered it with kisses ;
they then made all haste, as may be supposed,
to find a new shelter.

Since this, whenever she has a moment

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 53

during the hour of the siesta, Madame S. .
crosses the danger zone of those streets, and
goes to seek among the ruins of her home any-
thing that may still be useful, or some souvenir
that may have come to the surface. Brave
heart ! true Frenchwoman !

These " accidents " — as she calls them — do
not seem to distress her. Just now she was
showing us some shapeless fragments, shattered
and twisted by the explosion, of her kitchen
utensils. She laughed as she showed them ;
she laughed again when I tried to point out
the risk she was running in her frequent
visits to this corner of Saint-M. . . ., where
the crash of bombs is heard perpetually.

October 27. — The automobiles from Metz
have come again. It was about eight o'clock
and very dark. I again pleaded my exhausted
state, supported by Madame S. . . . How-
ever, it was agreed that this " transparent
excuse " was to have no effect henceforth.
The doctor made me understand this.

" The French don't want you ! If the can-
nonade at night makes you hope that you may
be taken and carried off by them some evening,
you are mistaken, monsieur. Saint-M. . . .
is in our hands, and we shall not give it up until
you have destroyed it, which your gunners
have been ordered not to do, it seems."

54 IN GERMAN HANDS

The reason is plain enough. There are too
many French civilians in the town. We do
not shed blood unnecessarily, and this is well.
The Germans would not be so scrupulous in
our place. However, I have gained a little
time. And who knows ! . . .

October 28. — About the I9th of this month,
two days after the amputation of my leg, the
doctor told me that Antwerp was taken. Ant-
werp, an impregnable city ? ... It seemed
to me so grotesque, so arrogant, and so absurd
that I would not enter this stupid piece of
braggadocio in my notebook.

But it seems that it is true. Antwerp,
under the infernal fire of the Austrian " 305*5 "
and the German " 420*3 " was no more able
to hold out than Li6ge and Namur. . . . The
abbt confirms the news. I do not, however,
augur very ill from the fact, for fortresses are
but walls, and the combatant army is the es-
sential thing.

Our orderlies, however, are more confident.
According to them the fall of Verdun — it
was to have been announced the next day,
but this " next day " has already been going
on since the loth — will produce a moral
effect of the utmost importance. The French
will recognize that they must make peace.
Nay, more, they will help the Germans to

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 55

free the West from the island scourge 1 And
everything will then be for the best. . . .

I listen in silence. The Germans have no
tact. They know nothing of that elementary
reticence which, even in war, should lead
us to respect our wounded enemies, our
unwilling and therefore unhappy guests.

Other observations of a more material
order made during the last few days in the
ward have proved abundantly that moral
delicacy, either of mind or heart, is totally
lacking in these warriors. Thus some of the
orderlies have lined their modest purses with
French gold. One of them shows me his, a
sort of leather pouch fastened with a cord, and
containing nearly 2000 francs in 20- and 10-
franc pieces. Among them was a Napoleon
with the crown for 50 francs.

Was not this proof positive that only pillage
could have procured this sum, perhaps the
savings of some industrious workman or
peasant ? We know how the peasant trea-
sures the gold pieces he amasses.

Of course I said nothing ; but I heartily
wished he might be taken prisoner by our
troops, and made to expiate his theft, perhaps
his crime, with all the severity enjoined by our
law.

October 29. Five o'clock. — The motors

56 IN GERMAN HANDS

again. This time there is no getting off. I
am officially designated.

I look curiously at the little yellowish label
with red indented edges which has been fas-
tened to my neck. I turn it over in my
fingers, and my surprise and stupefaction are
unutterable. I read these words, written in
ink : " To be watched, very dangerous"

In vain do I examine myself ; I can think
of nothing which justifies their fears. I have
kept my impressions to myself ever since my
arrival. Then I suddenly recall that brief
scene in the operating-room, on October i6th.
Had the doctor heard of it ? Has he heard since
of the tragic sight I involuntarily witnessed.
. . . But what could this matter ? . . . Are
they afraid I shall speak ? Am I in a position
to do so ? I should run a great risk for very
little. . . . The warning is enough. I will
be careful.

Same day, 7 p.m. — The French guns have
ceased roaring. I am in deep distress. To
go to Germany, to leave the soil of France,
trodden under foot by the enemy, it is true,
but still speaking to us so eloquently of our
Fatherland, causes me great grief. I am going
into the unknown and the thought is painful.

I no longer think of the danger we are in from
the shells. I think of victory. And I say to

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 57

myself that it is all over for me now. I shall
no longer hear the fusillades that have sounded
in my ears these October nights, when, raising
myself on my elbows, I have listened tensely to
the reply of our guns to the German mortars,
beyond the shadows that lay over the sleeping
town. I must leave the soil watered by my
blood, obey my German jailers, and await
farther off — in what hospital, under what
skies ? — the tidings of a great battle that shall
deliver us.

I feel sad and lonely. Shall I have news of
my beloved ones. Will they be able to write
to me, and receive my letters ? My dear ones
seem to gather round my bed at this parting
hour. I see them and speak to them. Agnes
bends her head and her weeping eyes towards
me.

Alas ! my heart is weak ! I pull myself
together. My father's parting words, mur-
mured in my ear as I bid him good-bye, sound
in my memory : " God will protect you." A
fervent prayer rises to my lips. And I am calm
again, peace steals into my heart. When I
pass into this darkness, He will be my light.
I commit my cause to the defender of the
helpless. He will preserve me from rebellion
and despair. He will give me patience,
prudence, and faith to enable me to bear

58 IN GERMAN HANDS

suffering and exile with dignity and without
anger.

October 30. Morning. — Chateau de Saint-
Benoit. In the grand reception-room, trans-
formed into a dormitory.

Straw mattresses stained with blood are
ranged in several long rows. The furniture
has all been removed, save a huge china stove
with brass bands, which towers at the end
of the room. I have been laid in a corner.
V. . . ., the basket-maker from Nice, lies
in the middle, near a German trooper wounded
in the forearm. A dying man near me
struggles for breath.

A young pastor from Konigsberg sat down
beside me just now. He is fair and youthful-
looking, and closely shaved. He speaks
French slowly and haltingly, but very cor-
rectly.

" That doctor you see there " — he points —
" is very famous in Germany. He is a man
of great talent. He was in Turkey for a
long time, as doctor to the Sultan Abdul
Hamid." '

This doctor is a man of middle age, also
closely shaved ; he wears grey like the rest and
the yellow boots of a Prussian officer. He has
an expensive cigar between his teeth. He has
piercing eyes, and a general air of alertness.

THE HOSPITAL OF ST.-M. ... 59

He comes up to us, and puts a few brief, rapid
questions :

" Where wounded ? ... In what part ?
. . . How ? . . . Leg amputated at once ? "

I answer in the same manner.

" Would you like a little morphia ? "

He explains to the young pastor that he
could have saved my leg if he had been there.
Technical explanations. Then a sudden de-
cision :

" Saint-M. ... I will go and see about it
to-morrow ; there is too much slashing there ;
I must inquire into this business."

He has gone. I am alone. The pastor is
now beside V. ... What a lot of going and
coming ! A morphia injection which they
gave me before starting yesterday prevents
me from suffering. It also made me take
little note of the road we travelled. I was in a
vague, cloudy, beneficent dream.

III. AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR
OF MONTIGNY-LES-METZ

The same day. Montigny-les-Metz. — Started
this morning at nine o'clock in cold, misty
weather. When we emerged from an avenue
of ancient trees, walnuts apparently, the plain
stretched out grey and naked before us. There
must have been some righting here. Ruined
walls on the right, a few felled trees, fragments
of vehicles, and then, farther off in the fields,
regular excavations bear witness to the drama.
V. ... is beside me. I am able to raise
myself on my elbow for a moment, when we
go through the villages. Alas ! what deso-
lation ! On every side blackened walls pierced
by projectiles innumerable, and charred beams.
Not a house intact. The church towers are
gone. Here and there near the doors, which
are broken in or torn from their hinges, Ger-
man infantrymen watch our automobile pass.
Behind a fence, the only one still standing in
a field of lucerne, are a few heads of horned
cattle. The road is all broken up. Our
vehicle trembles, leaps in the ruts, pitches
like a ship in distress. And we are lying

60

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 61

on the floor, without support of any kind, on
two centimetres of straw.

I look about me all the time. It is one
way of forgetting one's pain. . . . Here are
some defence works round deserted ruins,
for there was once a village here. Sinister
cross-roads, defended by four or five rows of
barbed wire. Zigzag trenches, little forts,
communication trenches. Right and left to
the rear, innumerable other trenches, empty
for the moment.

Provision has been made for retreat. Like
a boar making a stand, the Barbarian as he
recoils will be able to take breath, and make
the French pay dearly for the recapture of
territory usurped for how many months ?
No tillers of the soil are to be seen. But there
are huge convoys, herds of cattle on the march,
artillery and wagons. . . .

We are stopped presently. A haughty
officer on horseback, approaching the vehicle,
tries to distinguish us. There is a large farm
on the left, still intact, and its old loopholed
walls, standing on a piece of rising ground,
seem to bid defiance to assault.

We continue our journey. Trenches all the
way. Groups of civilians work unceasingly,
directed, or perhaps guarded, by armed soldiers.
The road descends now. It seems to be

62 IN GERMAN HANDS

better. We are approaching Metz. We halt
for a few seconds. The two leather curtains
which had been flapping in the wind, allowing
us to see the country as we passed, are now
closely drawn. And we start again at a
brisk pace. The sound of conversation sug-
gests a street, and we feel that special vibration
of wheels passing over a paved surface.
Again there is silence emphasized by the steady
throb of the motor. Then a metallic rever-
beration. We are passing over or under a
bridge. The speed slackens. The chauffeur
exchanges greetings with passers-by, friends,
no doubt soldiers. The automobile stops,
hoots noisily for a few seconds, then turns
slowly off the road, and crosses a kerb, for a
sudden jerk throws me upon V. ... Finally
we stop dead.

An electric bell rings incessantly. Footsteps
are heard. The leather curtains are drawn
back. Straps creak in their buckles. The
door is opened. We see a flock of orderlies
in white, most of them bareheaded. A non-
commissioned officer with a grey moustache
asks me in French :

" How are you wounded ? "

" Right leg amputated."

He nods in silence.

" How long ago ? "

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 63

" Thirteen or fourteen days."

" Where ? "

" At Saint-M. . . ."

He tells the orderlies to be careful, and they
lay hold of me.

V. . . . is on a stretcher. Another stretcher
stands beside the ambulance. I am soon upon
it. My overcoat has fallen back, showing my
horrible wound. And now a child, whom I
had not seen from the vehicle, approaches,
holding the hand of an officer in uniform,
his father, I suppose. His childish eyes ex-
amine me. Is it curiosity ? Are the features
of an enemy to be graven on his memory ?
With a pretty gesture, full of childish grace,
he lifts the skirt of my coat, and lays it care-
fully over my body. The father stands im-
passive behind the boy. I try to say " Thank
you," but my throat contracts. I give
the military salute, and the child returns it,
pressing his little hand against the edge of
his blue cap.

I am in bed at last. V. ... is beside me.
They set an earthen bowl in front of us, con-
taining a little broth. It smells of maggi,
and is not very appetizing. V. ... examines
it for a long time, stirring up something
which looks very much like bird-seed. I
swallow mine without looking at it or

64 IN GERMAN HANDS

tasting it. I am very weary and I was very
hungry.

Our ward is small but very light. There are
only nine beds, and two large windows give
light and fresh air. We have electric light
and central heating. The woodwork is white,
so are the iron bedsteads and the doors. . . .
I feel drowsy. I cease to answer remarks.
I sleep for three hours, soundly and
sweetly.

Then an orderly wakes me. Certain for-
malities ensue. Name, age, profession, com-
pany, regiment. A pot-bellied corporal is
busy rallying two poor fellows with all the
heaviness of his race. They are crippled with
acute rheumatism, but the absence of wounds
has roused his suspicions. Perhaps this is a
ruse ? . . . The spying German has a holy
horror of spies. But their story is simple
enough. They were in hospital at Saint-M. . . .
when the town was taken, and could not get
away. One fine evening, German doctors
arrived in their ward. All the other patients
had been removed, but these two, who were
half paralysed, had been left. Their distress
may be imagined. One, who bore a German
name, was of course suspect. The other, an
octroi official in a southern town, had un-
doubtedly the most fiery and irritable temper

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 65

ever inflicted on a mortal. Hence many
troubles, as may be supposed.

Just at the moment his contracted features
and furious glances alarmed me. Would he
be able to control himself ? To make a
diversion, I became amiable. I addressed the
non-commissioned officer in my best German.
He was surprised and delighted.

" You speak German ? "

" Ganz klein wenig" (" Just a very little.")

A very little, but still a little, and this
suffices to avert the storm from our comrades.

November 2. — The life here is calm and regu-
lar. Montigny is close to Metz. There are
two hospitals here : one, where we are, is
the Lehrerseminar (Catholic Training College
for Lorraine teachers), and has accommodation
for 600 wounded ; the second (I do not know
what it is called), a little farther from the
city, is even more important. But all the
French wounded are here. A few are sent
in the first instance to Metz — where there are
twenty-two war hospitals — but after a few
days they come on to Montigny-les-Metz. The
abbe gives me these details.

As I say, the life here is calm and regular.
This is the time-table. We are called in the
morning at 7. We have basins to wash in, and
these are filled with water by the more robust

66 IN GERMAN HANDS

among us. We then perform our toilets, and
cafe au lait is served. At 9 o'clock there is
broth, and, for some, milk food. About 10
o'clock the doctor comes round ; after this,
wounds are dressed. At 1 1, a meal : a bowl of
soup, nearly always the same ; then the ration
— not very good — a little tinned meat or
smoked bacon. Siesta till 3 P.M. At 3, cafe
au lait) and milk food for some. About 5,
the doctor makes his round again ; at 6,
soup as above. The bread is pretty bad.
We have been warned that it will soon
contain a variety of substances : bran, po-
tatoes, etc. For the moment it is eatable,
and we get a pound a day.

As I only arrived yesterday, it is too soon
for me to record my opinion of things. But
my first impression is favourable. They leave
us in peace. The general organization seems
to be first rate : the orderlies well disciplined,
the service regular, things, hours, and persons
punctual and unvarying.

November 3. — The Inspector comes to see us.
He tells us at once that Young Turkey has
been enticed by Germany into the conflict.
The only result, as far as I can see, will be to
hamper our Allies the Russians a little. But
perhaps this is all the Germans expect. I am
not much perturbed.

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 67

The Inspector seems confident of the success
of German arms. I argue quietly with him.
He does not get angry. He is a man of about
forty, with a refined face, and more of the
Latin about him, even in his walk, than of
the heavy German. He tells me that he has
brothers holding official positions in the North
of France. Nevertheless, he is a true Boche
in mind and heart. German victory seems
to him necessary to arrest our decadence.

" Such a business as that ignominious law-
suit," he says confidentially, " could not
happen in our country."

He alludes, no doubt, to a recent scandal,
too recent to be forgotten, which had its
epilogue a few days before the outbreak of
war. I protest energetically.

" You must not confound France with that

crew."

And how can they presume to talk of their
superior morality ! The name of Eulenburg
rises involuntarily to my lips. The Inspector
starts. He looks round anxiously to see
if any orderly is near enough to have heard
me. Then he says rapidly :

" Never utter that name here. I say this
in your own interest."

I take the hint thus given. But I am,
to have produced such an effect.

68 IN GERMAN HANDS

November 4. — We may write as often as we
like, several letters a day if we wish. The
Inspector tells me so himself.

" We are not barbarians."

I smile. There is, certainly, no connexion
between all the acts committed on the field
of battle and the man now speaking to me.
But are the facts, which I saw with my own
eyes, any the less real on this account ?

I have written several letters. It will take
twenty days to get an answer. I must wait
patiently.

November 5. — I am not so exhausted as I
was. I do not sleep much at night. But I no
longer suffer much.

To-day I questioned the doctor as to the
approaching date of my operation ; for they
have told me that it will be necessary to
shorten the femur, which was left too long
at Saint-M. . . .

" Not yet," he replies. " There is no
hurry."

Perhaps he is joking. But this answer de-
presses me greatly. I have been at Montigny
now for six days, and my dressing has not
been changed. What are they waiting for
to verify the condition of my wound ?

This doctor, be it said, is wonderful !
He has a way of making his round which is

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 69

unique, to say the least of it. He comes in,
followed by the sergeant (the Unterqffizier,
which is equivalent to Corporal in our beloved
army), stops on the threshold, points with his
finger to each patient, then, with clock-like
precision, utters the word, " Gut " (" All
right "), turns on his heel, and goes off to
another ward. The visit is at an end.

November 7. — The staff is good-natured
enough, relatively speaking. So far there has
been nothing to complain of. The head
doctor is pleasant to us, and the discipline
is so good that all the orderlies imitate him.
The Director of the Seminary, too, a volunteer
administrative officer for the duration of the
war, visits the wards every day. He is the
treasurer, or perhaps I should rather say the
steward. He speaks very good French. One
thing is remarkable and attractive in him ;
whereas the Inspector, who is younger and
more impetuous, brings forward his German
opinions incessantly, and talks of the war as a
hardened Boche, the Director, an older man,
speaks of it very little, or not at all. He shows
a tact and delicacy that surprise me. His
wife is the head nurse ; she is a fair-haired
German, with a smiling, rosy face and a gentle
voice. They have several children, and I
caught a glimpse one day of the youngest, a

70 IN GERMAN HANDS

sweet little girl, with the two classic plaits
hanging down her back.

I may also mention Herr R. . . ., an old
volunteer non-commissioned officer, quite sixty
years old, generally told off to deal with those
who, like myself, speak the trans-Rhenish
tongue but little, or badly, on account of his
very clear pronunciation, and his slow, sono-
rous voice.

November 8. — Saw the German pastor. He
was shaking hands with the abb£ on the
threshold of the ward. He is a reddish fair
man of middle age, very hairy, his eyes rather
dull behind his gold-rimmed spectacles. We
talked for a few minutes. I asked, of course,
about the distant cannonade we had been
hearing since yesterday.

" Yes, Saint-Quentin is over there ; but
the firing you hear on the left is not there.
They are only testing guns. We are a long
way from the front."

To sound him a little — he is a pastor of
this neighbourhood — I remark quietly that
this pretty country might suffer a good deal
if the French were to bombard it.

" The French ? "

Stupefaction cuts him short ; he manifests
such ingenuous astonishment at the thought
of such an incredible thing as Metz bombarded,

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 71

a German fortress the prey of the cannon,
that I am delighted beyond measure.

Germany vanquished, downtrodden, hu-
miliated, paying ransom in her turn !

You do not believe this to be possible,
Herr Pastor. But I am quite certain of it.
It will take a long time, perhaps, but it will
come all the same.

November 10. — This morning I saw the head
doctor, a South German ; he is a dark-
haired man, slightly built, and very sparing
of speech. It is reported in the hospital
that his two brothers, officers, were killed
in the first encounters near Bertrix, and that
he himself found their bodies on the battle-
field, horribly mutilated.

I feel very doubtful as to the truth of this
story, although certain words dropped by
the head doctor seem to confirm it. Inspector
D. . . ., who follows him about like his
shadow, has also shown me some French
newspapers, in which imprudent reporters
celebrate such achievements on the part of
our Senegalese troops with reprehensible levity.
But I am not convinced. The behaviour of
the head doctor is quite incompatible with
the story. He is kind and very just to the
French wounded. He grants them favours
at once when they ask him. Thus, those

72 IN GERMAN HANDS

among us who are not very seriously wounded
complained of want of exercise, and of the
monotony of their days in the wards. He
gave them leave to walk every day for an
hour. They take this exercise in the court-
yard, severely guarded by a soldier armed with
a rifle. Others complained of the notorious
insufficiency of the hospital rations. The
doctor gave them permission to supplement it,
and chocolate, sugar, sweetmeats, and even
rolls were added to the menu of the hungrier
among us, whose purses were sufficiently well
lined to allow of these luxuries.

Tobacco was another item in question.
Can one imagine soldiers unable to smoke ?
The head doctor fixed certain hours : the
hour of the daily exercise for one, and then
one hour in the morning and one in the even-
ing. Leave was given to smoke in the passage.
But we smoked everywhere, and to excess ; in
the wards, and in short everywhere rather
than in the passage. Were those who are
confined to their beds to be deprived of a
smoke? ... I, alas, am of the number, and
I decided the question in defiance of the rule !

To tell the truth, I feel uneasy. All this
calm makes me anxious. I do not under-
stand the reason of this amiability : are the
Boches mollified by frequent and substantial

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 73

successes, presaging enormous advantages,
and so inclining them to show indulgence to
the vanquished ? If so I should prefer to
suffer ! . . . I do not want their kindness
if we are to be beaten.

Come, no blasphemy ! It is simply im-
possible ! I am like the red-haired pastor ;
the very thought seems scandalous.

November 14. — No, it did not last. There
is storm in the air. The orderlies are less
amiable. They no longer talk as they attend
to us. They used to gossip, and it helped to
pass the time. Now they speak only to each
other in low tones in the passages.

I have no more visitors. Even the Director
merely bows and passes by when his duties
bring him within reach of me. There are no
more of those conversations in which I strove
to discover the soul of the Boche. I know not
what to think.

The old Lorraine Sisters who speak French
pass like shadows. They used to talk to us
in pure rhythmical phrases that cheered us.
Inspector D. ... is invisible.

The head doctor himself becomes inscrutable.
He drapes himself in a cloth cloak, and moves
about indefatigably, followed by his Feld-
webelj the black scabbard of his sword dang-
ling against his short legs, without a word for

74 IN GERMAN HANDS

any one. Something is hanging over us, but
what ? . . . No one knows.

November 17. — A very great joy alleviates
my distress. The first letter has come, the
one I was expecting and hoped would be the
first, bearing the post-mark of Mauvezin, in
Le Gers. It is from my wife, a short, brave
letter. Not a word of regret, of weakness, or
of complaint, but a mournful pride, deep, true
words.

Blessed be our dear ones ! They are our
healers, the physicians of the soul. And the
soul is so sad in exile.

November 19. — For the last two days my
neighbour has been a Parisian schoolmaster,
Sergeant X. . . ., wounded in the legs. He
makes satisfactory progress. We talk for
hours together quite freely.

A German schoolmaster, whose brother is
detained at R. ... as a hostage, comes to
see us occasionally. He gives us details as
to education in Lorraine. There the teachers
may be either Catholic or Protestant. The
system is that created in France by the
famous Falloux law, which decreed that
pupils were to have teachers of the Catholic
or of the Reformed Faith, according to their
religion.

" This would be a difficult problem," he said

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 75

casually, " if France should ever re-take the
province, which I think highly improbable."

The methods of instruction are not quite
the same as those adopted by us. As regards
the classes, the Germans have instituted a
very interesting process. The master has his
pupils allotted to him when they leave the
infant schools, and keeps them to the end of
their time, when they are about fourteen.
Thus he has time to study them, to make use
of the varied methods suitable to different
cases, and to mould these youthful minds
himself exclusively. The Germans have recog-
nized the danger of changing masters and
classes for the pupils in their schools about
every two years. I note the information
for what it is worth. The system seems
attractive. But circumstances alter cases.

Inspector D. . . . has also taken it into his
head to convert my friend X. ... To convert
is an imposing word, but it is the right one.
The Inspector is a zealot. The schoolmaster
is not. X. . . ., a man of an open mind
and a broad and tolerant spirit, reproaches the
German religion preached by the Inspector, of
delighting in war, regardless of the divine
precept of the Prince of Peace. The Inspector,
evading the point, descants on the " vices "
of France, the general scepticism that obtains

76 IN GERMAN HANDS

in the country. According to him, this war
is a threat, a warning from the Most High
to the France of yesterday, and also a chastise-
ment for all her misdeeds.

" But what has Germany to do with that ? "

X. ... will not admit the argument for a
moment. What claim has modern Germany,
the advocate of brute force, to consider herself
the elect of God, the instrument chosen by
that God to punish a guilty France ? How
can a Catholic speak thus ? Has he really
forgotten that France is very Catholic ? . . .
I in my turn suggest that reservations are
necessary. The subject is a very delicate
one. And then, as my God, the God of
devout Frenchmen, is, according to the Scrip-
tures, the God of love, desiring not the death
of the sinner, it would be surprising indeed
if He should have let loose this war.

The Inspector considers. He is embarrassed.
Nevertheless, he combats my argument.

" I thought you were a good Christian ! I
gathered so from your letters."

In fact, this is quite a little scandal ! I, who
talk so politely to the priest and the pastor !
He does not know me, or he would under-
stand that my somewhat chilly politeness is
often ironical, especially when it encounters
booted and helmeted pastors, or fulminating

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 77

priests, who, in spite of their gold spectacles,
look to me more like soldiers than friends
of the disinherited.

And then I am bound to admit that the
German religion seems to me extraordinary.
I foresee that I shall have to discuss it again
later on, when I have had more experience,
and above all, more knowledge of the German
mind, which seems to me very complex. To-
day I will confine myself to a single impres-
sion : the German's Gott mit uns is no empty
phrase ; it is a fact, a symbol. If I had read
Uns mit Gott, I might have been reassured.
But, alas ! refusing to walk in His ways, they
have ordained that the Eternal Father should
follow His children into battle. And the
difference is immense. "To be with God "
is to be good, or at least to desire to be so.
To take God as our witness, to cry " God with
us," is to legitimize many evil things, and to
mingle religion with human actions which
even mere morality strongly condemns.

November 20. — Just now the little Bruder,
dressed in his cassock, came into the ward.

He is a scholar at the Lehrerseminar, a
future schoolmaster who does not love
France. His curt speech and his dozen
words of French are very amusing.

He announces first of all that we are for-

78 IN GERMAN HANDS

bidden to write letters every day ; we may do
so twice a week. The new head doctor has
given this order. Just as he is going out the
smell of tobacco calls him back. He snuffs
the air, then in grave and humble accents he
says, holding up his finger :

" Of course, you do not dare to smoke here ?"

The phrase is delightful. It is symptomatic
of German mentality. An entire system of
education is implicit in these words : " You
do not dare to smoke." It does not mean :
" Smoking is forbidden." That would be too
simple. It means more especially : " You
ought not to and cannot have any idea of
smoking, for you know it is forbidden."

We all understand the difference. And
that difference is a whole world.

November 21. — New restrictions concerning
the writing of letters ; now we are limited
to a single letter at a time. Our food was
bad, but we had got used to it ; a healthy
stomach can digest bran. It is suddenly
reduced. The ration of bread is diminished.
And there are to be no purchases in the town.
We are subjected to a sly, severe, meddlesome
surveillance. Our lockers are searched nearly
every day. We are forbidden to receive
parcels of food from France. We are to
inform our families. But the notice is rather

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 79

belated. Many of us, sad to say, have parcels
on the way to us. Will they be given to us ?
We are not left long in suspense. The ad-
dressees are given the brown paper or the
canvas in which their provisions were packed.
Then they have to pay the exorbitant rate
of 80 pfennige per kilogramme of preserves or
chocolate. And the contents are confiscated.
Chocolate, sweets, biscuits, and sugar go to
unknown hands. " They are gracious gifts
which the French wounded present to their
German friends ! " says the Boche abbe.

Finally, the absurd order is given that we
are no longer to see the Gazette de Lorraine, a
special edition in harsh French hitherto al-
lowed us. And yet this paper was ignoble
enough ! What stupid insults it showered
on good Frenchmen ! The occasional supple-
ment of an important German daily, it was a
receptacle for all the absurd, malicious, or
idiotic rumours current about France ! The
articles are anonymous ; they were tho-
roughly German in tone. We shall not lose
much.

But this restriction is accompanied by one
more serious : no more French books, novels,
or studies ; no German dictionaries, nor old
periodicals, the pictures in which amused the
wounded. We are prisoners. Now prison

80 IN GERMAN HANDS

means silence, cold solitude. To read is to
think. To read about France, even abuse of
France, is to excite our latent tenderness, to
fan the embers of a smouldering enthusiasm.
The shadow of Germany interposes between
us and our favourite writers. I had Le
Demon du Midi, Bourget's grave and deeply
interesting book, overflowing with passion,
and yet so devout. It was seized. And I had
to conceal my notes, to hide them in my bed.

Some white paper in my drawer attracts at-
tention. The Prussian soldier is exasperated.

" Where did this paper come from ? . . .
What is it for ? "

" To study German."

My answer is calm. His overflows with
hatred.

" You will have plenty of time to learn it
when it is spoken in your vile country."

I answer : " Never." He shakes his fist
over my bed ; then he begins to laugh, an
insulting, brutal laugh. I am as white as a
sheet. The ruffian goes off. But I cried
with rage.

Oh ! what it is to be a helpless log, lying
in this bed of pain, upon these blood-stained
coverings, and not to be able to strike out at
that barbarian's brow, and cram his insults
down his throat !

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 81

November 23. — I have written nothing for
two days. I was too much upset and too
strictly watched also.

I now know the author of our miseries ; we
have a new head doctor : Doctor Orth, an
officer with three stripes. It is he who has
made a clean sweep. All natives of Lorraine
are suspect in his eyes. We were so impru-
dent as to write to our families that we were
well looked after, and kindly treated. And
the censor was ill-pleased. French prisoners
comfortable in Germany, and in Lorraine, at
Metz !

I was told these details. The ex-head
doctor was punished. Three weeks under
arrest for acting with weakness. Weakness
means humanity. And this explains his big
military cloak and the sword that dangled
against his short legs. One of our comrades
also made a fatal mistake. Finding that
the Inspector collects stamps, he wrote home
to M. ... where his wife is living, to get a
few. The Inspector knew nothing about it.
But he had to suffer. The censor stopped the
letter. He was accused of having entered
into suspicious relations with prisoners, and
court-martialed.

Thenceforth, no more letters were allowed.
Our correspondence accumulated on the head

82 IN GERMAN HANDS

doctor's great bureau — both incoming and
outgoing mails. Nothing is forwarded. Doc-
tor Orth will read for himself. He knows
very little French, too little to be able to
read quickly, and to be sure that he has
understood. Every evening he sits down with
a dictionary and translates haphazard. When
our professor is puzzled by a sentence, he
copies out the passage, and throws the letter
into the waste-paper basket. What is it to
him that mothers, wives, and sisters should
undergo the anguish and terrors of suspense ?
. . . Some of the wounded are in desperate
case. Death may claim them at any moment.
And when the door opens, their fixed and
dying eyes, full of distress, look out eagerly.
Oh ! to have a letter ! To hold in one's hand
the paper on which the dear familiar writing
has traced loving words which a friend will
read to you !

Doctor Orth has no heart. Shall I give you
his portrait ? He is a tall man, about six
feet, with broad, stooping shoulders. Across
the cheek of his clean-shaven face, running
from the right ear, are pink scars, mementoes
of his duelling days. He has uneasy, sus-
picious eyes, and restless hands. He is the
perfect type of the Prussian officer prone to
brutal deeds, practised in actions that no good

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 83

reason justifies. It is the human machine
without polish or finish. Doctor Orth talks
very little. But he listens. And meanwhile
he pries under the table, in the folds of gar-
ments, under the edges of sheets or beneath a
crumpled bolster, seeking tobacco or forbidden
books. His fingers are like claws. They are
skilful in discovering in the depths of a purse
the few illicit pfennige in excess of the pre-
scribed amount. (The French wounded are
allowed to possess three marks). Woe to the
unlucky wight who is detected infringing
this rule ! He is sent to prison, no matter
what his wound may be.

Doctor Orth is diabolical. He has a regular
genius for evil inventions and discoveries, and
for unjustifiable punishments. Perhaps you
are rather hungry, after a very meagre dinner.
You hope to do better in the evening. But
Doctor Orth has his eye on you. He goes to
the kitchens, gives his orders, and instead of
the expected soup, the wounded have to satisfy
their hunger with a bowl of tea and nothing
more. They will sleep all the better, of course !

And it was he who declared to me this
morning with the disdainful air of the con-
queror : " We owe you merely your lives,
nothing more. And even this is a concession
on our part."

84 IN GERMAN HANDS

November 24. — After prohibition comes con-
fiscation. A search was instituted this morn-
ing, by order. We had some post cards, for
which we had paid exorbitant prices. They
were taken from our hands. The brutal
measure was carried out without resistance,
clamour, or protest. Our tobacco shared the
same fate.

Farewell to our golden cigarettes. Our
fragrant pipes are broken.

November 30. — We were in hell. We were
only roasted ; but now we are to be cut up.
The doctor spoke to me when he went his
round. I had promised myself that I would
not ask again when my operation was to take
place. So it was he who informed me.

" It will perhaps be to-morrow. Yesterday
and to-day, too much work."

I make a gesture of inquiry, and this is
his answer : " Your doctors in France are
amputating the limbs of our German soldiers
just as they please. We have letters to prove
it. So we have orders to amputate with-
out hesitation any injured limbs by way
of reprisal. We are not to try and save
any."

They have done as they said. There is an
endless procession of stretchers through the
corridors, and we catch glimpses of blanched

AT THE LEHRERSEMINAR 85

faces. How many victims ? ... It is diffi-
cult to say precisely ; I am a fixture in my
room, and cannot verify the numbers. But
truly Germany has reason to be proud of her
Kultur, her moral superiority !

December I. — I am to be operated on this
evening. But I am not much distressed.
Still, I am writing to my family, for with these
brutes one can never tell. . . .

If this operation should prove fatal, they
will at least know my last thought, and how
dearly I love them. And how I love France !
She seems to me loftier, more sublime than
ever. Which among us could say that he
really knew her ? Which of us has given
her all he owed her, all the Great Mother has a
right to expect.

Oh ! my friends in the trenches, soldiers
of twenty or thirty, give your blood without
counting the cost. Battle for victory. Here,
under the knife that tortures our flesh, we will
suffer without complaining and we will be
worthy of you. We dedicate our pain and
our fever to you and to France, for we have
nothing else to offer. And this is poor and
useless ; it lacks grandeur.

December 2. — I was operated on last evening
at five o'clock. Suffered horribly when I
became conscious.

86 IN GERMAN HANDS

What was the operation they performed ?
Why was the surgeon not present ?

December 3. — Fever still very high. I can-
not move. There is some news which both
rejoices and depresses me. The Lehrer-
seminar is to be evacuated to-day. Good-bye,
Doctor Orth. The war-hospital is to be
reserved for typhus patients. ... I dread
the journey on the ambulance in the state
I am in, and so soon now. ... I commit
myself to God.

IV. CRUEL HOURS; SAN
KLEMENS

The same day. — Arrived at San Klemens a
few minutes ago. Exhausted by fever. I
need not have feared the journey. Merely
a question of will. I should like to have my
wound dressed to ease the burning.

December 5. — The dressing very painful. I
saw the wound. It looks horrible. The bone
sawed half through. The upper part is in
the shape of a V. There are pieces broken
away at the sides, and fragments of bone left
in the wound. It cannot have been cleaned
after the operation. The tincture of iodine
gives it a most gruesome appearance. The
young doctor who attends me — about twenty-
five, with a refined face, and deep, almost
gentle eyes — seems rather surprised. He ques-
tions me briefly :

" Who did this ? . . . Was it in a field
hospital ? No ? ... At Montigny ? . . .
When ? . . .

I answer simply. I held up the leg myself
without any help. The wound was washed
with benzine. This on the burns made by the

87

88 IN GERMAN HANDS

iodine is hideously painful. The forceps probe
the flesh. Another doctor comes. The opera-
tor speaks to him, but I do not understand
what they say. The older man, however,
seems to shrug his shoulders. It is over at
last, and I am in bed again.

Alas ! my mind is confused. Some vague
danger seems to threaten me. But I was
cured, the wound seemed to be healing. There
was no more suppuration. Why and how did
I get this wound, much larger than the former
one ? The doctor said they were only going
to shorten the bone. So why are there these
fragments of bone, and these splinters in the
flesh ? Suddenly, I am afraid to understand.
. . . Forgotten details come back to my
memory ; he would not operate, and kept on
putting off. I remember his rage when the
Director caused the intervention of the head
doctor about November 15. And the sinister
words : " Why are you in such a hurry ?
You are foolish."

An accusation rises in my mind, clear and
precise. Why was not the surgeon present
at the moment of the operation ? . . . Im-
prudence ? Ignorance ? Oh, a Prussian
doctor never makes a mistake ! Then,
then . . . What am I to think ? Deli-
berate cruelty ? A desire to strike through

CRUEL HOURS 89

the helpless flesh at the " unconquerable
soul " ?

I know not. The man was capable of this,
since he is a German. He has but the con-
science left him by a narrow education in
abnormal surroundings.

December 7. — I have read over the preceding
lines carefully, and I can retract nothing. At
the same time, I am filled with wonder at the
coincidence which removed me from the hands
of the criminal when my life was endangered
by mutilation. How would he have treated
me subsequently ?

God is good. God is great and merciful ;
and His ways are inscrutable.

December 12. — I am still in great pain. But
the fever is abating. The wound was dressed
again this morning. I guessed rightly. The
bone was broken off rather than sawed.

December 14. — We have as doctors a youth-
ful student, Herr K. . . ., and a senior, not
very much older, Doctor W. . . . He appears
very indifferent. The former is more sym-
pathetic. He seems dissatisfied with the
state of my wound. " We shall see what
happens in a day or two," he says. Am I in
danger, then ? I cannot sleep.

December 15. — With the exception of two or
three wards, originally the dormitories of this

90 IN GERMAN HANDS

important seminary, San Klemens is dark,
gloomy, dirty, and smoke-grimed. My ward
especially, with its dozen beds, is very low.
Its windows look out on a distant corner of a
street, and on a small courtyard. To the
right of my bed — I occupy the second, at the
end of the room — there is another window,
looking on to some old houses. It is all very
dark. But some big branches rise from the
courtyard opposite; an old chestnut -tree
grows there. It stretches out bare arms under
a veil of snow, and attracts my eyes on moon-
light nights !

December 16. — Cruel, revolting scene. In
one of the adjoining wards, M. . . ., a
charming fellow, a Southerner, whose leg had
been amputated like mine, was being brought
back after having his wound dressed. The
two orderlies who were carrying him shook
the stretcher roughly. They raced like lunatics
through the passages, and the unhappy patient
begged them to be careful. His operation was
quite recent, and he dreaded haemorrhage.
But the orderlies paid no attention to what
he said. They tossed the limp, mutilated body
higher still, a living, suffering ball.

And they pursue this method systematically,
and soon apply it on a large scale, regardless of
any one. The dressing hour becomes an ob-

CRUEL HOURS 91

session, a haunting dread of the cruel moment
to be endured.

December 17. — Still no letters. We are only
allowed to write once a week here. But
Doctor Orth is still in power. Our families
will not have our new address for fifteen or
twenty days. Until then, our mails will
arrive at Montigny — and remain there ! There
has been no distribution of letters for nearly
twenty days.

My fever is abating. But not my sufferings.

December 18. — Chloroformed to-day. The
doctor says I am out of danger.

But it will be necessary to cut the bone
again.

No, thank you, Herr K. . . . I appreciate
the honour, I assure you. But twice is
enough.

December 19. — Again they urged me to sub-
mit to another operation. I answered : " In
France." For, in fact, there is talk of a
possible interchange of prisoners who have
lost a limb, and of the unfit in general. All
the belligerents are to be approached by
Switzerland. Germany has consented.

The prospect excites us. But it is too good
to be true, and none of us reckon upon it.
However, a list was drawn up yesterday, and
my name was on it.

92 IN GERMAN HANDS

December 20. — We get no news at all. True,
I occasionally read the German papers. The
vile publication already mentioned — Gazette de
Lorraine — is now permitted. But we are all
very suspicious of it. Knowing that it is the
habit of the German jailers to flood hospitals
and camps with depressing news, we are all
silent.

In vain does the chaplain whisper ambig-
uous words in our ears ; no one encourages
him to talk.. Besides, he is not a native of
Lorraine. He is a pure German, a former
missionary in the Congo. His eyes are
screened by the eternal spectacles. He wears
the classic costume : the black frock-coat —
" a world too wide " for him. One of his
visits to our ward is highly amusing. He
pads softly towards a bed :

"Well! . . . Well! . . . Getting on all
right ? "

Then he laughs ; a strange laugh, at once
distinct and smothered. The same perform-
ance takes place at each bed. Not one word
of true feeling. Nothing that comes from the
heart, or reminds these suffering souls of God.
Not the faintest exhortation to prayer. Now
Christmas is close at hand. Who will confess,
communicate, fulfil his duties as a Christian,
if he invites no one to confide the task to

CRUEL HOURS 93

him ? But he is blind and deaf ; and always
that irritating laugh.

All the wounded have taken a dislike to
him. His rare phrases are so strange, there is
something so unexpected about them, that
many imagine him to be more dangerous than
he is ; they think he has been put among us
to feign stupidity, and carry tales of what we
have said to him. I thought this at first.
But this was going too far. He is natural ; he
is himself. He suggests a disquieting view of
German religion. On Sundays, this calm and
peaceable person preaches the thrice holy
war against the invader (!). He makes use of
terrible phrases justifying massacre, and re-
presenting Germany, gentle as a lamb, at
grips with the barbarians (!), the accursed
violators of German liberty, its impure de-
stroyers.

And this is more than enough to excuse what
I have written. Far be it from me to insult
the majesty of Faith. The priest is sacred
to me. I am too sincere a Christian not to
respect every form of belief. But those I have
just mentioned will have no right to the
noble name of God's servants until their acts,
their words, and their gestures no longer con-
tradict the sublime precepts of Him they dare
to invoke.

94 IN GERMAN HANDS

December 23. — A few lines in the news-
papers betray the uneasiness of the German
Government at Russian advances. Austria
seems helpless, and certain discreet reproaches
are interwoven with proposals to send re-
inforcements to the brave ally, who appears
to be in great difficulties.

I have told the news to my comrades.
Their joy is great, not to say exuberant. All
are full of confidence in our final success.

December 25. — Christmas Day, cold and
foggy. The Germans are in great spirits.
According to them, their troops have had
some slight successes in East Prussia. They
celebrate these by drinking brandy.

The hospital is silent. Save the sentries on
guard and the orderlies on duty, there are no
Germans in the wards. The former stay in
the courts, and the latter merely look in every
now and then, and go off again to forgather
in their room. Hence there is a general sense
of ease among us. Convalescents come in to
pay us a visit. Friends who had been sepa-
rated in the charge meet again. Similar
questions and answers are exchanged :

" Where did you fall ? "

" Near the hedge, at the end of the field."

" Were you brought in at once ? "

" Oh ! well . . . not for nine days."

CRUEL HOURS 95

It is a solemn sight ! . . . Smooth-faced
lads and bearded men, they defile before me,
the few survivors of the fights that took
place in August and the early days of Septem-
ber. Falling in the Prussian lines, trampled
under foot by the hostile hordes, left on the
field for dead by patrols, witnesses of cruelties
unspeakable, they escaped as by a miracle
from the fate of so many brave men. Nearly
all of them have lost a limb ; one his right
arm, the majority a leg ; two are blind.
They speak calmly, however. We can guess
what they have suffered, but they do not talk
of it. Are they very unhappy ? I suppose
so, but it would be idle to ask them. They
will bear their sorrowful captivity without com-
plaining ; they will be brave and serious as
on the days of attack, and later, here, in the
hands of the German torturers. And the
sight of them warms my heart and rejoices
my eyes. This was my first contact with
the diverse and fluctuating crowd of French
prisoners. Not having been able to leave my
ward, I have only seen them on the days when
my wound was dressed, and I was carried on
my stretcher into their larger and lighter
wards. They had struck me as taciturn and
rather depressed. This grieved me, I must
confess, and made me anxious to get well soon,

96 IN GERMAN HANDS

and mingle with the quiet groups, to revive
their flagging faith, the marvellous and sublime
faith in final victory after all their trials. I
was wrong, it seems. And I rejoice greatly.

O France, all blessings on thee ! Thy sons
are heroes who are not cast down by suffering.
They are ennobled by it.

... A Christmas-tree has been lighted up
in the room above us. Our meal was meagre,
but the head doctor had ordered a cake in
addition. I think of past Christmas Days, of
my early childhood. I think of recent ones,
spent with my beloved wife. I muse over
those of the future. When will all peoples,
those of our France, those of Russia and of
England, the valiant nation of Belgium, aye,
and even the purified people of Germany, be
able to greet the advent of a reign of concord,
peace and justice, with cries of joy ? When
will the mediaeval cry that hailed the passage
of kings ring out among the crowd to greet
the final and decisive victory of Right ?
Noel ! Noel ! Noel !

Doctor W. . . . pays us a visit. He is so
drunk this Christmas night that he can scarcely
stand. Deutschland uber Alles has j ust been yelled
below, and the sound of the organ rises from
the chapel close by. This makes him merry.

" The Frenchmen are to sing. They must

CRUEL HOURS 97

take part in the German festival. They must.
I insist upon it."

So some of the Frenchmen sing Minuit,
Chretiens, and Noel des Gueux. Then a light
tenor took up an air from Carmen. My
barbarian is enchanted.

He remains in the ward till very late in the
night. Herr K. . . . joins him. These two
representatives of the body of German officers
at last make up their minds to depart, support-
ing each other. They stagger away, slamming
the heavy doors after them. And the great
peace of night descends on the hospital.

We talk a good while longer.

December 27. — I hope to get up soon. This
dull inaction is very trying to me. In four
or five weeks, says Doctor W. . . . He does
not seem very sure. Indeed, my wound is
not going on very well. The man at Montigny
may be proud of his work. Every five or
six days, splinters as thick as one's little
finger are taken from the wound. And in
vain does it close up ; it has to be constantly
reopened.

December 29. — A new comrade was brought
in to us the other night. I am told he is the
son of an important French official in the
Finance Department. The poor fellow is
dreadfully injured. When we left Montigny,

98 IN GERMAN HANDS

he seemed to be in a critical state ; they were
unable to bring him away with us. The wound
in his thigh has not improved at all. Lying
motionless in bed, with sheets rolled up, has
caused bed-sores which make his condition
more and more painful. Will it be possible
to save him ? The doctor thinks not.

He is the only one, or nearly the only one,
among us to whom the head doctor has made
the merciful concession of invalid diet. I had a
few minutes' talk with him. He has no hope
of returning to France, of living long enough
to see his family again. His sufferings are a
martyrdom. We have all gone through a
term of fever and insomnia, and of pain which
time gradually alleviates. But for P. ...
each day seems a more painful stage in the
slow ascent of his Calvary.

He cannot sleep. He is delirious most of
the time, and the words that fall from his
lips are at once tragic and childish. They
people the night with visions, phantoms of
those he loves, the figure of the mother he
worshipped, and who died some years ago.
And we look on despairingly at the struggle
between the powers of Life, not yet broken,
and of Death, prowling darkly round its prey.

I have seen many men die suddenly in their
prime from haemorrhage after an operation ;

CRUEL HOURS 99

my eyes have rested on many bloodless faces,
and have met many eyes already veiled by the
cold shade of death ; but I do not think,
even should I live months and years in this
place of suffering, that I shall ever see a face
so full of anguish, revolt, and agitation as that
of poor P. ...

December 30. — A visit from the pastor. He
is a Stadtfifarrer from Berlin, with a deeply
lined, ascetic face. His eyes are restless and
piercing. They have none of that limpidity
which reveals a soul at peace. He speaks
French laboriously, with great difficulty.

He starts at once on the beginning, the pre-
liminaries of the war. According to him
the Belgians are " a small, dishonoured race."
History will prove that they were bent on self-
aggrandisement. Belgium was no longer neu-
tral. She had herself violated her neutrality
by signing ( ?) a defensive treaty with her ally,
England.

It is all very simple. There is no need to
waste words. As to Serbia, apply the same
reasoning, and you will recognize the aggressor.
In this case it was not Great Britain, but
" treacherous Russia " who set the ball rolling.

Germany was pacific. Germany was rich
in the blood of her children and the labour of
their hands. Every day saw her trade and

ioo IN GERMAN HANDS

prosperity increasing. Her financial strength
was growing in proportion. And her people
set an example of industry, of " simple and
poetic manners," of domestic virtue, in short,
of " true patriotism." Well governed at home
and strongly armed against danger from
abroad, her mission was a lofty one. She
desired to give to the world " a new form of
general progress." And she was in a position
to do so, for her race was a young one, pre-
served hitherto from the degeneration cha-
racteristic of Southern races. But the world
would not have it so. As in the case of the
Hebrews of old, it put forth all its strength
in the effort to crush Germany. But Germany
is very strong. She had foreseen this war.
And her victory is already assured. God has
manifested His will to her by blessing the
arms of the two German sovereigns.

H'm. I prick up my ears ! Is he really
talking of the old Francis Joseph ? I find it
very difficult to keep my countenance, but I
scrutinize him in silence. The extraordinary
part of the business is that he is sincere. At
least so it seems. The apparent ingenuousness
is but the eloquent expression of German
pride.

Venturing next into the paths of the future,
the prophet is less confident, but he enu-

CRUEL HOURS 101

merates all the factors that will make for
German victory :

" The victory of Germany will mean eternal
peace. No one will draw the sword after
that. From our extended frontiers we shall
dictate our orders to London and Paris. And
the nations will work ; they will live in peace.
We shall give them the necessary calm and
repose. We shall watch over them."

Oh ! shade of Bismarck watching over the
peace of Europe, standing by the sepulchre
where his victims sleep !

I remark quietly that things may perhaps
turn out differently. In this case, a German
defeat. . . . His arms raised heavenwards
with an imploring gesture, his eyes wide with
stupefaction, the Pfarrer replies :

" That could not dare to be possible."

Germany vanquished ? . . . Yes. God
sometimes dares. . . .

Then he begins to laugh. He protests that
I don't mean what I say. I, a soldier, must
be well aware that we are lost.

" Continued resistance is pure madness.
German strength is supreme."

There is a God, of course ; but the Pfarrer
does not speak of Him. He is indifferent to the
fact that I am mutilated, lying on a bed of
pain. The consolations of faith are not

102 IN GERMAN HANDS

essential. The main thing is to convince me of
German strength and German genius.

But I have my revenge. He knew nothing
of the Marne, of the brilliant victory gained
by our troops, of the thousands of Prussians
who are sleeping on the plain. Not to be
behindhand, I say sixty thousand, and among
them several thousands of the Prussian Guard
who fell in the marshes of Saint-Gond. My
man is startled. I set forth the heavy retreat
of their troops after this battle, their present
immobility, the complete failure of their
sudden attack. I speak of time, of the inter-
ventions that may be expected, of Italy
bestirring herself, of Francophile Rumania.
The Pfarrer no longer laughs. He suddenly
asks this vast question :

" What, according to you, would be the
conditions of peace dictated to Germany, if
she should be beaten ? "

I am well pleased at this. Ah ! Pfarrer, I
will give you something to think of now.
Did you not say that you would want Calais
and Dunkirk as ports from which to crush the
English. And did you not add :

" Belfort, Toul, Verdun, and Maubeuge will
remain in our hands, to ensure the frontier
against attack in the future."

And not satisfied with this, did you not speak

CRUEL HOURS 103

of a tremendous indemnity, which would
subject French finance to your control for
the next two hundred years ?

My voice becomes very serious. The Pf arrer,
listening attentively, bends over my bed :

" Our conditions, monsieur ? The mildest
of them would mean the end of Germany.
But listen : the formal destruction of your
national unity ; a return to the state of
things Bismarck upset. No more Krupp at
Essen : his factories razed to the ground.
No more war budget ; for each State will
contribute to the formidable indemnity : West-
phalia with its mines, all the other States
according to their resources, and for centuries
to come, if necessary. No more German
army. The Kaiser and his family rooted out
of Prussia. Territorial losses : Alsace-Lor-
raine for us, and the left bank of the Rhine.
German Limburg given to Belgium. Your
ships to be given up to England, Kiel an Eng-
lish port, or perhaps destroyed. Your fleet,
which will probably be intact at the end of the
war, as it keeps safely in harbour, will be
divided between us. Austria dismembered :
Russia to take what she chooses. Hungary
a kingdom ; Poland a kingdom ; Serbia
extended ; the Trentino and Trieste given
to the Italians. Constantinople, an open

104 IN GERMAN HANDS

city, administered by us. Is this enough
for you ? "

" Not a bit of it ! Besides, we shall conquer.
I am convinced of it. I believe it firmly."

He has risen to go. I look at him again.

" But do you not believe, monsieur, that
there is One above us who can dispose of
men and of nations as He will ? Above our
justice, that of France or that of Germany,
is there not a larger justice, Justice in the
abstract ? "

" Yes, that of our God."

I had spoken quietly and calmly, without
affectation. The answer was brutal, trenchant
as a sword. And it is elaborated thus :

" God is not with you. The God of Ger-
many will bless her armies."

He bows frigidly. The visit is over. My
man goes off in haste. And I remain alone
and pensive.

Who knew anything of German men-
tality ? Had its characteristics ever been
defined in our books ? Was it deliberately
concealed ? It is before me now, and it is
a disturbing thing. The glimpse I have had
of it this evening opens a truer perspective
before me. How far we have travelled from
Goethe ! Did Madame de Stae'l dream her
Germany ? 1815 seems remote indeed ! The

CRUEL HOURS 105

German of those days was described as simple.
Intercourse with him was facilitated by his
amiable qualities. Times have changed. Ger-
many has mated her tender soul with a
ferocious materialism, and we see the children
of this union. The German of to-day is a
dual being, infinitely complex. There is a
loss of equilibrium as between his still poetic
heart and his Nietzschean brain.

January I, 1915. — A French aeroplane has
flown over the town. I saw it perfectly from
my bed. All the guns were firing. It hovered
very high in the air, dropped a few bombs,
and went off sedately. It was barely eight
o'clock. And we feel cheered. It brought
us something of a greeting from our native
soil, its children and its things.

Vive, vive la France, this New Year's Day !
God give her victory, keep and bless our
dear ones ! This is the wish of our hearts.

January 3. — As to German mentality : I
sound one or two of the orderlies. They are
men of the people ; one is a carpenter of
Lorraine ; a second is a sailor ; a third an
assistant in a Munich shop. The last two
are Bavarians ; they are of mediocre intelli-
gence, save perhaps the second. They are
weary of the war, but they will not allow this.
I try them on this ground.

106 IN GERMAN HANDS

" Do you think the end of this terrible war
is in sight ? "

" Yes, when our chiefs choose," the sailor
answered.

The Lorrain adds at once :

" Never mind. We did not want the war.
You ought to stop first."

" ReaUy ? ... But how ? "

" By confessing that you are beaten."

" France," explains the shopman, " would
get better terms if she gave in now."

I expected that ; there spoke the tradesman.
He starts off at once on a long speech, punc-
tuated by nicht wahr's. Germany is invincible,
sure of victory. I catch a phrase here and
there, for he speaks too fast for me. The
Russians are poor soldiers. The English,
pirates. We, the French, are not much to be
feared ; we are too highly strung, not well
disciplined ; we shall be tired out the first.
It is no use talking to him about the Marne.

" Yes, I know," he replies at once, " you
said that before. But we don't believe it,
for the German army could not be defeated.
If it retreated, it was for strategic reasons."

This is the true German ! Facts are nothing
to him. He writes his history for himself.
And what he records, even in defeat, though
he does not use that word, is his faith in his

CRUEL HOURS 107

aims ; not what he has done, or has been
unable to do, but what he will inevitably do
to-morrow. . . . The same reasoning is ap-
plied to the German atrocities, on which I
touch discreetly. They do not deny these.
" War is war," says the carpenter ; and the
sailor concludes :

" You don't think that war can be made
without killing people ? Fighting is killing.
And killing is a useful work. It will be as it
was in China. You will remember longer."

January 7. — We have a new corporal. The
other did his arduous work quietly. The new
one is unspeakable. He walks about swaying
his hips, with a dreamy meditative air. He is
said to be a writer. Perhaps he is a poet.
We took a dislike to each other on the very
second day. He kept on coming into the
ward with a paper in his hand, proclaiming
imaginary victories.

" A thousand Frenchmen kaput ; eight
machine guns taken. Enormous, colossal
losses."

This morning I was so much irritated that I
asked him coldly how many men the Germans
had lost in carrying out this operation.
" Kein Verlust " (" No losses ") was his reply. I
began to laugh, and my friends echoed me. The
German flew into a rage. Curses and insults.

io8 IN GERMAN HANDS

I shrugged my shoulders and reproached
the brute with his lack of delicacy. We are
French wounded, not prisoners. Not one of us
surrendered without fighting. It was due to
the helplessness caused by our serious wounds
that we were now the unhappy and involun-
tary guests of a hostile country. Therefore,
if he did not respect us, I should complain.
It was no part of his duty to bring us news.
It was his duty to tend us ; ours was to be
silent, to love France mutely, to love her
even were she unfortunate and crushed,
which she is not yet, and cannot be.

He went out in a fury, his boots resounding
on the polished floor. He is an educated man,
it seems, a large landowner in the Rhine
district.

January 12. — A German Sister. Her name :
Erizia. Her community : a Krankenhaus
(hospital) of some kind a long way off in West-
phalia. Her domicile : San Klemens. It is
she who nurses us. We would willingly dis-
pense with her attentions. Physically, small.

Her face is oval, fairly regular, almost
pretty. When she is reading her eyes are
calm and grave. Sister Erizia can smile,
though not, of course, on the French, and her
smile is sweet. It contradicts the cold cruelty
of her little hands. When she is dressing a

CRUEL HOURS 109

wound, it is useless to cry out. C. . . . could
tell you all about it. She tortures him as
she chooses.

If perchance you dread the cold of the
January mornings, being thinly covered ; if
you are shivering in your bed, Sister Erizia
is a ministering angel ! She opens all the
doors and windows, setting up a current of icy
air. And woe to him who complains ! Hey
mouth is like a machine-gun. She rushes
at you, seizes all your wrappings, your
sheets, and your blanket, and leaves you
naked as a worm.

Christian charity, forgiveness and forgetful-
ness of offences are certainly not her strong
points. Some patient may perchance have
infringed the Teuton regulations in some
trivial particular. Sister Erizia makes ready.
She is immanent Justice, cold, sure, and im-
placable. Her grey silhouette is seen waiting
in the passage. She catches the doctor as
he passes, and the machine-gun unrolls its
deadly belt. Good heavens, what a fusillade !

Perhaps you got up this morning. You
feel very weak, and you sit down on the
edge of your bed. She rushes over to you :
" Schweinereien I Schweinereien ! " This word is
addressed to the French. Her small hands seize
you, take you by the shoulders, and roll you

i io IN GERMAN HANDS

pitilessly to the ground. " Nicht liegen"
("You are not to lie down.") You must either
stay in bed all day or sit up all day. What do
complications or haemorrhages matter to Sister
Erizia ? Has she not two broken legs upon her
tender conscience already and I know not how
many relapses ?

The soul of Erizia does not suffer for
this, that virgin soul she offers with her
prayers to the German God of Love. She
serves her country without doing disservice to
God. Did she not declare, on one mournful
evening recently, that God had appointed
Germany to chastise France, to destroy once
for all that nest of impiety, vice, and al-
coholism. Her two hands were clasped upon
her thin breast. Her eyes smiled up at the
" Great Ally " in Heaven. I felt as lonely as a
shipwrecked man.

Sister Erizia is exquisite. She shows us
some really touching attentions. She always
chooses the time when we are at our meals
to empty certain necessary utensils and carry
them backwards and forwards through the
ward.

January 16. — The German papers publish
long articles on the battle of Soissons. I was
careful to say nothing about it. The official
lines seem to confirm the news. The Ger-

CRUEL HOURS in

mans, however, confess that our troops fought
with the utmost bravery. The German suc-
cess, if success it be, was apparently due to the
overflowing of some deep river, which ham-
pered the French very much. They praise
our artillery warmly, and then give an estimate
of our losses. I discount the figures. It is
always prudent to do this with the Germans.

January 18. — A tiresome business. I am
put on a diet of broth for three days.

This morning the orderly who distributes
the bread did not give me a portion as he
usually does. The corporal's order. I said
laughingly, but without arguing the point :

" Am I to die of hunger ? "

I thought no more about it, but when
Doctor W. . . . made his round he came up
to me in a rage :

" You find fault with our food ? . . . .
You say we starve the French prisoners ?
That is very unjust, monsieur."

My bewilderment ought to have turned away
his wrath. But one is not a Boche for nothing.

" You have a right to love your country,
even when you are in our hands. But we
cannot allow you to find fault with our food,
with the German bread, monsieur."

I have at last regained the use of my voice.
I try to explain matters, but in vain.

ii2 IN GERMAN HANDS

" You will be punished. Silence ! I know
you do not love Germany. But I did not
think it was so bad as this. Three days of thin
bouillon, and you will have a further punish-
ment. No one must dare to praise France
and speak ill of Germany here. If you forget
this again, you will go to prison. You will
be watched from this day forth."

He goes off, straight and stiff, followed by
the corporal. The triumphant glance of the
latter enlightens me. I remember. He was at
the door this morning at 8 o'clock. He must
have heard my remark. It was innocent
enough, and only referred to myself. He
twisted it, making it aggressive because
general, and repeated it to the doctor.

'January 20. — Zeppelins over England. The
bells were rung in honour of the news. All the
Germans are enchanted. I asked the orderlies
how many ships had been destroyed. They
looked at me, open-mouthed.

Just as I thought ! They killed a few
civilians, murdered a few women, perhaps
destroyed a few houses. And they call that a
great victory !

As to the military result they care nothing,
that this was quite unimportant. Their object
was to terrorize, to frighten the English. I
do not think that they will succeed.

CRUEL HOURS 113

January 25. — I got up for the first time. I
said nothing about it to the doctor, for since
our last encounter he never speaks to me, and
pretends not to see me. So I put on my
clothes, and then, hopping on one foot, I
took a walk in the small ward, resting my
hands on the beds. I did not suffer overmuch,
and got back to my own bed after a few
minutes.

To-morrow I will try to walk with crutches.

January 26. — To-day they admit the loss
of the Bliicher. But all the newspapers
write of it with fury. They talk of a surprise,
almost of treachery. It is curious how every
fight in which they get the worst of it seems
to the Germans something abnormal and
irregular.

January 27. — The Emperor's birthday. The
orderlies were drunk almost at cock-crow.
The bells seem to share their intoxication.
They have been clanging in every tower since
daybreak. The chaplain exhorts us all to
pray for " the speedy peace of the Emperor."

To the devil with that peace ! I remark
irreverently upon the orgy of bell-ringing
which has distinguished this festival from
that of Christmas. The bells were very
eloquent on that day, but not to this
extent.

ii4 IN GERMAN HANDS

" The Kaiser seems to be held in greater
reverence here than the Messiah."

He laughs foolishly. Then his pale lips utter
the Latin words : " Pbilosophia humana ! "

He might have added : germanica.

January 30. — The days pass, and each one
is like the last. I get up a little every day.
I go into the corridor, tapping with my
crutches. I suffer less ; but I cannot sleep
at night.

What joy and what sadness in this simple
action of walking ! Sadness, for it recalls the
past, my active, joyous strength, my long
tramps in the woods and along shady river-
banks. And yet joy too, for everything is
new to the sight and rejoices the heart after
such sufferings. Adversity gives a new
heart.

"January 3 1 . — Le bedit gommerce allemand !
(German petty trade.) We know all about
that. We pay high prices for our tobacco
and cigarette papers. Our orderlies make
large profits. Now the Inspector himself, a
schoolmaster from Les Sablons, and the
Interpreter, who holds the rank of a lieutenant,
begin to imitate them. They come into the
wards.

" Who wants to buy anything ? We can
provide woollen articles at very moderate

CRUEL HOURS 115

prices : knitted helmets, waistcoats, socks, vests,
flannel waist-belts ; or purses, etc.

Orders are plentiful. The French prisoners
always have too much money. I, for my part,
ask for a common purse, in place of the one
stolen from me at Saint-Mihiel, and then for
a pair of braces. My goods are delivered two
days later. The braces are good ; the price
is high : 6 marks 75 pfennige for a very
ordinary article. I ordered them, so I pay.
The exorbitant price of the purse is remarkable :
8 marks 60 pfennige, no less ! The purse is a
nice one, of crushed morocco, with a strong
clasp. But I might have bought five for the
price in any French fancy shop. I say nothing.
I pay. And all the rest is on the same scale.
Common cardigans range from 12 to 25
marks. I note that these were not of pure
wool, but the usual mixture. Our Inspector
doubles the prices. I soon have proof of this :
as the wounded are not allowed to have
more than 3 marks in their possession, they
get the amount of their purchases deducted
from the sums they have in the office. The
accounts are very carelessly kept, and errors
are frequent, but the strange thing is that
they are all to the detriment of the office.
Several of the wounded have the benefit of an
article for which they have paid nothing,

ii6 IN GERMAN HANDS

because it has never been entered against
them. The officials never notice this. Their
profits are so big that the balance is always
greatly in their favour.

I may say a word in passing about these
ingenious persons ; the San Klemens Inter-
preter is a lace-manufacturer ; before the
war he lived in a French town very near
Nancy.

He is a youngish man, from thirty to thirty-
two years old ; a worshipper of everything
Boche, and with a hearty contempt for
France. He speaks French without any
accent, and lived for a long time in Paris.
What is this perfectly healthy individual
doing in a hospital ? Why, taking into
account his rank, and the services he would
be able to render in the French towns occupied
by the German hordes, was he not sent to the
front ? . . .

Various indiscretions threw light upon this
point. Many German manufacturers domi-
ciled in France have rendered immense services
of a special kind to the German Government.
In other words, they were spies. As soon as war
was declared, the majority,who had been warned
beforehand, joined the German troops massed
on the frontier. * But, by virtue of an order
given by the powers, the significance of which

CRUEL HOURS 117

I shall point out presently, nearly all of them
were kept in the medical formations, in the
offices of the garrison or the Kommandantury
or employed in railway stations and concen-
tration camps. The German Government
thought it worth while to keep them at home
and preserve them from danger. It thus
repays their ante-bellum services in kind, and
keeps at its disposal adroit and active agents,
who will be in a position to resume their
special activities immediately after the con-
clusion of peace. I know from a trustworthy
source that there are thousands of Germans
thus held in reserve, a veritable militia of
spies and traders, who are only waiting for
this to return to France, furnished with
authentic papers obtained from foreign
Governments,* of course in neutral countries,
with the object of showing them to be, not
Germans, but peaceful traders, compelled
by the war to return for a time to their own

* Certain neutrals, whose affection for France is above
suspicion, have called my attention to the fact that this word
authentic might be taken in too narrow a sense. It is hardly
necessary to say that I do not suggest that any foreign
Government would favour such manoeuvres. The adjective
used merely means ostensibly authentic, but in reality either
forged or (let us hope only in rare cases) obtained by fraud
or cunning. I may add that it will be easy to make such
operations impossible, if we choose, and this for the greater
security of France and the tranquillity of genuine neutrals,
who might be justly offended by indiscriminate suspicion.

ii8 IN GERMAN HANDS

country, where they have merely been await-
ing the end of a campaign that had paralysed
their trade.

It must be our business to be on the alert,
and drive out this vermin when the moment
comes.

Februry 3. — I am now able to go to the
smoking-room. The time passes more quickly.
The French wounded who can get up have an
irksome task assigned them ; they have to
peel the large quantities of worm-eaten and
rotten potatoes daily provided for consump-
tion in the hospital. I said irksome, but
delicate would be a better word, for it is a
difficult business. Our knives, which are
rounded at the ends, are ill adapted to the
task, so the parings are very thick. The
orderlies are furious at this, and the head
doctor intervenes. The Schweinehund's (pig-
dogs) of his exhortations fall thick and fast
upon us.

" They must be made to eat all these
parings. If it is like this to-morrow, they shall
have all this pig-food themselves. You can
tell them so."

He addresses me. So I translate faith-
fully.

Februry 4. — Henceforth we are only to
write home once a week, one card at a time,

CRUEL HOURS 119

and two letters, one on the I5th and one on the
3oth of the month. However, we do get our
parcels here. It is not as it was at Montigny.
But they are not very often intact : sausage,
for instance, the good country sausage the
very thought of which makes our mouths
water, is always confiscated. Why ? Because
sausage-meat would be too heavy for our
invalid stomachs ! In spite of the fact that
we have it every night ! But what we get, it
is true, is of German manufacture. Potted
meat and biscuits reach us, but we have to
pay toll. The distributor of the parcels
nearly always abstracts here a tin of pickled
tunny, there a terrine of foie gras, and else-
where some packets of tobacco.

As to tobacco, we are no longer allowed to
buy this in the town, as we used to do. The
German Government's stores are running
short. It therefore reserves its cigars, tobacco,
and cigarettes for the German troops. We
have to get ours from home.

It is a cruel regulation ; but our orderlies
have their little weaknesses. They are very
commercial. By paying a little more, 50
pfennige, for instance, for a packet of tobacco
that costs them 18, and 35 pfennige for ciga-
rette-papers worth 5, we can get all we want.
Business is business.

120 IN GERMAN- HANDS

February 6. — A Lorrain tells me that bread
is very dear. " The bakeries are subject to
special laws. They must only sell bread on
presentation of a family card. Each adult
has a right to 150 grammes daily. This is a
maximum subject to modification. Various
substances compose this bread ; potatoes
chiefly, either pulped or as flour, bran, and
other kinds of meal. The stock of rye is
dwindling. And it is a long time till harvest."
There is no question of famine. Here the
potatoes come in again. " We have a great
stock of these valuable tubers. The Emperor
himself eats them. Bread, or at least fancy
bread, is banished from his table."

He then shows me the menu of one of the
Imperial meals, which appeared in a Berlin
newspaper : rice and barley soup, boiled
potatoes, tinned meat with carrots, preserved
fruits, army bread.

But may not the supply of potatoes give
out ? Within the last few days the Lothringer
Zeitung urged all pig-breeders to kill one-third
of their animals to obviate the necessity of
feeding them with potatoes. And the article
foreshadowed special legislation should this
appeal prove fruitless.

February 8. — Since my punishment the
corporal avoids me, and the doctor does not

CRUEL HOURS 121

speak to me. The chaplain, however, comes
sometimes. He tells me of Hindenburg's
victories over the Russians. " The victor of
Tannenberg," " the soldier-liberator " seems
to be the idol of the day. His bulldog face
appears on boxes, letter-paper, cigars, and
penholders.

February 9. — There seems to be a relative
calm before Pont-a-Mousson, though the can-
nonade still continues. Saint-Blaise and
Verny, the Metz forts nearest to this point,
have suffered a good deal, they tell me, from
our artillery. One of them is almost destroyed.
Airships too, taking advantage of the clear
weather, often come over the town. The
field of Frescaty, where the Boche air-fleet is
housed, receives plenty of bombs ; other
favoured spots are the railway station and
the Prussian barracks. There are many vic-
tims, but the numbers are kept secret.

February 10. — I am again on a broth diet.
I am getting used to it now ! This time my
offence was serious.

A few fowls and two ducks live in the yard
under our window on the right. This morn-
ing I had a dry crust in my locker, for I had
refrained from solid food for a couple of days,
on account of intestinal troubles, and I
crumbled it for the birds. The corporal saw

122 IN GERMAN HANDS

me. Serenade and orchestra ! Reported
forthwith to the doctor, who came into the
ward like a whirlwind.

" It is all very well to love one's country."
For the second time this is the refrain. Doc-
tor W. ... is not very inventive. " But to
make war in this manner ! It is a crime,
monsieur. To despise and throw away the
bread of Germany ! To diminish the stock
of bread without reason ! If you had not
lost a limb, you should go to prison. I will
tell the head doctor."

Meanwhile, " white broth." And here I
remember that I did not note above the con-
stituents of this mixture. It is a soup made
of bran, with a few grains of barley, and no fat
apparently, bearing but a very faint likeness
to any eatable soup. A bowl of this morning
and evening. Nothing else. No bread, no
vegetables, and, of course, no meat. After a
few days of this diet, the patient is calm and
light, and fit for a journey.

I am condemned to it for four days. But
the good doctor reassures me.

" You will have some more before your
punishment is over."

He means more days. The corporal laughs
loudly. And I imitate him. Should I pro-
test, or show signs of suffering, they would be

CRUEL HOURS 123

delighted, and I will not give them this satis-
faction. So hurrah for " white broth " ! Every
German punishment is an honour for a French
prisoner. And the more absurd it is, the
prouder it makes one to undergo it.

February 12. — Germany has decreed the
blockade of the English coast for February 18.
The newspapers exult and Von Tirpitz is
exalted to the skies. After the appointed date
all vessels, even those of neutrals, whether
carrying contraband of war or not, will be
torpedoed without mercy. The submarines
are already at their posts. The anger of
neutrals and the protests of New York alike
leave Germany unmoved. A frenzy of de-
struction seems to have laid hold of this
people. And what a joy for them, to find
themselves surrounded by enemies, execrated
and vilified, to see all Europe arrayed against
them!

February 13. — A truly German scene. The
sergeant-major on duty is drilling two men.
One is our former corporal, the other a cor-
poral who acts as dresser to the doctor. These
two men make the half turn, march in step,
and come back. And the Feldwebel insults
them : " Schweinehund ! Sckweinehund ! " I
thought this epithet was reserved for the
French. When one of the sufferers comes

124 IN GERMAN HANDS

within range, the sergeant-major applies his
boot to his back, or drives his hairy fist into a
somewhat pale face. It is a revolting sight.

It appears that the two corporals came in
drunk, and in consequence late, last night.

February 14. — I am in the dressing ward. I
have unrolled my bandage. Doctor W. . . .
looks at me askance. The affair of the ducks
and the bread is still upon his mind. He is
still very angry. A German, we know, takes
forty-eight hours to consider a problem. My
wound is almost closed. The flesh, which has
shrunk very much, looks healthy and red. It
no longer suppurates.

The doctor signs to me. I climb upon the
table. He takes his forceps, probes the wound,
makes it bleed, continues ruthlessly. At
intervals he turns to me :

" Well, my patriot, does it hurt ? "

I shake my head, and the operation con-
tinues. He strikes the projecting bone with
his forceps. The pain is atrocious. I grip
the sides of the table. I will not scream and
I feel myself turning pale. He repeats his
question, an evil gleam in his green eyes.

" Does it hurt ? No ? Not yet ? "

I shake my head angrily.

" Yes, I know the French are very coura-
geous. But just let us see."

CRUEL HOURS 125

He takes the flesh in both hands, and brings
the two edges together. Then he presses
with all his strength. I feel a cold sweat
break out over me. I close my eyes suddenly,
to avoid seeing the man. I am afraid of
flinching, of giving way and howling aloud.
The pressure continues ; the scar, which is
broad at the edges, tears presently. The
blood pours over the doctor's hands. He
looks like a butcher. And still he asks :
" Does it hurt ? " I do not answer. I feel a
mad desire to strike at that narrow forehead,
those eyes and that mouth, and to cry aloud
the words that are on my lips : " Coward !
coward ! brute ! " But I keep silence. I
raise myself with a supreme effort, and if
my voice trembles, what I say at least sounds
grave and simple :

" A Frenchman can bear pain when it is
necessary. Was this ? I think not, monsieur.
But God will judge you."

He laughs loud and long, sends for a glass
and pours a few drops into it :

" Drink this brandy. You have been brave."

I reject the glass, quietly but firmly. And
the dressing is completed. Doctor K. . . .
has arrived. He is told what has happened.
It amuses him very much. He adds his con-
tribution :

126 IN GERMAN HANDS

" Necessary or unnecessary, that's our busi-
ness. Anyhow, the Kriegsfreiwilliger (volun-
teer) will remember us, and that's what we
want. You may think yourself lucky to get
off so cheaply. One leg is not much. If it
had depended on me, you would have lost
both."

They carried me back to bed. I could not
walk. I am exhausted and feverish.

February 18. — I have had to stay in bed for
three days. I had a good deal of fever. The
doctor came often. Was he ashamed of his
action ? . . . An orderly who helps in the
dressing ward overheard fragments of a whis-
pered consultation. They want to send me to
a prisoners' camp as soon as I am able to
travel. There is to be an exchange soon, but
I am not to be included in this. Orders are
given that I am to be strictly watched, and
the ultimate sentence is to be pronounced if I
commit the slightest fault.

There is no reason to doubt the orderly's
word. He is a good fellow, gentle to the
patients, quiet, kindly, and helpful. He
seems to have become attached to me. So I
take his hint to heart, and I will be on my
guard.

February 19. — German victories in the Ma-
surian Lakes region. The newspapers are

CRUEL HOURS 127

full of details. They convey no very clear
impression to me, unless it be that the Russians
seem to have been caught at a disadvantage,
and that they will have all their work to do
over again. Very little news from the French
front. The vagueness of the communiques
seems very strange to us. Is it because our
poilus . . . ?

February 20. — The Boche newspapers are
furious. The American Note touching the
blockade and the projected torpedoing of
neutral vessels by German submarines has
filled the cup of their wrath to overflowing.
Yesterday they merely grumbled. To-day
they break out into insults.

The Lothringer Zeitung, for instance, con-
cludes a leading article by these biting lines,
which I translate without the help of a diction-
ary : "America, my dear, since you are for sale,
how much do you want to induce you to cease
sending munitions to the enemy ? When will
you give up furnishing projectiles and pro-
visions to those who are shedding the blood
of our German youth ? "

The Boche is clumsy by nature and by
tradition, but his Press is positively fatuous.

February 21. — There is still talk of an ex-
change, but it is very vague. England, how-
ever, seems to have made a beginning.

128 IN GERMAN HANDS

I am improving daily, but my visits to
the dressing ward upstairs are very rare. I
have determined to dress my leg myself.
The orderly gives me bandages, sterilized
gauze, all that is necessary, in short.

February 26. — I have not written for the
last few days. A rigorous search has been
going on. Some German soldiers who were
taken prisoners in France have been sentenced
by court-martial to several years' imprison-
ment. French gold and jewels were found
upon them. The Germans are furious. The
Press is howling. Reprisals are in progress.

A booted inspector, assisted by two soldiers,
ransacked our lockers, clothes, and papers,
without much result. However, an old mark
was found in a purse. This mark was twisted
and defaced as by a blow. This was quite
enough to suggest that the mark had been
taken from some wounded German by one of
our men. A bullet must have struck it.
Hence a report and an inquiry.

The Kommandantur was not quite so im-
becile. They must have concluded that when
such an argument bears the German stamp, it
is not enough to justify the condemnation
of a wounded Frenchman, the proof being over
fragile. The mark was confiscated, and no
more was heard of the matter.

CRUEL HOURS 129

Nevertheless the search endangered my
papers. I had to make up my mind to destroy
a few very severe pages here and there, noting
the dates and keeping a brief summary. I
shall be able to restore them from memory
later on.

February 27. — A table of the food. First,
the German bread ; I have mentioned this
already. When fresh it is eatable. But as a
result of the admixture of potatoes, as soon
as it is two days old, it ferments, and then it
has a horrible taste. We get 200 grammes a
day, sometimes more, sometimes less. It is not
black bread, the Kriegsbrot, as yet. But we
are promised this in March or April.

The cafe au lait is passable. Of course it is
not coffee. It is some kind of a mixture
which looks rather like the water of our
rivers when they have been stirred up by a
storm. The orderlies tell us it is made of
roasted acorns. No sugar, naturally.

The midday meal includes a bowl of pota-
toes more or less mashed. There is no fat
with these. A little meat floats in the grey
liquid, generally tinned meat. The evening
meal is more meagre : barley soup or hop
soup. It is water in which some crushed
grain has been boiled. It has a slight per-
sistent aroma of mint. The pork-butcher's

1 30 IN GERMAN HANDS

wares complete the meal : a slice of smoked
sausage of very recent manufacture, showing
no affinity to Frankfort sausage ; sometimes
white puddings, which smell very strong,
occasionally brawn, so-called, by which we
must understand a conglomerate of nerves
and lips, skin, and gutta-percha gelatine, very
difficult to masticate. Sometimes a bowl of
tea is substituted for the soup. This is a
treat. It is flavoured with a little brandy,
and has a pleasant, peppery taste. We
prefer it to maggi.

This is the entire menu. I must not, how-
ever, omit to say that once a week we have
lentils or red or white beans instead of pota-
toes ; nor must I forget the dash of vinegar,
the good German vinegar, that forms a part
of all rations and is so pleasant to the delicate
stomachs of the feverish and severely wounded
patients.

February 28. — The material organization of
the hospital is good. The bedding is sufficient.
The mattress is thin and consequently hard,
but it is clean. The service is done by sta-
tions, a station being equivalent to a story.
In ours, three orderlies and a corporal share
the work. The nursing is done by the Sisters.
They are very harsh. I have sketched one
in^these notes. With very few exceptions —

CRUEL HOURS 131

Sister Celesta, for instance, who is kind and
good-tempered — the rest are like her. They
are ruddy Westphalians, with strong biceps
and rough tongues. They need no help to
make a bed. They snatch up a wounded
man, throw him on a stretcher, and reverse
the operation when the bed is ready. It
would be quite useless to complain. These
same Sisters do the dressings in the wards.
The method is always the same : the wound
is washed with benzine, gauze is applied,
then cotton-wool, and over this a linen band-
age. They also give subcutaneous injections
of opium or morphia, and the use they make
of this last drug without the doctor's super-
vision seems to me excessive. Some of the
wounded in my ward have already had over
no injections, one every evening, and very
often another at midnight.

The doctors I have already mentioned com-
plete the staff and control it. They dress the
wounds of the more severely injured patients.
Their work is done in a well-lighted room,
provided with all necessary utensils, and each
" station " has one of its own. The methods
are the same as those of the Sisters : benzine
and oxygenized water ; never any tincture of
iodine, though they have this. Sterilized
gauze or wet dressings are applied, the latter

132 IN GERMAN HANDS

very rarely. When the wound closes, they
dress it with a reddish ointment the name of
which I do not know, or with a yellowish
cream contained in tubes, which they call
Borsalb (boracic ointment). I may note that
all the non-amputated wounded legs look
very horrible. The bones have crossed, caus-
ing a shortening of several centimetres. If
we add to these the daily experiments tried by
the doctors, grafting of flesh or sutures of
nerves — never successful indeed, our doctors
being young and inexperienced — we shall
have duly noted all the attentions here
bestowed on the wounded prisoners.

But I must not forget to describe a new
process, probably unknown to our French
doctors. Say your leg is too short and there
is reason to fear contraction, shrinkage of the
nerves. In such a case, our young doctors
— I saw this done twice myself under Doctor
W. . . . — bore a hole through the knee or
the heel. Into this hole they insert one of
those large square wooden pins with thick
heads used by carpenters. It measures from
12 to 15 centimetres, so it protrudes at either
end. A strong cord is fixed to the extremities.
This cord is passed over a pulley fixed to a
plank fastened at the foot of the bed, and
supports a weight varying from 15 to 30

CRUEL HOURS 133

pounds. The weight exercises a continuous
and very trying tension on the contracted
limb. The pain thus caused is intense.
This makes the doctors laugh. One day this
apparatus was applied to the heel of a patient.
Presently he began to complain. Doctor W. . . .
would not listen to him. Two days passed.
On the morning of the third day the apparatus
gave way. The bag of sand fell to the ground,
dragging with it the dressings. An orderly
came to the rescue. In the bloody bandages
he found the patient's heel, which had been
gradually detached, and finally brutally torn
off.

The wooden pin, however, is still used ;
two wounded men in Ward 93 are undergoing
this torture now as I write.

March 2. — The exchange of crippled soldiers
is to begin to-morrow between France and
Germany. But no one here is much con-
cerned at the news. We know that Constance
is full of wounded soldiers, and that those
who are to return to France are already
within its walls. So we shall not be of the
number.

March 3. — Troops are passing in the street.
In the grey twilight the infantrymen follow
one another closely, tramping heavily on the
pavement. The splendid order of the troops

134 IN GERMAN HANDS

and the much praised alignment of the German
soldiers seems to us to have been exaggerated.
They carry their short, squat Mauser rifles
either on the right or the left shoulder, appa-
rently as they please.

Now they are beginning to sing a hymn.
The music is solemn, powerful, and religious.
The voices which answer each other from
section to section sound cultivated. In the
evening silence the effect is magnificent.
As I listen I forget that these men are soldiers
returning from the trenches, the vulgar sub-
ordinates of a criminal government. I try
to stifle a curious feeling of admiration and
respect. For the music is impressive ; it
reveals a strong and harmonious whole.
There is something grand, severe, and religious
about it, which lingers strangely after the
sounds have passed, as if all the Germany of
the past, with its misty mildness and senti-
mentality, had survived in these songs.

I have forgotten to mention the military
concerts to which we are occasionally treated
by the doctor's orders. Although there are
no German wounded in the hospital an artillery
band, or more frequently that of the Bavarian
infantry, invades our courtyard. Pierrots
dressed in blue, who seem to have borrowed
the brass epaulettes of the Spanish toreros,

CRUEL HOURS 135

deafen us for an hour. The strident notes of
the brazen instruments, the despairing cry of
flutes and fifes, and the explosions of the big
drum make up a confusing whole which
evokes the field of battle and the screech of
shells.

All this is far enough from Bizet, who, it
appears, is much appreciated by German
civilians !

The concluding piece is invariably a mosaic,
in which the national hymns of Austria and
Germany emerge discreetly at intervals.

A rather amusing anecdote will illustrate the
first concert. All the French wounded, who
were assembled in the smoking-room, ap-
plauded the German performers heartily. Are
we not Frenchmen, and ready to acknowledge
a politeness, even on the part of our enemies ?
But the zeal of the audience rather outran its
discretion, for it lavished applause on the
finale mentioned above. It was a sin of
ignorance, to be sure, but the Boches were
enchanted. An Unteroffizier expressed his
pleasure to me :

" Ach ! that's right, they applaud our
war song. The French are really courteous !
They too love Germany, now they have lived
here ! "

I smiled.

136 IN GERMAN HANDS

" Warum ? Are you scoffing ? . . . You
do not think they applauded ? "

" Oh yes, Unteroffizier ; but they did not
knovy they were applauding the famous air
of which you are so proud."

"Acb! ... So! . . ."

He looks at me with widely opened eyes,
and goes off slowly. Presently I noticed him
talking to a group. And two hours later, when
he encountered me in the passage, he admitted
quite frankly :

" Kolossal ! Kolossal ! You were quite
right ! I could not find a single man who
had recognized our song."

His disappointment amuses me. But I do
not really know whether his pride or his
artless belief in the musical hegemony of
Wagner's country suffers most from this
discovery.

March 4. — I am under orders for one of the
camps, so Doctor W. . . . tells me. So I think
the contingent for France must be leaving
soon, and that this must be a manoeuvre to
prevent me from being of the number.

The same day, evening. — Visit from the head
doctor. He became very angry directly he
saw- me : "Nicht! Nicht!" he cried to the
Unteroffizier, and then he spoke of Frank-
reich. I thought he was going to eat him !

CRUEL HOURS 137

Doctor W. . . . will be furious when he finds
that his manoeuvres have failed. Anyhow,
I shall stay here.

March 5. — A few Russians have arrived,
among them the huge infantry Guardsman,
Ch. . . . None of them can understand us,
and none of us can speak Russian, so it is
difficult to find out anything about them. We
discover, however, that they were taken last
winter, and that they had been placed in
German factories. It was here that they fell
ill, or were injured. They are magnificent
fellows, Ch. . . . more especially. He is a
perfect giant, 6 feet 2 tall, or more, and well
proportioned. They suffer very much from
hunger. We give them provisions when we
get our parcels. They have no money and
no tobacco, and they are terrible smokers.
The doctors have been much amused by them
ever since they have been here. It is a
favourite pastime with the former to make the
Russians come into the courtyard or the
passage in the hour devoted to exercise. Then
they say to them : " Nicolas Nicolaievitch,
kaput ? " And my Russians become indig-
nant and vociferous, crying aloud : " Nix
kaput ! Nix kaput ! " (They say nix for
nicht, not). This comical sight delights the
Teutons, who deal out cigars to them.

138 IN GERMAN HANDS

But when he turns his back on them,
Ch. . . . invariably blinks his Oriental eyes,
and comes over to us, murmuring : " Nix
Russ, nix Russ kaput, Guirmann kaput." And
we applaud the sentiment.

March 8. — French airships very often come
over the town. Now that I am more active,
I run to the window when the guns announce
their arrival. And the tiny objects floating
among the clouds, and often lost to our sight,
seem to mock at projectiles. There is a little
white smoke : shrapnel shells bursting. They
are speedily answered. There is a violent
explosion, several times repeated. Bombs fall
one after the other. Then, their mission
accomplished, the airships sail away. Hail,
birds of France !

March 10. — I climb up to the fourth floor
now nearly every day. There are dormer-
windows there which give an extensive view
of the country. The town lies at my feet,
beyond it the dim blue hills. The works on
their summits indicate the forts. Farther off,
the valley is indistinct. A mist hangs over the
silvery river. The town seems dead ; but the
trams are still working. The chimneys of
the factories, however, suggest sleep. There
is not a puff of smoke.

That big building on the right must be a

CRUEL HOURS 139

barrack. A flag floats over it. I see the old
quarters of Metz, black and grey houses,
irregularly built, and short, narrow streets
winding about San Klemens. The cathedral
with its spires rises on the left. Some men
are at work in one of its towers. Our orderlies
have told me that this tower is to do duty
as an observatory in the event of a sudden
hostile advance upon Metz. This was inevi-
table. After Reims, Metz. The argument is
a two-edged sword.

From San Klemens we overlook the whole
of the old seminary with its four courts.
A smaller courtyard behind the chapel seems
to be kept for the hospital service. As I lean
forward, trying nevertheless to avoid notice,
the hearse that carries our dead enters this
court. A large iron gate opens here on to
the street in front of a watchmaker's shop.
The word Concierge, in good French, was
still legible for a time on one of the walls on
the right. But they have now erased it.
Then there is the grand courtyard. Flowers,
shrubs, and evergreens. The chapel, of a
somewhat indeterminate architecture, is
enclosed in the building. And on three sides
there is the street. But this is not distin-
guished by any special animation. Occa-
sionally it re-echoes to the sound of wheels,

140 IN GERMAN HANDS

the tramp of a battalion on its way to
manoeuvres, the dull sound of a convoy.

We linger in pensive silence. We look long
on the silent city. A few windows on the
left seem to belong to well-to-do houses. At
one of them we note the vague outline of a
young girl's figure. Then, as she leans for-
ward, we can distinguish her features : she has
curly brown hair, an oval face, a very gentle
expression. . . . Did she see us ? ... The
face seems to light up.

So we linger for a while, safe from unjust
punishments, hidden in this retreat.

March 15. — The exchange has been effected.
We learn the news from a few laconic notes
that have appeared in the newspapers. Eigh-
teen hundred of our men have returned to
France. But we remain at Metz. Why ? . . .
This is a mystery.

March 17. — The favourite meeting-place of
those patients who can walk is the smoking-
room. There are benches and boxes in the
immense lavatory. We gather together daily
to smoke. We peel potatoes and play cards :
manille or piquet.

Towards evening, after supper, we also play,
but not so often. We talk of the war, of
yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow. A Breton
suddenly raises a plaintive song. This is the

CRUEL HOURS 141

signal ; each in his turn sings his artless lament
or his famous lyric. Some of the Parisians,
J. . . ., R. . . ., and several others, have a
choice repertory. Sometimes we recite verses
by way of interlude. I am called upon to con-
tribute. I give them Hugo, his Expiation, and
many other pieces ; then Normand, Sully-
Prudhomme, Richepin, and Musset. And the
hours slip away. We are happy together.

March 19. — The French ? How are they
fighting ? It would take many books to set
forth, even briefly, the feats of arms discussed
by the new arrivals.

One, however, which filled me with enthu-
siasm, shall be recorded. A half-section in the
front-line trenches had been cut off while
repulsing the attack of two German companies.
The order was given to hold the position at any
cost. Overwhelmed by numbers, however,
they were beginning to give way. A small fort,
partly demolished, was on their left, and here
eleven men and a captain managed to entrench
themselves after extraordinary efforts. The
siege began. Our soldiers fired on the enemy
as long as their cartridges held out, and with
deadly effect, for the Germans, who had been
reinforced by engineers, came on in large
numbers. The brave leader of the heroic
band was called upon to surrender time

142 IN GERMAN HANDS

after time. Each time the envoy was curtly
repulsed.

Twenty hours passed thus, but no help
came, and there were no cartridges left.
The Germans then placed petards on the
left, and blew up the fort. The explosion
was terrible. Only the captain and four
infantrymen were found in the breach when
the Germans came in. The Prussian com-
mander saluted these heroes, held out his
hand to the captain, and allowed him to keep
his sword.

" You have killed fifty or sixty men," he
said afterwards to the officer.

And showing the remnants of the band to
the Prussians, he added :

" It is an honour to fight against such
soldiers."

Could a more splendid tribute have been
paid to our soldiers, under more tragic circum-
stances ? I heard this story from my good
friend R. . . ., one of the survivors.

March 20. — A fine incident that has had
painful effects. Yesterday evening about 8
o'clock, the French, revolted by the ignoble
behaviour of their jailers, and also by the
severity and injustice of the doctors, began to
murmur the Marseillaise, at first in under-
tones ; but this hymn is winged, it demands

CRUEL HOURS 143

full, strong voices, and, thundered forth by
several, it made the walls resound.

I was in my ward. I had had a fall, which
had condemned me to rest, and, sitting up in
bed, I felt myself turn pale as I listened to the
strains. There was a rush presently. Doctor
W. . . . and the Inspector, with several armed
men, hurried to the smoking-room.

" Which of you was singing ? "

No answer. The doctor shook with fury.

" The Marseillaise at Metz ! "

The Inspector, who was less agitated, tried
another argument.

" Come, what is the matter with you ? You
are left in peace ! You can come to the
smoking-room, chat together, and play cards.
And then you sing the Marseillaise \ Do you
want to be punished, or to get us into trouble ? "

Doctor W. . . . goes round the room, scruti-
nizing the different groups. He is disappointed,
for he does not find me. Yet it seemed such
a good chance. It would have been a first-rate
pretext for sending me off somewhere to a
camp, perhaps to have me court-martialed.

But he does not give up yet. He comes
into my ward.

" You were not there to join in the singing ? "

No, I was not, and I regret it with all my
heart !

144 IN GERMAN HANDS

I shake my head.

" Why did they sing ? "

I can guess that. I make an evasive
gesture.

" And ... it was not you who ordered
them to sing ? "

The snare is too obvious. I answer coldly :

" I have no right, monsieur, to give any such
orders. I know my duty to the men who are
our warders, and that they hate the Mar-
seillaise. Therefore I am content to love it in
the depths of my heart and in silence. Your
bandsmen are less tactful ; they come and play
their DeutscHand uber Alles under our very
windows."

He gives me an evil glance and departs.

My comrades are uneasy. D. . . ., then
R. . . ., and then some others come down from
the smoking-room and describe the scene to me.
There had been no prearrangement. The
thing was sudden, spontaneous, and splendid.
What would be the results ?

March 22. — Storm in the air. R. . . ., the
genial singer, is condemned to " white broth."
The doors of the smoking-room are locked. We
are to peel the potatoes, however, but under
the surveillance of the orderlies. Talking,
singing, and laughing are strictly forbidden.
It is not so much the affair yesterday that

CRUEL HOURS 145

has made them angry as a French success at
Les Eparges, an orderly tells me.

I learn that our men had taken a whole
Prussian battalion prisoners, and had captured
cannon and machine-guns, an important booty.
Trains arrive every day at Metz, bringing re-
inforcements. The hospitals are full to over-
flowing. An offensive seems to be in the air,
and the Germans are uneasy. ... I tell all
the Frenchmen this news at once. They are
overjoyed. Is this the beginning of the
end ? . . .

March 25. — A bombastic communique in the
Germane-Turkish style has announced the
destruction of the Bouvet to jubilant crowds.
Poor old ironclad, which I have so often seen
riding at anchor in Toulon harbour !

If this news be true we will accept it calmly.
Our sailors will have done their duty. Their
courage is well known. So no regrets. Long
live France, again and always !

March 28. — I could write this cry if we
might not utter it. Good news : just when the
Bouvet was disappearing under the waters,
here, close to us, in Alsace, on Hartmanns-
weilerkopf, our Alpine soldiers and our in-
fantry were gaining a victory. For it was a
victory !

The bells were silent in their stone sheaths,

146 IN GERMAN HANDS

but our hearts exulted. To Strasburg ! To
Strasburg !

April 2. — The Cure tells me a strange story
to-day. Our presence at Metz — I refer to
those who have lost a limb, and in general to
those unfit for further service — was unknown
to the higher authorities. They believed us
to be in France, as the following telegram
received by the head doctor shows : " Your
question is meaningless ; the wounded in ques-
tion were sent back to France on the occasion
of the recent exchange of prisoners." The
head doctor had asked if the Metz ambulances
were to provide appliances for us.

Charming answer !

April 3. — A new journal has appeared among
us. It is distributed in the wards, gratuitously.
This so-called Gazette des Ardennes seems to
have neither editor nor office. It is a collec-
tion of news items, all specially chosen to dis-
courage the French prisoners and the inhabi-
tants of the districts invaded by the enemy.
On the back of this wretched rag a list of French
prisoners with their names and addresses has
been begun to-day. The object of the publica-
tion is very clearly shown in an appeal to our
people on the first page ; it is to show them
that their Government is deceiving them as to
the number of prisoners taken, etc.

CRUEL HOURS 147

We collected most of these papers without
comment, and put them in the place best
suited to them !

April 4. — Another piece of good news, this
time from Austria. Przemysl fell the day
before yesterday.

The communique is very brief : 50,000 men,
it says, have fallen into the hands of the Rus-
sians. The newspapers are more explicit ; they
own to 80,000 men. The guns are destroyed ;
all the forts were blown up before the town
surrendered. Then they make the following
calculation : this 80,000 includes some 30,000
workmen and 20,000 employes, hospital atten-
dants, cooks, grooms, etc. . . . Further, we
are to subtract all the wounded undergoing
treatment in the hospitals of the town, at least
30,000. I do the sum, and find : 80,000 —
80,000 = o.

So it would seem that the Russians took no
military prisoners, not even an artilleryman, an
infantryman, or an engineer. Only workmen,
grooms, and doctors. And the Governor him-
self was, I suppose, a groom ! Can the
Germans really be so stupid as to believe all
this ?

April 7. — The Berlin pastor has been to see
me again, but he has changed his tone. He
is no longer the proud German, confident of

148 IN GERMAN HANDS

German victory. He is a calculator whose
figures have been upset by a new factor. For
he is in great fear of Italy.

" The Italians will never attack France. I
know it, I am quite sure of it."

I should hope so indeed !

On the other hand, he foresees their inter-
vention very soon, and against Germany. He
cannot find adjectives enough to condemn their
abominable conduct. He does not stay very
long with me, for he is not in his usual spirits.
But, before going, he delivers himself of a theo-
logical opinion (?). We had spoken of Ypres
and the English. He had described the fight-
ing there as of the most desperate character.

" No more prisoners," he declared at last.
" The Bavarians kill everybody. The English
do the same."

And when I remark quietly that this is a
wholly unchristian method of warfare, he
replies simply :

" The Hebrews did it. Read their history
again. They put their vanquished enemies,
Gentiles or Amalekites, to the sword."

His Christianity is really making progress.

April 13. — The Russians are still advancing.
They seem to have consolidated their position
in the Carpathians. The newspapers speak of
an army to be sent to repulse them, to open

CRUEL HOURS 149

the road that leads to Budapest, and then
drive all the Russians out of Galicia.

April 14. — Infinite joy, almost too great.
An order has come. All the unfit and the
infirm are to be examined this evening. There
is to be an exchange of prisoners on May 2 or
3. We are to go to Constance to wait, leaving
here to-morrow.

The same day, evening. — A terrible dis-
appointment. The prisoners leave to-morrow,
but seven of us are to remain here : a shoe-
maker, a geometrician, an office clerk, three
non-commissioned officers, and I. It is a
cruel decree, and the reason given is absurd.

" You can be made useful," said the General.
" And then the French do the same. They
keep our educated men."

I shrugged my shoulders, regardless of his
rank. We came back slowly to our wards.

All around us is the stir of departure. Those
who are going are cheerful. They pity us, no
doubt, but their joy is irrepressible, and, after
all, so natural. I try to smile to them, but my
heart is full of anguish, grief, and trouble.
Five of our seven have lost a limb, and should
unquestionably have been included. . . . The
orderlies and Doctor W. . . ., who passes
through the ward, make clumsy jests about
my gloomy face.

150 IN GERMAN HANDS

April 15. — A sleepless, miserable night.
This morning I am calm. I have scribbled a
few hasty words to my people and given them
to R. ... In Switzerland or at Lyons, he
will post them.

My pride has enabled me to recover from
my surprise and depression of yesterday. And
I have reason to be proud. I thought myself
a useless cripple, only fit to live out my remain-
ing days in peace and oblivion. And the
Germans undeceive me. They are afraid of my
words. Then up once more, as on the night of
the attack : for Her, for my Country ! It is
so easy to fight and fall, so brief and so simple.
A lasting duty is nobler still. Learn to suffer
without complaint, and take the path of
exile.

April 20. — My six comrades and I are told
off for the camps. We have been examined.
The head doctor said to me quite amiably :

" Do not envy your comrades. They are
all going to Corsica. In France people do not
like to see too many mutilated men about."

I did not answer. The statement is so
absurd. Then he added :

" You are not going to a camp. I have
every reason to believe that all men who have
lost a limb like you will be sent to hospitals."

I kept silence. Have I not heard on very

CRUEL HOURS 151

good authority that there are many mutilated
prisoners in the German camps ?

April 23. — The Lotbringer Zeitung informs
its readers that the French aviator Garros has
fallen and been taken prisoner. The writer of
the note in question improves the occasion by
observing that recently German aviators in our
lines had been ill-treated by the French troops,
beaten and insulted, but that great Germany
would behave very differently to the French
hero. He will enjoy all the rights permitted
by the military conventions, which regulate
the lot of prisoners with humanity.

Yes, Boche humanity ! . . . We know what
that is.

April 25. — I am rigged out again. I have
an almost new military overcoat, a pair of
civilian trousers, and a student's cap. I have
got quite a decent boot from the clothing
depot for 2 francs. The whole of one room
under the roof is full of Belgian boots, taken
from the barracks at Liege and Namur. The
German soldiers sell these boots to us. ...
I look almost like an infantryman.

April 26. — When shall we start ?

I climbed up to the attics of the old seminary
yesterday evening, for the last time. N. . . .
came with me. Our eyes wandered restlessly
over the town. The melancholy of departure

152 IN GERMAN HANDS

saddened our hearts. I felt a kind of vague
distress.

Here we have groaned, here we have suffered ;
here our hearts have matured, have risen up
to duty. And to us Metz represents our hard
apprenticeship, the highest stage, that which
one can make but once. The blood we have
shed also forms bands, strong though slender,
between this town and France. I stretch my
arms out vaguely. I long to seize the town,
whose immeasurable distress under German
domination becomes acute and tangible to me.
The barbaric inscriptions that dishonour the
roofs, the flags, and pennons on the buildings
are the externals of the city. Its heart is
French. I feel it unforgettably at this moment.
All its Colette Baudoches rise up in the night.
The silence to which they are condemned does
not prevent their souls from speaking to mine.
I have a perception of their entity, the outcome
of grave expectation, reasoned hope and gentle-
ness. From all the windows, dark and light,
brave, steadfast voices seem to rise to us. And
their love-song is sublime : " We wept," they
say, " when you fell, mowed down by the
machine-guns. We would fain have nursed
you with our sisterly hands, and dressed your
cruel wounds. They would not let us. Our
hearts are yours. We have seen you some-

CRUEL HOURS 153

times from our windows, when capotes and
ktpis mustered in the great courtyard, on the
eve of departure, and the sight was our greatest
joy. At night, when you were sleeping, if the
sound of guns broke in upon our dream, that
dream which forty-five years have not availed
to dispel, our French lips murmured words
of prayer, and wafted them towards you. . . .
Go now undismayed. Go to meet suffering
with the courage of the strong. We do not
fear it, yet we are weaker than you. Our
thoughts will follow you into exile. We will
pray to the God of France — the only God,
Giver of grace, eternal Guardian of Faith,
Justice, the rights of men and nations — for you
and for us, for the victory which will make us
once more your loving and pious sisters."

The murmur steals into my soul, and I too
pray, looking away from earth to the blue
heaven above us.

V. AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN

April 29. Rastatt. Five o'clock. — It is
already broad daylight. We left Metz yester-
day evening. The station was empty. No
passenger trains on the lines. Convoys of
wounded passed through the great hall at short
intervals. One of these took us in. We found
places at the end of a third-class coach.
Sufficiently comfortable.

Starting about 6 o'clock, we passed through
the suburbs and were soon in the open country.
The train stopped everywhere. A French
name, Courcelles, attracted my attention. On
each side of the line are important defensive
works. The ground is wonderfully well utilized.
There are endless trenches, little forts, mined
tracts. The barbed wire is in place. But the
trenches are empty. The soldiers are farther
off, on the other side of the town, towards
Mousson. Night soon falls. There are inter-
minable waits in silent stations. Frequent
bifurcations. We are now forbidden to try
and read the names of the stations through
which we pass.

The service on the train is not carried out
154

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 155

by the guard. Volunteers undertake this duty
—civilians, to be more exact. Their chief is
an old doctor. They go from Karlsruhe to
Conflans and return every three days. We get
plenty of food ; light meals are served fre-
quently ; tea every two hours. The night
seemed very long. . . .

We are now waiting for further orders at
Rastatt. Some of the wounded have bee n
taken out, about fifty. Is there a prisoners'
camp in the town ? and are we to stay here ?
No. The train starts again. It is nearly six
o'clock. We are going towards Karlsruhe,
across a vast plain. The soil seems fertile.
There is very little animation on the line ; yet
this is the railway for Strasburg. After a
while, we pull up in the station of Offenburg.
This is a pretty little town, with gardens and
shady trees. The bluish spurs of a chain of
mountains are faintly outlined against the
sky. It must be the Black Forest. We
remain stationary for a long time. . . . Curious
groups peer at the train. Doctors in uniform
pass up and down incessantly.

Presently a curt order is given. We get
out. It is a painful process, for they took
away our crutches before we left Metz. So
some of us, the cripples, have to hop along on
the pavement as best we can. There are

156 IN GERMAN HANDS

twenty-eight of us from Metz, and to these have
been added twenty or twenty-two comrades
fresh from the front, from Les jfeparges, nearly
all very seriously wounded. We question
them in the waiting-room. It was nothing ;
just a surprise of two French sections, and the
petty success of the enemy was dearly bought.

Installed in a light and cheerful room, I
begin to recover from my fatigue. A kindly,
smiling Swiss priest, who is passing through the
town, takes our names and addresses. He will
write to our families for us to-morrow when he
arrives at Geneva. " You are in a reserve
hospital," he tells me ; " you will be very
comfortable." I look round in surprise. The
building is a new one, a primary school on an
open square, to the right of a large church.
There are trees all around. No walls, as at
Metz. We are no longer in a prison. To the
right and behind, a street ; in front and to the
left, the square.

Childish voices twitter in a neighbouring
school. The Sisters, young women in nurses'
caps, speak to us pleasantly. The doctor him-
self, a tall fellow with slightly grizzled hair,
laughs good-naturedly with his new patients.
Are we really to have some rest and calm after
the storm ? Have our sufferings at Metz
earned a little peace for us ?

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 157

May 3. — I have allowed several days to pass.
It would have been childish to set down my
first impressions at once. After the dark hours
at San Klemens the very sun here seems a new
thing. However, the normal Frenchman is a
simple, spontaneous, uncalculating creature.
He is easily touched and often by unworthy
objects. Then he realizes his mistake, and his
awakening is rude. I will therefore merely
note the enormous difference between the
methods in force here and at San Klemens.

San Klemens suggests rigour, scorn, and insult,
sometimes cruelty, often injustice. Offenburg
suggests calm, a moderate discipline, exact, but
without fury, smiling faces, gentle hands.

The material situation also shows great
improvement. We have plenty of food, care-
fully prepared. True, it is largely composed of
potatoes, but they are at least wholesome.
There is sugar in the coffee, the meat is always
fresh, the sausages appetizing. We have
dessert sometimes and salad often ; on Fridays,
sweet rice and stewed prunes or cherries. No
more bran and barley broth. My comrades
are delighted.

A bathroom of five compartments is open to
the French patients. I remember reading in a
German paper at Metz the vehement outcry
of a Prussian officer interned at Riom. He

158 IN GERMAN HANDS

declared that he had only been able to get a
bath once in five months. Well, Herr Offizier,
among your countrymen during the same
length of time at San Klemens, Metz, I washed
my only foot twice in cold water, and never had
a bath at all. This was not because of the
state of my wound, for at Montigny, in
November, I was given a bath three times !
Exile is a dreary business !

At Offenburg, too, we are allowed clean
shirts. At Metz we had to wear them a month.

May 5. — A long talk with the doctor
attached to the hospital. He is a man of forty,
strongly built and intelligent-looking. His
thick hair is turning grey at the temples. The
inevitable scar adorns his right cheek, and he
is a strong partisan of duelling. I will not set
down all the arguments he brought forward.
We discussed the war, and they were pro domo.
But the refrain was invariable : Germany is
sure to conquer. Then this sincere (?) expres-
sion of regret :

" Why, oh ! why did you dream of the
revanche ? Why did you not accept the hand
we held out to you in friendship after 1870 ? "

These conquerors are artless folk. I
instanced Jena.

" Why did you not take the course you
recommend for France on that occasion ? "

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 159

He shakes his imperious head.

" The case was different. We were not
amalgamated. The German-speaking peoples
had perforce to realize their magnificent
national unity."

" And they did it in blood."

He checked me with a scornful gesture :

" Force, you see, is the eternal lever. You
don't think so, but this is beside the question.
We shall soon see which will conquer, French
Right or German Might. Rights are only
words. Might dominates, destroys, and re-
places them. They cry out at first, then they
hold their peace ... as you will do."

May 6. — The Sister in charge is very kind.
Her name is Arnolda. When she bids us
" Gute Nacht ! " from the threshold at bedtime
we scarcely dare to answer, and so break into
the exquisite harmony of these syllables. Her
voice is crystal clear, her laugh marvellously
sweet, ringing out for all sorts of trifles. She
has the hands of a fairy who has learnt what
pain is. She is a Christian too, not as people
are Christians in Germany, but as they must
be in heaven. " Nicht wie ich will, lieber Gott,
aber wie Du willst, nicht wahr ? " (" Not my
will, but Thine be done, dear God ") she mur-
mured in her gentle voice, in answer to some
rough words spoken by one of the orderlies

160 IN GERMAN HANDS

touching the duration of the war and its
surprises.

This phrase is characteristic of her. Sister
Arnolda cannot hate.

May 7. — We spend peaceful days. We are
allowed to have tobacco, pipes, and tinder-
boxes. In the evening, about six o'clock, we
seat ourselves at the windows that overlook the
street and smoke in silence.

Children chatter and play under the leafy
trees. Light silhouettes soon make their
appearance at the windows opposite. Offen-
burg seems so far to have been but little affected
by the grave and terrible hours through which
we have passed. The little town dozes in its
nest of verdure, for it has no industries, if we
except a single factory of ornamental glass.
It is peopled by railway officials and employes ;
the station is an important one. There is
already a very noticeable lack of horses. The
milkmen bring round their cans in the morning
on two-horse carts. But one of the beasts has
gone. The pole rubs against the flank of the
remaining partner, and the vehicle jolts along
as best it may. The street cabs are in the
same plight.

I see very few young men ; there are old men
and women ; a great many young girls, mostly
fair, a few dark-haired ; an incredible number

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 161

of children. One of our orderlies — we call him
the Lehrer, because he used to teach at Frei-
burg— points them out proudly : " La jeune
Allemagne est beaucoup." Here is an interest-
ing detail : 80 per cent, of these little ones,
boys and girls alike, go to school barefoot. I
see big girls of thirteen or fourteen carrying
their shoes in their hands, with their stockings
tucked into their satchels. It is a measure of
hygiene, we are told.

We see a great many soldiers. A whole
regiment is garrisoned here : ordinary infantry.
Numerous recruits are being drilled at present.
We get a visit from them about seven o* clock in
the evening. They pass in compact groups.
Beardless boys, for the most part ; their heads
only are characteristically German. Their
bodies are small or of medium size. Here and
there we note crooked legs, or a humpback
whose uniform fails to give him a martial air.
I had heard it before, but now I have seen it :
all is fish that comes to the Boche net.

The Landsturm classes are in great force.
They mount guard over the railways. They
wear a leather tunic, a cap of the same, velve-
teen trousers, and high boots. Their rifles are
not up to date. They are needle-guns.

May 8. — A new intervention. I am to be
operated on this evening. I have been in pain

162 IN GERMAN HANDS

for some time. The jagged bone was pushing
terribly against the thin cicatrice. I showed
it to the doctor. He seemed greatly surprised,
passing his hand again and again over the flesh.

" Who did this for you ? "

I explain.

" It can't be left like this. I will put it
right for you, for our own credit's sake."

I say in vain that I want to be left in peace.

" No, no, it's really necessary. It is for your
sake as well as ours. You would always be
suffering."

I agree without enthusiasm. He explains ;
he must take a few centimetres off the bone,
that is all. His confidence in his power to
correct the Metz surgeon's error and his
assurances touch me. He is a competent prac-
titioner. His reputation is high and extends
far beyond Offenburg.

Mayy. — In bed again. For howmany weeks ?

They had some difficulty in putting me to
sleep. Sister Arnolda held the mask. Just
at that ultimate moment of consciousness
before the plunge into oblivion, I heard her
voice as in a dream, murmuring :

" GuU Nacbt, Herr. Scblafen Sie tvobl."
(" Good night, sir. Sleep well.")

It was she I saw bending over me when I
awoke. Her gay laugh greeted me :

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 163

" Fertig ! Sie sind fertig mit Schmerzen"
(" It's all over now. No more pain for you.")

May 12. — I have not written at any length
since those four days.

The Germans admit that the French have
advanced on the south-west of Metzeral. On
the rest of the front the situation remains
unchanged. For the last ten days each com-
munique has contained a phrase almost in the
same terms, the true significance of which had
escaped us. " In this attack the hostile troops
used asphyxiating shells very freely." This
phrase was always used in connexion with the
news from Arras, Ypres, etc. The adjective
varies ; sometimes we read of stupefying gas.
Yesterday it was vomitive gas. The word
made us laugh. But to-day we no longer
laugh. A Lausanne paper, eight or ten days
old, thrown in at the window, also speaks of an
attack and of asphyxiating gas. Only this
time the guilty parties are not our men, but
the Germans ! And then I suddenly grasp
the meaning of their insistence ! That little
phrase, which seemed so insignificant, was
designed to stifle the sympathies of the neutral
States ! It preceded the introduction of poison.
It announced it but at the same time reserved
to itself the nobler part. " After you, French
gentlemen ! " Hypocrites and villains ! As

164 IN GERMAN HANDS

if France had need of crime to help her ! The
breasts of her soldiers, the audacity of her
generals, the courage of all, are the things on
which she relies for victory ! . . . Chemistry
has given her her shells, but these are brilliant,
audible, and visible in their effects. Germany,
for her part, has degraded herself. She has
called in the help of poisons that kill craftily,
that creep in heavy clouds, streaked with
yellow, slyly and as if ashamed towards the
enemy's trenches and, seizing our poilus by
the throat, choke the life out of them.

I have said nothing of the articles over-
flowing with pride and hatred which the news-
papers have devoted ever since February to
the blockade. A few trawlers have disap-
peared, a few fishing-smacks have been sent
to the bottom, the result is negligible. The
more so as it is evident from the figures given
by the German Admiralty that the trade of
English ports has not been interrupted. Fif-
teen hundred sailing vessels and steamers
enter or leave these ports in the course of a
week. And the average of those sunk by
submarines is one a day !

To-day, however, there is immense jubila-
tion. The Lusitania, the sister ship of the
Titanic, and a monster of the same dimen-
sions, has been sent to the bottom ! Noel !

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 165

The bells are pealing ! Great Germany is
happy !

There are not many details as yet. But it is
supposed that the victims were very numerous.
The newspapers plead the cause of the aggres-
sors in advance. The vessel had guns. They
bring forth from their indictment an agree-
ment entered into before the war, binding
the company to which the liner belonged
to the British Admiralty. This " scrap of
paper " is said to have stipulated that in case
of war all the vessels of the company would
be considered light cruisers and armed with
guns. Besides, the passengers were warned
at New York, under the instructions of Count
von Bernstorff, the German Ambassador, of
the risk they ran in making the voyage in
this ship. It was certain to be torpedoed.

Here there are general rejoicings. The
orderlies exult. The doctor himself is
delighted !

His frame of mind is revolting to me. It is
in vain that he tends me benevolently, re-
pairing as far as possible the infamy committed
at Metz, that he shows a broad spirit of
toleration to my comrades ! His talk exas-
perates me ! I find him too intensely German.

May 14. — The fever has left me. I can raise
myself on my elbow now. I am regaining

i66 IN GERMAN HANDS

strength rapidly. Every evening I smoke a
big pipe. And it is then that Doctor H. . . .
inevitably appears to weary me.

All our comrades gather round, and the
argument begins afresh. To-day he brings
the communique of yesterday evening. Our
troops are said to have occupied the village of
Carency, after terrible assaults. The battle is
still raging furiously round Souchez. The
account is very vague in tone. One is con-
scious of a certain embarrassment, the same
reticence as was shown in writing of the
battle of Arras. It is not the great victory
which will deliver us. It is one of the thousand
victories that will compose this. I say so
to the doctor, and it makes him laugh.

In spite of the fact that I appreciate him,
that I know his German mask conceals a
certain amount of heart, I say harsh things
then. My retorts sting him. I see this and I
regret it. But he is really so very Boche !
Why does he shrug his shoulders when glorious
Belgium is evoked ? Why does he show
such execrable scorn and utter such cruel
words at the mention of this little people
which so bravely sacrificed its present tran-
quillity to its eternal honour ?

Honour ! This word exasperates him, and
in spite of this I insist upon it, I repeat it

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 167

emphatically, delighting to find images that
touch the hearts of my French comrades
in the twilight. We bombard each other with
curt phrases :

" You violated Belgium."

" I no longer recognize such a place as
Belgium."

" You may not, but will not History ? "

" We are the people who write history."

" The world will execrate you ; you will be
despised."

" Fear will work for us."

" The name of German will spell liar ! "

" Nay, rather power, will."

" Cunning, duplicity."

* Courage, hope of victory."

" Failure to keep her plighted word."

" A clear vision of her true interests."

He does not lose his temper. And this is
really terrible. It is in vain that I goad him
as a bull is goaded in the arena, and hurl cruel,
stinging words at him ; his placidity disarms
me.

He speaks of France, of a sincere friendship
uniting our countries later on. That would
be magnificent.

" Do you think it possible ? "
I answer roughly, " No."

" Why ? "

168 IN GERMAN HANDS

" For many reasons, one of which is horrible :
France cannot and never will be able to forget.
Belgium and Louvain, Reims, Arras, Lun6ville,
all that you have destroyed, would rise from
the wreck, to hurl at a government base
enough to seal such a compact, the only word
that could fitly describe it : that of traitor
to the Fatherland ! "

A brutal laugh marks the close of my
sentence.

"Words! Words!"

" Words, but solemn words, such as with us
make the mighty people bound as under the
stroke of the lash. Words which will fire souls
and increasing courage tenfold, set aside the
pact by which you would seek to associate the
honour of a race with the deep dishonour of
Germany ! "

" But think of your own interests ? . . .
If France's independence and the life of the
country were in question ? Admit that if
you would break with England, if you would
leave the Russians to fend for themselves in
the East, we should conquer, and very soon.
France would be the gainer. She would cer-
tainly be better off than if the Triple Entente
were to win a decisive victory this very day."

" But she would lose her world-reputation
for honour and for honesty."

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 169

" What if we gave you money, India, a little
of Egypt ? "

I looked him straight in the face. My anger
died out.

" France, Monsieur le Docteur, desires to
remain honourable. France is a gallant man,
and so will struggle to the end. God will not
allow us to be beaten, but even if that should
come to pass, there is not a Frenchman who
would not prefer to see France fallen from her
place of power, disappearing in beauty, wept
by all nations, saluted by people of feeling,
rather than to know her perjured, guilty in
the eyes of the world of having been false to
her honour and to ours."

" Then you are fighting for honour ? "

" Yes, Monsieur le Docteur, and that is our
glory. You talk of interest, and ours was plain
enough : we might have left Russia to her fate
in the relentless grip with which you were
closing upon her on the West. England would
have remained calm. But a sacred treaty,
one of those documents which France does not
treat as * scraps of paper,' bore her signature.
We honoured that signature and we shall do
so to the end."

The doctor ceased to laugh, and my com-
rades applauded. They had forgotten their
prudence. I feared an outburst. But the

170 IN GERMAN HANDS

doctor seemed amused. After a brief silence,
he spoke of getting leave for us to go down
into the courtyard for an hour every day, a
project which pleased us all.

A few more commonplace phrases, and he
went off, looking a little uneasy perhaps.

May 1 6. — A letter from Agnes tells me that
our Benjamin has enlisted in an engineer corps.
Class 1 7 has just been called up for examination.
He thought he would be left too long, he would
not wait. There are three of us now with the
colours. Dear boy, God keep you ! His
action moves me more deeply than I can say.
If he should meet his death in the field, should
I not feel myself in some measure to blame ?

No. My enlistment prepared the way for
his perhaps, but I am not responsible. And
if he had consulted me I should have ap-
proved. Go, my little " pioneer," go, my
Andre, onward to Victory ! It is promised
to you and your like, who, having no share in
our faults — those of men of my age, and the
generation before us — lift up your pure and
youthful hands towards it. The true glory
will be yours. The radiant and successful
France of to-morrow will not be ours. You
will make it and protect it against possible
attack. We were blind. We dreamt of the
happiness of mankind, and we threw down our

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 171

barriers. It was a fair dream, no doubt, but
it was powerless. No one was made happy
by it, and it almost compassed the death of
France.

May 17. — The doctor sulked for three days.
He has come back now, accompanied by a
Herr Professor, a blond gentleman, with up-
turned moustaches, a figure above the average
height ; gold on his half-closed eyes and in his
mouth ! He wears a grey felt hat and a coat
and trousers of a delightful olive-green tint.

The introduction is brief.

" Herr Professor X. ... of Offenburg."

The Herr bends himself double.

" This is the patriot of whom I told you, a
volunteer soldier who does not love our
country ! "

The Herr Professor examines me. Presently
he opens the attack. His French is correct,
his elocution rather slow.

" You do not know Germany. You French-
men scoff at her heaviness, her lack of elegance,
brilliance, and distinction, which, however,
are counterbalanced by reflection, and by
very great qualities. Your newspapers are
witty enough. You have many superficial
graces. But we have depth. And you call
us ' barbarians.' '

His distress is sincere. I am sorry to

172 IN GERMAN HANDS

disturb the limpidity of this soul. I do so,
however, but not too ruthlessly.

" Come, Herr Professor, what about Bel-
gium ? Talk to me about Louvain."

He pulls a newspaper out of his pocket, and
shows me a long article : according to the
German telegrams, it was the civilians who
caused the destruction of the little town by
firing on the troops. And did not the Kaiser's
soldiers, the " barbarians," themselves rush
into the flames to save its treasures ? All that
remains in the way of architecture as a sub-
lime testimony to an imperishable art, was
saved by the German troopers. I can but
smile. The Herr Professor is annoyed.

" You don't believe our newspapers ? "

I might answer that this is my duty as a
Frenchman and a soldier. I prefer to set
forth the reasons for looking upon their Press
as suspect, and to cite Reims, Arras, and the
many martyred towns which bear witness
to the German army's fatal habit of burning
and destroying.

The conversation continues. The Herr
Professor now goes into the causes of the
war :

" It is for her existence, for her future
life, for commercial liberty that Germany is
shedding the precious blood of her sons, and

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 173

not for her aggrandizement. Our territories
are large enough for us."

I insist upon the well-known projects of
an imbecile Pan-Germanism, the boundless
ambitions of the German League in the naval,
military, and colonial domains. I recognize
Germany's right to battle for her life, but I
point out that this very right implies respect
for like rights among neighbouring nations.
Now who wished for war ? Who had been
making ready for it for a long time ? Who
was brutal without cause, cynical without
excuse ? Was it not Germany, with her
formidable army, her powerful navy, her
arrogant diplomacy ? If the blood of her
sons be indeed precious to her, why is she
shedding it at this moment, and why, after the
Serajevo affair, did she not bring pressure to
bear upon her ally, Austria, when London and
Paris were making sincere efforts to avert the
danger ? . . . Who let loose the horrors of
war in August, assuming the crushing responsi-
bility of the decisive act for all time, in the
sight of God and of History F Who, at that
moment, denied Belgium's right to be honest
and valiant, to live her true life, to defend
her sacred and inviolable soil heroically ?

The Herr Professor takes thought^]

going to justify the act I ^

fc

i74 IN GERMAN HANDS

Government did last December ? No, he
passes this over, and quotes the ancient
law of atoms which seek each other and
blend. Germany was strong. All small
States are an anomaly when they adjoin great
States powerfully armed and organized. They
are bound to disappear, to be absorbed some
day. As to Germany's military preparations,
who can reproach her for them ? Russia, who
has been engaged for ten years in strengthen-
ing and remodelling her formidable army ?
England, disturbed by the immense naval
progress of Germany ? Revengeful France,
who showed her hand by voting the return
to the law of three years' military service ?
Thus is history written ! Dates, facts, and
figures count for little. The only thing that
really matters is the conception a man may
have of it, when that man is a German ! He
speaks with power. The zealot in him reveals
himself. His flushed face and imperious ges-
tures betray the emotion of the prophet :

" And what does all this matter ? Such a
war needs no apologies. We have violated
Belgium. Who will cast this in our teeth if
we are the victors ? I tell you this is the great
period. The world has never seen, will never
see anything like it. Look at the West ; we
are not in Paris, but we hold the North, the

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 175

plains of Champagne, the Argonne, and the
Woevre. Our advance on the East is still
more dramatic : we are overthrowing the
Russians, we are about to march upon
Przemysl, for Galicia lies open to us. We
will purge it of our enemies. Warsaw will
fall, Lemberg and Riga will be taken. The
month of August will see us victorious, dic-
tating terms at Petrograd, free to move our
forces elsewhere. When Russia is muzzled,
your efforts against Constantinople will be-
come useless. It is already costing you
dear ! France will realize that to continue
this war would be to court disaster. She will
treat with us, undoubtedly. England will be
crushed, shorn of her fleet and her wonderful
colonies. Then, and then only, will we
sheathe the sword. War will be no longer
possible. Austria is already German. Our
armies will be common, our trade and finance
will be one. We shall hold a power that
nothing can shatter. Peace will be eternal.
Even our enemies will then admit that our
German victory was indispensable. This is
the hour of fate. German Kultur had to be
universally imposed sooner or later. We are
the first in science ; our philosophy has never
been surpassed ; our literature is sound.
We shall diffuse it all. The future is ours.

176 IN GERMAN HANDS

We shall be the friends and protectors of weak
nations ( ! ). Those who have held aloof will
come to us some day. I tell you that we made
this war for the world, for a lofty purpose, to
destroy war for ever. And I ask you in my
turn : do we need an excuse ? . . . Do you
not understand that our end is magnificent ? "

The visit has lasted two hours. The doctor
is getting impatient. He knows me ; he does
not hope to convert me. He answers for me :

" No, Herr Professor. The only desirable
victory is the victory of France and our
enemies ! At least, that is what my patient
thinks. He believes in it firmly."

The Herr Professor is greatly distressed.
His astonishment amuses me.

" You can still believe in it ? After all I
have said ? "

" Even more, perhaps. I believe in it
because I desire it, because I am sure of myself
and of my will, and because I know that
France will resist to the end."

" But think of our successes ! Of our mili-
tary strength, of your broken offensive, your
futile efforts to pierce a loosely held front ? "

" Those successes will not make any differ-
ence in the end. Strength is a reality, but so
is attrition. France bides her time, and that
time will come ! "

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 177

May 19. — Such a joy ! I have been given
some books, and what is more, French books.
I devour them eagerly. La Fontaine's Fables,
Madame de Stael's book on Germany, our
great Musset's Poesies Nouvelles, Voltaire's
Siecle de Louis XIV ; Moliere, Racine, Cor-
neille ! I have Le Cid \ My delight is almost
childish.

Oh ! the intoxication of the word, the
phrase ! I know all these works through
having discussed, attacked, or defended them.
I have the delightful impression of having
suddenly discovered them ! I had read them
very badly. Can one read aright at fifteen ?
Now I am enchanted. Imagine reading Musset
in a German hospital while the attendants grind
out their harsh syllables ! All France is in
this poetry, the France we love, with its talent,
its genius, its limpid, flexible tongue, the
gleaming ornament laid by sparkling wit on
an idea. And here is Alphonse Daudet himself,
for Jack is in my hands, the Conies de Lundi
and Sapho lie on the table ! It is too much
joy for one day.

Ah ! all those who would belittle our great
writers, all those terrible young people who
deal in the negation of talent, should come and
air their disdainful theories in the land of
exile. Let the Frenchmen who cannot admire

1 78 IN GERMAN HANDS

Hugo eat the bitter bread of German prisons,
and read the Napoleonic epic within their
walls !

May 20. — We are passing through a period
of gloom. The German newspapers are
exultant. The Russians are retreating,
Przemysl is threatened, at least so the doctor
tells us. Still, we do not lose faith in final
victory.

There is great and growing irritation with
regard to the possible intervention of Italian
troops. It seems that there is a connexion
between the German effort beyond the Car-
pathians and von Billow's visits to the
Italian capital. The majority of the news-
papers speak of tension between Italy and
Austria, though they do not yet believe there
will be war.

May 22. — It is a fact. I have the Extra-
blatt. It is printed in black on pink paper. It
gives the declaration of war. The Italian
Ambassador at Vienna must have left the
capital by this time. The sober commentaries
of the Press are in strong contrast to the anger
of the people. " Italy a traitor to her word !
Italy violating the treaty by which she was
bound but yesterday to the Central Empires.
Italy turning pirate, playing the part of the
third thief ! " These expressions recur again

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 179

and again. The Frankfurter Zeitung alone
simply points out that the intervention is
really of small importance. Italy's activities
will be localized. The statement that 500,000
Italians will be concentrated at Turin to re-
inforce the French front evokes a smile from
the great paper. Germany's interests, how-
ever, make it essential that she should avoid
a rupture. She has to think of Rumania,
strengthened by her treaty with Italy. This
treaty, being defensive only, will not necessi-
tate her participation. But should Germany
intervene, the whole apparatus would be
upset.

Meanwhile the populace stamps and sings
and drinks and shouts. Crowds surge round
the troops which march through the streets.
An infantry battalion is to entrain to-day for
Austria. Flowers in the muzzles of their
rifles. Flowers round their helmets. Ger-
mans, lift up your hearts ! The doctor adds
this laughingly to his paraphrase of a
famous saying : " Our enemies are so numerous
that even the sun cannot behold them all at
once ! " I catch him up, however, sharply
enough : Did he not speak of honour, of
lying, perjured Italy? "Treachery!" Scarcely
has the word passed his lips when I remind him
of Leipzig.

180 IN GERMAN HANDS

" What did the Saxons do that day ? And
do any of you ever make it a reproach to
them ? Yet they behaved as traitors, basely
and ignobly ; they betrayed their ally at the
moment of conflict ; they were not, like the
Italians, the masters of their swords, free at
last to follow and realize their national
aspirations."

" The case was very different."

I am accustomed to this answer. The case
is always different for them, for everything is
permissible to strength, and nothing is sacred
in its eyes. He goes on to explain Austria's
plan of campaign.

" They will have an important army, one-
third German. We are sending soldiers to
them, but these soldiers are volunteers. They
will wear the Austrian uniform. Our army
will take the offensive. In a few weeks we
shall be at Venice."

" Venice ! Great Heaven ! "

A mischievous demon spurs me on, and I
cannot refrain from saying :

" Well, of course, after Louvain, Venice !
When shall you destroy it ?

He is quite unconscious of my irony.

" There is a very important arsenal at
Venice. It is a fortified town."

He seems quite serious. I long to bite him.

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 181

May 26. — Just as I expected. Venice has
been bombarded. The German communique
lays stress on the arsenal. The bombs fell
on some defensive works. . . . But I don't
believe it. My hatred broods over imaginary
details. Hatred ? Yes, how is it possible
not to hate such dangerous monsters. After
Louvain, Venice. What artist will ever be
able to forgive them ?

May 29. — An Alsatian non-commissioned
officer, who was on duty for two months on
the Dutch frontier, confides this secret to me :

" When we have conquered we ought to
show our gratitude to Holland. She has
done a great deal for us without counting the
cost. As we do not command the seas, we
required a country capable of revictualling
us under her flag. That country was Holland.
She has colonies, so it was an easy matter for
her. The enemy's navy was obliged to let
the products of her colonies pass into her
ports. This enabled us to import a moderate
quantity of corn, rice, cocoa, tea, and raw
materials. Of course this little country could
not have fed the whole German nation single-
handed. But the Germans are very abstem-
ious. By adopting a scale of rations as early
as December last they have lacked nothing.
And now the harvest is at hand."

1 82 IN GERMAN HANDS

" According to you then," I said, " without
the support of Holland, would Germany have
been able to hold out till the coming harvest ? "

" No, I don't think so. She might have
done so up to a certain point, one month, or
perhaps two. But famine would have been
inevitable."

" Then what will Germany's resources be
for another year ? "

" First of all her harvest. But this is
insufficient. We have always imported largely,
and now that is impossible. Germany, more-
over, must have consumed her reserves of
cereals, macaronies, and meat. The national
stock of cattle is greatly diminished. All the
beasts in Belgium and in the north of France
were slaughtered on the spot, or sent to our
country. True, orders have been given that
the sowing of corn should be carried out in
the invaded countries. But we must remember
that the result will be very meagre. The
population of these districts will have to be
fed by the Empire. My personal conviction,
which takes all these facts into account, is,
that the talk of famine beyond the Rhine is
greatly exaggerated, and in any case prema-
ture. The danger is not very pressing. But
it certainly exists, and becomes more and more
urgent as time passes. Will it materialize

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 183

in February, in March, or in April ? The
Germans themselves could not tell you. But
I know they are nervous. . . ."

I record these statements without em-
phasizing them further.

May 30. — More German successes on the
Russian frontier ! They overwhelm us with
incredible details. The Russian soldiers have
no rifles ; they cannot be victualled, etc.
The bells are pealing, flags are hung out. The
doctor is not behindhand. With a large
map in his hand, he explains the German
tactics, shows us the pincers, which are to be
extended from Galicia to Riga, to squeeze the
Russian armies.

It seems as if Hindenburg were losing some
of his popular prestige. Mackensen is ap-
parently eclipsing him. There are post cards
innumerable with the portrait of the latest
hero.

June 2. — A grocer's shop has been opened
just across the street, and the proprietress sets
out fruit on the pavement. Cherries first of
different kinds ; pale pink shining ones, large
sweet red ones, bigarreaux from the Black
Forest and even the large black variety ; then
bananas and nuts.

The German convalescents come and go
incessantly between the hospital and this shop ;

1 84 IN GERMAN HANDS

for 20 pfennige they get a large bag of the
dazzling cherries. And they eat them under
our windows, throwing the stones up towards
us with a mocking gesture.

My philosophy comes to my aid. I try to
forget the cherries. I shut the window, but
I cannot forget the spectacle of the beautiful
forbidden fruit, pale or crimson, and very tan-
talizing on its bed of leaves. My comrades
are annoyed. It was in vain that they tried
yesterday for a whole hour to sound the
orderly on duty :

" Buy cherries ? Oh, we should not dare
to allow that ! "

M. . . . becomes almost neurasthenic over
the affair, and on every side I hear the refrain
of the mocking desire : " Just to taste cherries
again, even if it were only once."

Small desires, small troubles.

June 3. — Another visitor : this time a
Strasburg Professor, a man of a certain age,
more interesting than his Offenburg colleague.
He says that " he loves France in all her good
aspects." He does not conceal his surprise
at our valour.

" I did not credit you with such powers of
endurance. We reckoned too much on French
nerves. We know now that those nerves are
solid, tough, finely tempered."

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 185

This, however, will not avail us much.
Our defeat is inevitable. He pities noble
France. The praises he bestows on her end
with this expression of regret :

" Your place was by our side. France and
Germany working in unison would have meant
the consolidation of a splendid domination,
the peaceful expansion of all that is great,
cultivated, beautiful, and noble."

Great, cultivated, beautiful, and noble ! I
take all that for France. . . . He confesses
in an undertone that he was rather advanced
in his ideas, I might say democratic, but that
since the war, Prussian militarism has ceased
to alarm him. He has discovered that it is
good, useful, and necessary.

We talk of the English. His hatred for
them is intense, and he does his best to inocu-
late me with it.

" Do you believe that after this war, if you
should win it, they would give you back
Calais ? "

Then in a few words he gives me German
opinion and popular sentiment as regards the
Allies :

" For France, monsieur, our people feel
pity ; for England, hatred ; for Russia, in-
difference ; for Belgium, contempt."

This is all simple enough !

1 86 IN GERMAN HANDS

His arguments touching the beginning of
the war are by no means convincing. The
following is a specimen :

" But, monsieur, the proof that you attacked
us first is that your soldiers occupied certain
Alsatian villages a week before war was
declared."

I laugh heartily.

" What, Herr Professor, how can you, who
live at Strasburg, possibly believe this ? "

He stops short, embarrassed, as is very
natural. He was away travelling in August
of last year. He read the newspapers, and
believed them like a good German.

When I speak of History, he says :

" Nations mould their own history. The
strong modify it ; the weak submit to it."

When I speak of Might as a despicable
means of opposing Right :

" That," he replies, " is the argument of
the weak. Only the strong have rights."

And our interview terminates with these
symbolic words, worthy to illustrate the
philosophy of a Nietzsche :

" Right and might, dear sir, are incom-
patible. Germany had to choose. She drew
the sword. So hurrah for the sword which
modifies Right and makes it favourable to us ! "

Really, for a democrat . . .

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 187

June 4. — The more I see of them the more
they exasperate me. They offend my reason,
my instinctive sense of the most essential
truths, my elementary consciousness of right
and wrong, my need of a collective and indivi-
dual honour. After my daily talks and
courteous discussions with the doctor, I am
as it were, bruised and distressed. I feel the
gulf between us intensely ; he, the arrogant
German, whose naivete is surprising and dis-
concerting, whose aphorisms excite repug-
nance ; I, the young Frenchman, prone to
illusion, who builds his dream on the threatened
foundations of universal law. I confess that
I am alarmed. The future looks very dark.
Even the prospect of complete victory does
not reassure me. The fruits it may yield will
not do away with this grave fact : the mighty
cohesion of the German race, a cohesion for
evil, for brutal aggression upon the nations
that surround it, for it is obvious that this
elect people will only abandon its dream of
domination and world-hegemony for a moment.
A perversion of instinct, a special education
account for this spirit : Deutschland uber Alles
is literally what they feel, and this feeling will
endure. It looms large in the matter, a
terrible menace for the days after the peace.

The thought of these days makes me anxious :

1 88 IN GERMAN HANDS

at present France is a nation in arms, offering
a sublime spectacle to the whole world. The
war goes on with its transient reverses,
victories, and defeats. I know we shall neglect
nothing in France that will give us the mastery.
But what after this ? The German news-
papers are full of plans and appeals tending to
the one end : the immediate renewal, after
the war, of commercial relations with foreign
countries, even with those who are the enemies
of to-day : but have we considered this
question at all ? Are Frenchmen busy pre-
paring and concluding weighty agreements,
drawing a tight strong net round Germany
which will strangle her trade ? Will the
command of the sea enable our traders to
make a notable advance in the race upon
which their German rivals will start ? . . .
I feel somewhat uncertain. I have mis-
givings too as to the future of Europe, if the
present solidarity of the defenders of the
right should show fissures as soon as the war
is over. For this war will not come to an end
with the last battle. It will continue on the
less bloody fields of general activity, and our
enemies foresee this ; nay more, they are
preparing for it : even if vanquished and
humiliated, they will still believe in force, and
they will pursue thev- ends with the same

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 189

ardour. For forgetting nothing of their vic-
tories, and learning nothing from their defeats,
this people finds in its faith in the argument
of the sword cause for pride in the results
achieved, and reasons less noble but infinitely
dangerous for discounting its vengeance and
sharpening its sword for future conflict.

June 5. — I talked for five minutes with an
Alsatian notability, by no means Franco-
phile. He complains that the sentiments of
the Alsatian elite have been greatly modified
since the beginning of the war. " No one
speaks out," he says. " But the distant
thunder of the guns has stirred all hearts, and
every one wishes France may be victorious."
This admission is interesting in the mouth of a
German.

I banter him a little on his passionate
devotion to the person of the " Great Kaiser."
Just now, when I remarked that it would need
a Napoleon to carry out successful operations
on so gigantic a front, he answered boldly :

" And how do you know, monsieur, that our
Emperor has not the military talent and the
valour of a Napoleon ? "

I laugh, as may be supposed. Then I tell
him the following anecdote, which I heard from
a trustworthy source. When William II was
proceeding to the front, he passed through

190 IN GERMAN HANDS

the town of Rethel. But to reduce the risk of
" accidents " as much as possible, the Imperial
visitor travelled in a motor-car decorated on
every side with the emblem of the Red Cross.
His escort did the same.

The comparison is amusing. Can one
imagine Napoleon hiding in a wagon to
escape shells ?

'June 7. — Doctor H. . . . was in the ward
this morning when some parcels came in. A
non-commissioned officer opened them on a
table in our presence, spread out the contents,
and the consignee took possession of them
at once. The doctor thereupon lauded the
correct behaviour of the German Government.
I cited Montigny, the shameful practices of
which we were the victims, and the theft of all
provisions from the parcels. He opened
his eyes widely, and declared himself greatly
surprised.

'June 8. — Przemysl fell last night. At dawn
this morning the porter came into the ward
carrying pennons, and the flags of Prussia and
of Baden. He laughed as he unfurled them.
The doctor came presently and asked : " Am
I not a good prophet ? " I did not answer,
and he did not press the question.

June 12. — I am becoming lazy. I write less
and less. I have so little to record. This

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 191

morning, however, the doctor came to take
me to the office. B. . . . was told to follow
me. The Generalarzt wanted to hear our com-
plaints about Metz, of which Doctor H. . . .
had informed him. I told what I had seen and
gave two names. B. . . . gave a third. It was
agreed that our declaration should be entered
on a form that evening and that an inquiry
should be made.

" If the doctors really did this, they deserve
to be punished. No one has any right to take
away the food sent to the prisoners at Metz,
Offenburg, or anywhere else."

June 20. — I am almost well now. I have not
noted the stages of my convalescence. One
gets so weary of oneself. It is the same routine
over and over again. An operation sends you
back to bed. Pain grips you once more,
then it decreases and finally dies away. One
fine day you get up, and life begins anew.
I see with satisfaction that the new scar will be
much smaller. The bone has never appeared,
the nerves are at rest. And I regret most
heartily that I did not come straight here
from Saint-M. . . .

June 22. — The Germans must be short of
benzine, for they are keeping it now for the
motors and airships. They use ether to wash
wounds at present.

192 IN GERMAN HANDS

June 23. — What a pity I am not a painter or
a caricaturist. Our Frau-Kommando should
have the honours of the album. I will try to
describe her : height, about 5 ft. 10 in. ;
width, say, 4^ ft. ; this is sufficient, though
not quite exact. Nationality : German, at
least at present, for her fourth husband was
an American. The German, it is true, is like
the negro ; he may change his name, his
climate, and his tongue without ever losing his
colour.

The Frau Kommando is very rich, and this is
why all the female staff of the establishment
is under her orders. Woe to any who rebel !
She is a perfect dragon. She hates the French,
and is always saying that we are treated too
well. The sentries tremble in their military
boots when they are called to order by the
Frau Kommando.

To give a recent example : Yesterday, about
4 o'clock, we were sitting on our benches. Our
outing is always very short, an hour a day, in
the square before the church. Some very
little children — children have no enemies —
were talking prettily to us. The sentry did
not interfere. He thought the proceeding
harmless. Presently a massive form wedges
itself into one of the window-frames, at the risk
of remaining a fixture there. A torrent of

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 193

abuse pours from its throat, and the sentry,
springing to attention, marches us all indoors
forthwith. We were stupefied. In the stair-
case we passed the fury, or rather, we all had
to retreat to the landing to leave room for the
passage of her huge carcass, and the sentry
received a choice addition to the compliments
already bestowed on him. I said aloud :

" Eine Frau Kommando ? . . . Haben Sie das
in Deutsckland ?" ("A female commander ?
Do you have them in Germany ? ")

The phrase was much appreciated. It was
repeated to the lady, and ever since, she darts
a withering glance at me whenever we meet in
the passage.

June 25. — Jeanne £Arc and the Germans.
This promises to be a piquant volume. I
hasten to add that though they claim her as a
Lorrainer, the admiration expressed by the
German Professors for the heroine is not
offensive to us. But I want to record the
trick I was able to play on the owner of the
olive-green suit lately. During the visiting-
hour, the Herr Professor advanced smilingly
into the ward, preceded by the doctor. After
a few commonplace phrases, he explains the
object of his visit as follows :

" I have been talking to my older pupils
about Jeanne d'Arc and Monsieur Barres."

194 IN GERMAN HANDS

I repress a smile.

" Now it seems that there is quite a move-
ment in favour of this heroine in France ; it
is proposed to award honours to her, which
seems to us appropriate, though tardy. We,
who are upholders of tradition, do not under-
stand why you have deferred these honours,
and I should like you to write me a few pages,
giving the reasons for this revival of the
worship of the warrior-maid. It would be
very convenient for me. I would read them
with my pupils."

I am rather puzzled. At first I wonder
whether this ingenuous proposal is a trap. I
look my man straight in the face. He is eager
and interested. His features are too calm to
hide some evil design. A mischievous thought
flashes through my mind. Wait a bit, Herr
Professor. I will satisfy you, or you will be
critical indeed.

So smiling amiably, I agree. My notes
will be ready this evening, if he will come back
about 6 o'clock. I set to work. My comrades
peep over my shoulder, much perplexed. I
cover seven or eight small sheets, then I
read them what I have written. Of course, I
touch but very lightly on the distressing causes
of French ingratitude — the ingratitude of many
Frenchmen — to the heroic shepherdess. What

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 195

I try to do is to describe and to justify the
emotion of the French people in the presence
of the dark hordes which were overrunning
their ancient national soil. In a few stern
words I paint the anguish and cruelty of
invasion; I draw a parallel between the cir-
cumstances of those days and of these : France
invaded, mutilated, her armies falling back
before the invader ; I evoke the home, the
women praying, the children at school. Is it
surprising that the image of the great French
woman should suddenly appear, and find
acceptance from all as a sublime witness to
what faith can do, a superhuman example of
courage and determination, patriotism and
love ?

The style is a little provocative, the words
are in battle array ; the ideas bristle, as if to
pierce the German. But I don't care.

I put my copy into an envelope and hand
it to the delighted Herr Professor without a
smile. I confess that I am much exercised
in my mind as to whether he will read my
French prose to his Boche pupils.

A fortnight has passed : I have not seen him
again! When I asked the doctor what had
become of his friend he answered very gravely
that he was much occupied at his school
with the numerous examinations. I affected to

196 IN GERMAN HANDS

believe this. But I dare swear our Jeanne
d'Arc has had something to say to it.

June 25. — After Przemysl, Lemberg. But
no prisoners and no booty. The Russians are
retreating in unbroken order. The doctor says,
laughing :

" Stay a month longer and Warsaw will be
taken. I shall have the pleasure of bringing
you the news myself."

What does he mean by that : Stay a month
longer ? Am I to be sent to a camp ?

June 26. — Sister Arnolda saw I was sad.
She came to me : "Always, always writing ! "
I smiled without answering. But I understood
her kind impulse. The Russian retreat grieves
me. The doctor and the orderlies are often
tactless. She regrets this. The woman has
intuitions, the Sister has pity. She thinks
how she can show her sympathy. Presently
she says :

" Would you like to come to church ? I
will ask the sentry, after your walk."

I acquiesce quietly. The church is close by.
I join her at the appointed hour. Sister
Arnolda is quite alone. She refused the co-
operation of a German soldier. We enter the
church. It is a modern building, not more
than ten years old. Sister Arnolda leaves
me and goes to pray in a corner. I go round

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 197

the church slowly. My crutches are silent,
and the sound of my solitary foot is muffled.
What a jumble of architectures ! Byzantine
and modern, the former Germanized. A pro-
fusion of painting. Here and there, however,
a picture, a valuable crucifix, attempts at
works of art. The coloured glass is poor.
The sanctuary seems empty, just because it is
so overloaded. The only thing it has in
common with our French churches is the
solemn, august, reposeful silence. This silence
calms me. It enters into my soul, left raw
and bleeding by suffering, and I pray to the
God of France.

In the middle of the choir stands a coffin, a
symbol of death in battle, covered with a
black drapery. There is a silver cross on it,
and four candles are burning at the corners.
I sit down for a moment, for I am tired. I
look round. Worshippers come in, exclusively
women. Their gestures look mechanical.
There is none of that flexibility which dis-
tinguishes our women even in church. They
walk like automata, bend the knee, incline
the body, and depart with the same step.
They glance at me sideways. This glance is
dull, it has nothing of that flame rising from
the fire within, which many women in our own
country have allowed me to see in passing,

198 IN GERMAN HANDS

when, on lonely evenings in a strange town, I
have gone to collect my thoughts before the
God of Love.

Sister Arnolda rouses me from my reverie.
" You have not seen the other aisle."

The church is cruciform. I follow my white-
robed guide. I make as if I were pausing to
examine the details of the gilding. The little
Sister's face beams. Do I think it beautiful ?
As beautiful as our churches ? I evade the
question by saying :

" How peaceful it is in here ! "

Poor little Sister Arnolda ! I am very far
from her, indeed. But her kindness attracts
me, and the things that reveal the sincerity
of her soul , the gentleness of her hands, her
pure crystalline voice, the soothing grace of
her beautiful childlike smile.

June 27. — The Frankfurter Zeitung has
distinguished itself of late by an attack upon
the French treatment of prisoners. For the
German prisoners, incredible as it may seem in
Europe, are badly fed, shamefully treated, sent
to tropical countries, and guarded by negroes.
This last is specially offensive to them These
complaints fill the entire first page of the large
newspaper. They are headed by this fero-
cious line in huge type : Deeds of shame
committed by the French.

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 199

I read through the whole indictment which
the Lehrer brought me. He watched my face
narrowly throughout. When I handed him
back the paper, I laughed, and shrugged my
shoulders.

By way of reprisal, I showed the doctor
some letters from my wife in the evening,
dealing at some length with Prussian prisoners
who had been put to work on the construction of
a railway line in le Gers. They work, it is true,
but they are splendidly fed : 800 grammes
of bread, our good white French bread ; 300
grammes of fresh meat, veal, beef, or mutton ;
800 grammes of potatoes or other vegetables,
and half a pint of wine per man per day, to say
nothing of coffee, spices, salad, and the
various extras allowed them.

The doctor made a grimace, then answered :
" We can't give what we haven't got."

June 28. — I have already mentioned the
newspapers the Germans provide expressly for
prisoners. At Metz we had the amazing
Gazette de Lorraine, and the venomous Gazette
des Ardennes. Here we have a new journal,
The Weekly News of Cologne. The articles are
anonymous, and though perhaps less bitter
in tone, less full of spite, rage, and hatred
against the French, they are no less dangerous.

I have just been examining No. 15, the four

200 IN GERMAN HANDS

pages of which are full of delectable details
concerning the exhaustion of our forces !

The second page is devoted to an historical
essay, The Treachery of Italy. At the bottom
of this, an " echo " informs us that the last
statistics of provisions in Germany show a
surplus of 8,968,929 hundredweights of flour.
Is this- why they allow us from 75 to 100
grammes of bread a day ?

Potatoes yield the same satisfactory result.
And the page concludes : " Normal consump-
tion may therefore be resumed without fear
of shortage."

A gayer note is struck in the picturesque
article Through Belgium (by the [very] special
correspondent of the Journal de Geneve). He is
said to have noted with admiration the Town
Hall of Louvain, the only building left intact
among the ruins. The editor adds by way of
note : " This building withstood the flames
thanks to German officers and soldiers, who,
at the peril of their lives, and under fire from the
inhabitants, exerted themselves to save the
famous structure." German History is a
wonderful thing ! It will be telling us some
day that the good citizens of Louvain roasted
themselves.

Telegrams from General Headquarters oc-
cupy the last page. Pencil in hand, I marked

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 201

off the number of prisoners taken by the
Germans from the 5th to the 9th of June,
and this number is indeed unprecedented :
61,860 prisoners, to say nothing of cannon,
machine-guns, etc. etc. How can one wonder,
in the face of these absurdities, that the
German people are still confident of final
victory ?

The Boche has no scruples as to methods
of propaganda. I say nothing of the distribu-
tions of reviews. Die Woche is always of
the number. But I must mention the little
work entitled : Prayers for the Use of French
Soldiers*

On page 6 of this work there is the following
prayer :

Eternal God, Almighty Father, Thou hast brought us into
captivity to make us search our hearts and seek Thy Face.
Lord, we have denied Thee, and Thou hast rejected and
chastised us. We acknowledge that we have deserved Thy j ust
wrath, and we implore Thee to pardon us, to open the eyes
of our poor French nation, and to bring it back to Thee, as of
old Thou broughtest back the children of Israel in spite of
their transgressions. Amen.

I read this over several times, and I was
astounded at first, not that these brief lines
have any exceptional importance as a war

* Herausgegeben vom Landesverein fur innere Mission
in Bayern. Niirnberg, Schweineauerstrasse 99. (Published
by the National Union for Home Missions in Bavaria.
Nuremberg, etc.)]

202 IN GERMAN HANDS

document, but that the avowed dogmatism,
the gravity of the tone, the convinced and
would-be convincing attitude of the Prussian
theologians are positively staggering.

In the eyes of religious Germany, the
France of Renan deserves merciless chastise-
ment. But, taking into account the sufferings
of this country, whose errors, moreover, have
only injured herself, what awful chastisement
must be reserved for the Germany of Nietzsche,
whose crimes are abominable indeed !

June 29. — An exchange of severely wounded
prisoners is in progress. Over twenty of us
are detailed for Constance, and are to leave
very shortly. My joy is unbounded. I try
in vain to moderate it, to think that some-
thing unforeseen may happen, to tell myself
that joy after so much grief contains a germ of
suffering. It overflows in spite of all. For
I have read the order shown me by the doctor :
it is an official agreement ; all private soldiers
who have lost an eye or a limb, all who are
paralysed, blind, or tuberculous, etc., are
hereby rendered eligible for exchange, without
limitation of numbers.

The list has been drawn up. The General-
arzt (Surgeon-General) is, however, expected
to-morrow, to decide certain doubtful cases.

Yes, such joy is not without pain. Too long

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 203

deferred, it disappoints, and unexpected, it is
poignant ; the rapture of it hurts.

July i. — The list is approved. My name is
still upon it. But a sentence of the General-
arzt troubles me.

" B. . . . and you," he said, " may have to
wait for the result of our inquiry into the
Metz affair."

Yes, I expected it. A new pretext. The
doctor says it is not final. They expect an
order this evening.

The same day, evening. — The order has come
from Karlsruhe. We are to stay as hostages,
I for having written the paper, B. . . . for
having signed it. The others are to start
to-morrow.

I have asked M. . . ., who lives in 1'Avey-
ron, to write and tell my people as soon as he
arrives. My grief is cruel, and it is intensified
by fear ; not the stupid fear of chastisement
following on a fault, but fear of becoming
the victim of some sinister manoeuvre. The
story of the parcels seems to me nothing
but a pretext. True, B. ... is to stay
with me.

July 2. — The others went off this morning.
I pondered deeply. I got up before six, and
have just finished drawing up a petition to
the Generalarzt.

204 IN GERMAN HANDS

I protest against the German measure which
deprives two crippled French soldiers of the
benefit of exchange. We have done no wrong.
We made no complaint. The words that have
been recorded cannot be used against us.
They occurred in conversation, and were not
accusations. The facts averred are capable
of proof. The camps in the interior would
furnish a hundred witnesses. Are the authori-
ties anxious to convince us that the guilty
will be punished when the inquiry is over ?
We do not care. Both B. . . . and I are
perfectly indifferent as to the result of the
inquiry. It would be a strange irony of fate if
some fine day we were told : " You were right.
The guilty will be punished," when as a fact
we ourselves would have been cruelly pun-
ished by the prolongation of our exile. But all
this is false. The matter is merely a pretext
for detaining us. And I protest against this,
appealing to the lofty sense of justice of the
authorities.

The text is rather long, for I give a detailed
account of facts and circumstances. After
reading it to B. ... I put it into an envelope,
and take it to the office. But shall I get an
answer ?

I shall need a miracle now to enable me to
get off. I count not upon myself, nor upon

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 205

others. I commit myself to God. My heart
is sore.

July 3. — The miracle has happened. It
was brought about by the accidental coinci-
dence of a train with a number of severely
wounded men on their way to Constance
having stopped here, of nearly a hundred of
them having been brought into our reserve
hospital, and above all, of the presence among
them of thirty-two patients from Metz, most
of whom we knew. They furnished me with a
proof, written and signed by Germans, of the
accuracy of our statements. The culminating
point of the affair seemed to be this : we had
said that the soldier who distributed the
parcels in November exacted sums of from
50 to 80 pfennige from the recipients. We
were therefore suspected of having falsely
accused a German soldier of theft. For at
Offenburg no such sum had ever been paid for
any parcel.

One of our comrades, B. . . ., a wounded
prisoner, who had been at the Montigny
hospital in November, handed me a receipt
for 40 pfennige customs dues on a pound of
chocolate. Forty pfennige on a pound makes
80 pfennige on a kilogramme, just as we had
said.

As to the irregular practice of stopping

206 IN GERMAN HANDS

parcels and suppressing eatables, the wounded
from Metz told us that this was still going on
in the Hospital of San Klemens. After a few
months of postal rectitude, the Germans at
Metz had begun their pilfering again. To
justify their lapses more or less, they had
invoked the feverish state and weak digestions
of the French wounded. Be this as it may,
the fact remained that chocolate and other
eatables were not given to the patients, which
was what we had said.

I hasten, however, to warn our friends.
Doctor H. ... is very inquisitive. He will
know that they come from Metz, he will
question them about the parcels. ... It is
very important that they should be silent.
It is quite enough that B. . . . and I should
be detained for having said too much.

July 4. — A visit from the Stadtpfarrer
(pastor). He had heard of my misfortune.
He tells me to write a letter to the General-
Kommando with the necessary detail. He will
send it off, and support it to the best of his
ability.

I do so gladly. Even if it does not enable
me to go, it cannot do me any harm.

July 5. — I get an answer from the General-
arzt. Polite and rather vague.

There is a good deal about " German

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 207

honour." The inquiry, moreover, is on foot.
He no longer controls it, and could not stop
it if he would. As to a " pretext," I cannot
really believe it ; it would be impossible for
me to believe it. We shall only be detained
as long as it is necessary.

Yes, I thought so.

July 6. — The doctor examined all the
wounded from Metz this morning. He seems
to have been impressed by their unhealthy
appearance, by some severe wounds received
last August and not yet healed, by gan-
grenous sores and twisted limbs, the more so
that in my ward there is a severely wounded
man, still unhealed, a victim of the wedge
treatment.

" I should like to keep these men for three
weeks," he tells me. " They would look very
different when they returned to their own
country."

The argument is admirable ! Not for your
sakes, poor wretches, but for Germany, with
an eye to neutral opinion, for the gallery,
" for honour " !

Perhaps I have convinced him ! Perhaps
he believes at last in honour !

The same day, evening. — Ward 12, first
floor. B. . . ., R. . . ., and a few others are
gathered together. I am in the middle of

208 IN GERMAN HANDS

them. Doctor H. . . . enters. He at once
begins to ask questions. The wounded men
are silent. I suppress a smile.

" Why do they not answer ? "

" Well, Monsieur le Docteur, it's simple
enough. I warned them. They don't want to
be kept back."

" You did this ? " His amazement is
boundless.

" Yes, certainly."

" But it is folly. You are sacrificing
yourself."

" I think not, doctor. They are holding
their tongues in my interest. They can
speak, but it will be in France. You wanted
to hold an inquiry. Well, a French inquiry
parallel with yours will prove the facts.

" You are an obstinate fellow ! But I
insist upon their speaking."

He questions them again ; general silence.

" If I give them my word of honour that
they shall leave just the same, that they may
speak freely ? "

I give B. . . . a look. He steps forward.

" Then we will speak."

Then the whole business is revealed. The
doctor tries to hide his discomfiture. He
leaves us presently, promising in a loud
voice :

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 209

" Very well. This is better. I will settle
this."

He has a long colloquy with the General-
arzt outside the office. Then he comes back
tome.

" Have you the receipt ? "

I give him the paper. He is going to write
to Karlsruhe.

" It's all over now. You will be able to
leave. We are going to stop this affair. We
know now why money was taken, and also
why all the provisions were not given to the
wounded."

I suppose I look sceptical, for he shakes
his finger at me : " Fucbs I Fuchs ! " (Fox.)
He laughs heartily.

July 7. — Karlsruhe has answered. We may
leave with our comrades.

My joy has free course now. But I shall not
be quite easy till we are at Constance. The
non-commissioned officer informs B. . . . and
me that we are to go to the German barracks
in the afternoon. Why ? He cannot say.

This is an alarming riddle. What are they
hatching now ?

We consider two explanations : either the
court-martial has been ordered to try our case,
and has not received the counter-order from
Karlsruhe ; or they are perhaps going to draw

210 IN GERMAN HANDS

up an official statement that the inquiry is
closed. I favour the second hypothesis. B. . . .
is not very confident. I myself am serious.
One never knows with " them."

What would prevent them, when we have
gone through the doors, from locking us up
in a cell, and keeping us under confinement
until our comrades have left the town ? Of
course it would be very late to try to prevent
them from speaking. But are they not afraid
that we should speak ? Was the order from
Karlsruhe sanctioning our departure a new
snare, a measure of clemency designed to
lull us to sleep ?

Preparing for any contingency, B. . . . and
I warn our friends. If we do not return, they
will divine the meaning of the mystery, and
their conduct in France will be very clearly
indicated ; they must ask to have us claimed
by the French Government. I hand my
papers, notes, and diaries to the trusty little
R. . . . And now we are ready.

Same day, evening. — We go along the shady
streets to the barracks. A non-commissioned
officer accompanies us. B. . . . and I look
at each other furtively as we proceed. Which
is the more confident of the two ? The
barracks are close by. All the military build-
ings are enshrined in leafy verdure. The

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 211

large courtyards are full of trees. There is no
hint of prison. Recruits who are drilling look
at us as we pass.

On the right there is a narrow passage. A
tall lieutenant plunges into it, staring at us as
he passes. He says a few words to the non-
commissioned officer, then a door opens. I
am told to go in. B. . . . remains outside.

The room is an austere place. There is a
walnut-wood writing-table in the middle, and
a crucifix in one corner. The scent of flowers
comes in at the open window.

" Your name ? "

I give my name and calling. It is the
lieutenant who is questioning me. He takes
his place^at the writing-table. A secretary is
opposite him. By the lieutenant's side there
is a young interpreter dressed in a pair of
cloth trousers and a white blouse. I am to
speak French, it will be easier. Before vre
begin upon the affair, a few amiable questions
are put :

" You live in Paris ?"

" Not altogether, monsieur."

" And what do you think of the war ? "

" War, in general, is ruinous for every
one. . . ."

" But who brought this one about, do you
think ? "

212 IN GERMAN HANDS

I cough discreetly. The three men look at
me. I answer slowly :

" The papers say it was you. After the war,
History will give more decisive facts, positive
proof."

" The papers ? What papers ? "

" Well . . . the French papers."

" Which of these do you read ? "

I was about to pronounce a well-known
name. I check myself, biting my imprudent
tongue, and answer hypocritically :

" The Echo des Pyrenees."

He seems satisfied, and turns his cigar
round and round.

" The Echo des Pyrenees ! I never heard of
it. Is it a military review ? "

I assent with a glance.

Then we begin to talk of the affair, and I
am reassured. They sent for us to stifle the
scandal. After a few questions, a report is
drawn up. The silence is broken by occasional
questions of an absurd kind.

" France is done for, don't you think ? "

" I hope not, mon lieutenant"

" You have fine theatres, many pretty
women. . . . How do you like Germany now
you have seen it ? "

" The Duchy of Baden is charming ; the
Black Forest is most beautiful."

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 213

" And what about the organization, of our
hospitals ? "

" Very good, lieutenant." (This is true
enough).

" And what do you think of our soldiers ? "

" I know very little about them. I had
only been at the front six days, and I was
wounded in my first fight."

" They are admirable, and most perfectly
disciplined. Our officers are very highly
educated, and most efficient. Now, I have
just come from the front. I have seen
French prisoners, several officers of my own
rank. None of them could speak German,
or at best, they could only speak a few words,
and this very badly. Our officers can all
speak French, many of them better than I.
How do you think I speak ? "

He runs on in this strain. I think of B. ...
in the passage. He must be on thorns.

At last the report is finished. They read
it aloud to me ! It is neither more nor less
than a certificate of German honesty. I pro-
test gently. I point out quite civilly that I
was not charged by my government to under-
take this gracious task of distributing praises.
I ask for a very brief summary of the ascer-
tained facts in their entirety, with the recom-
mendation that the French soldiers implicated

214 IN GERMAN HANDS

should not be tried, as their statements were
found to be correct. The lieutenant insists,
threatens, and storms. I keep silence. Finally,
he gives way, but he stipulates that the purpose
to which the money was applied should be
mentioned, and also the reason which justified
the suppression of the eatables sent to feverish
patients. I agree to this.

Then the writing begins again. Twenty
lines are enough this time. There is, however,
a little sentence full of adjectives, slipped in
at the foot of the text, which implies that we
had nothing to complain of. However, we
sign. We are old enough to record our actual
memories when the moment comes. I sign
first, peering at this sentence, which was not
read aloud to us. The lieutenant is watching
me. B. . . . comes in. They read the paper
to him. He signs and we go out. . . .

Oh ! what a soft, blue atmosphere, what a
fair summer evening above our heads !

July 10. — I have not written anything for
three days. I have been too excited. I
cannot sleep.

To go back, to see France again, to find her
brave and faithful to her duty. After the long
nightmare I am almost afraid of the waking.
I cannot be calm. This faculty for suffering
that we bear within us is really amazing. . . .

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 215

July ii. — We visit the cemetery. Doctor
H. . . . arranged this, and we are touched by
it. It is a pity that he should have circum-
scribed its magnanimity by the following
sentence :

" You will see, and then you will be able to
tell them in your country how Germany
respects the mortal remains of soldiers who
died doing their duty."

This is an allusion to complaints in the
papers touching German soldiers buried by ours
with an epitaph I will not repeat. It would be
odious, if true ; but I cannot and will not
believe it. »\

So we made a collection. All the French
wounded gave their mite. After our meal,
about 7 o'clock, the deputation started. It
consisted of D. . . ., the artist, B. . . ., and
myself. Two unarmed wounded German sol-
diers escorted us.

At the cemetery gates we found flowers ;
eight enormous bouquets, then geraniums and
a few roses in pots. The flower-seller came
herself with tools to replant the flowers. And
we went on to the graves.

How melancholy it was ! The German
soldiers stood bareheaded and silent. B. . . .
and D. . . . divided the flowers. My in-
firmity deprived me of the sad pleasure of

216 IN GERMAN HANDS

helping them, so I stood leaning against a
tree. Some forty modest graves with flowers
on them lay in two rows : the graves of soldiers
without families who had come to Offenburg.
A cross at the head marked the narrow space,
and the outline of the grave was marked by
lines of box. A few geraniums, and here and
there a rose-bush decked the soft soil. And
there are eight of our soldiers there. . . .
At a first glance it was not easy to distinguish
these from the rest. But a remark helped me
to recognize them. The German crosses have
a small Maltese cross painted above the name.
The French graves are without this sign.

I read the names :

" Jean L. . . ., Francois B. . . ., Albert
F. . . .," and five others.

B. . . . distributed the flowers as I looked.
The roses were planted, the geraniums appor-
tioned. Two little girls, from ten to twelve
years old, watered each grave carefully, with-
out distinction.

" The flowers are watered every evening,"
says one of the soldiers.

There is a gleam of gold from the plaited
locks of the children. A few visitors are
looking at us from the walks. The evening
peace is profound. The woman in charge
points to one of the graves :

AT OFFENBURG IN BADEN 217

" A captain lies there."

I look at the name. Jean L. . . . Nothing
else. The soldier is not so sure. He knows
that an officer was buried in this corner, but
he does not seem to recognize the name on
the cross.

" Well, it was some months ago. Perhaps
Sister Arnolda could tell you."

B. . . . and D. . . . have finished. We
linger still. It is hard to leave the spot.
Some pollarded acacias make a dark patch.
There are hardly any cypresses. The watered
flowers smell sweet. And we think of our
French cemeteries, of the families of those
who are sleeping here. Yes, it must be
terrible not to be able to come and tend the
grave of the lost one, to know that he lies
among strangers, that no fond hand closed his
eyes, no loving lips gave him the farewell kiss.
But we think, too, that those who sleep here
did their duty, that they did not fail in their
task, and a strain of lofty pride mingles with
our pain.

We bow our heads in silence. We do not
weep, we are no longer sad. Our hearts
speak to them, and we bid them farewell in
grave, fraternal salutation.

July 13. — My thoughts are far away. When
Sister Arnolda rallies me on my absent look,

218 IN GERMAN HANDS

I can only smile. How impatient I am !
After nine months of endurance, I am irritated
by a delay of a day or two.

Oh ! to see my people again, in PArdeche
or le Gers, but in France, in my own country !
To find the great nation with a new soul, a
soul tempered by suffering ! . . . I know that
Constance is crowded with wounded. The
arrival at Offenburg of 300 men to be ex-
changed was not an isolated instance. Nearly
all the towns on the way are in the same case.
The first departure for Lyons took place the
day before yesterday. In a few days more
we shall be able to start. My heart, my
heart, have patience !

VI. EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE

July 14. — It is over. Offenburg lies far
behind us. The first spurs of the grey moun-
tains hide its roofs. Yesterday we were
waiting for orders, and the doctor said :
" Sunday." Then a telegram came. We were
called at 6 o'clock, and at 7 we were all waiting
in a group, in the great hall on the first floor.
I had said my farewells upstairs ; deeply
moved, I had pressed the hands of my friends.
I was- on my way to joy, but I thought of those
we were leaving behind, my dear little R. . . .,
D. . . ., the Amiens painter, and many
others, now recovered, who were to be sent
to internment camps.

Sister Arnolda too held out her little hand
to me, and I pressed it gently. It was a
loyal hand, the hand of charity. Of all the
Sisters we encountered in Germany, you
alone were, to many Frenchmen, an incarna-
tion of kindly sympathy with suffering, that
Christian virtue which seems to be dying out
on your soil. For this we thank and admire
you, little Sister with the gentle smile, and

may God be gracious to you.
219

220 IN GERMAN HANDS

Then it was the doctor's turn. He too held
out his hand. All those who had been present
for the past two months at our arguments and
discussions will have understood the feeling
that moved me to take the hand that had
healed me. For a moment, I forgot the Boche.
I saw only the admirable doctor who had
operated on so many Frenchmen, who restored
the use of his leg to poor N. . . ., the play
of their muscles to others, to many more their
health, and who had also been the benevolent
and indefatigable protector of the French
prisoners — laying himself open to attack, as
I well knew. I will not play with words.
His true character stands out, I think, in the
foregoing pages. He is unquestionably a
German, a Boche, if you will, but this Boche
has a heart — not perhaps for France ; yet he
showed it to her sons. As a Frenchman, I am
his enemy. As a man, I owe him a greeting.

The Frau Kommando was there. She put
in her spiteful word :

" Are you letting him go ? "

The motors arrived ; vans were waiting
for the stretchers. We were soon at the
station. The Lehrer took away my crutches,
and we waited a long while.

Now we are getting along. We left at
10 o'clock.

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 221

I am in the last carriage of the train, with a
number of new faces. B. ... is some way off.
I don't know where the rest are. Oh ! what
a delicious morning ! Tunnels, suspension
bridges, precipices, wooded heights, the beds
of torrents on every side. The Black Forest
is a Switzerland or a Central Plateau. Here
and there some dark houses, wider above than
below. Wooden walls rise from the cement
foundations. Thousands of window-panes
glitter in the sunshine. These houses seem
to be all windows.

We are going via Triberg. A halt. The
lamps are put out. This is the culminating
point :. station of Sommerauer (932 metres),
an air-cure resort, if I may judge by the villas
and hotels that nestle among the pines. The
line, which now begins to descend, has
fewer tunnels. The land seems to be culti-
vated. Presently we run into Triberg. But
we see nothing of the town. The station
seems important. We wait twenty minutes.
An express enters the station : Constance,
via Triberg. The train is full of soldiers.
A non-commissioned officer in the last carriage
makes a sign to me. I recognize him vaguely.
He is a schoolmaster who was in hospital at
OfTenburg, and is now going for a holiday to
Switzerland. This train goes off : we follow

222 IN GERMAN HANDS

it. Now we come to the plain. The term
is relative. Here and there we pass through
deserted stations. The country is less beauti-
ful, less undulating, but more fertile ; not
much corn, however ; immense stretches of
verdure.

5 o'clock^ Radolfzell. — Lake Constance. The
wind rose towards evening. It raises waves,
and the water becomes dark. There are
pleasure-boats under the lee of the mole. But
I am not much concerned with the view. I
am looking within myself.

Singen. — An immense factory to the right
of the railway, a branch of the Maggi firm.
An iron bridge passing over the line gives
the workmen access to the neighbouring
streets. And it is the hour when they all
come out. The bridge, soon crowded with
people, forms an observatory for the crowd.
" French prisoners on the way to Constance ! "
There are neither threats, cries, nor angry
gestures. They look in silence. To the left,
under the long glass roof, there are flags on all
the pillars, pennons with the Baden colours,
evergreens and flowers, ready to welcome the
German wounded returning from France.

A final start. This time the train goes
slowly. It follows the contour of the lake,
now close to the edge, now farther inland.

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 223

At last we are at Constance. We pass
through the suburbs. From wooden sheds
standing in rows under the trees behind low
walls there are cries of greeting. They come
from Frenchmen like ourselves, whose red
ktpis glow in the evening light ; they are
wounded soldiers waiting to start. A pictu-
resque medley : Zouaves, Chasseurs, artillery-
men, infantrymen, clad in nondescript gar-
ments of every sort. We return their
salutation.

Our train runs into the station. The Swiss
train on the opposite line is already full. It
starts at 7.40. It is only just 7. We question
its lucky occupants.

" How many days were you at Constance ? "

" Shall we have to stay long ? "

" Shall we be examined ? "

" Are they very severe ? "

Questions and answers cross each other.
I catch the second as they fly. No, not very
severe for private soldiers. The Commission
is indulgent. They are not quite so easy with
the non-commissioned officers.

Now we are on the platform. Those who
can walk go off in little groups, escorted by
soldiers. I sit and wait on a bench. I
cannot hop along on one foot.

July 15. — Lodged at the barracks in a

224 IN GERMAN HANDS

wooden shed. Nearly 200 of us. Directly
we arrived last night we had to fill in our
papers. Identity, etc. . . . For the Com-
missioners, it seems. We are to go before
them to-day at 10 o'clock. I am over-
excited, and slept very badly. Besides, our
mattresses are so alive with vermin they
could walk to the lake by themselves.

Same day, about noon. — The formalities
are over. We went through in order according
to the numbers on our beds. I was No. in.
How many pale faces and features contracted
by suffering there were in that procession !

The Commission is composed of two German
doctors of high rank and two Swiss doctors ;
the latter spoke little, acquiescing in what was
said by the others. They were liberal enough
in their selection. Out of our two hundred,
only five or six were refused.

The longest and most elaborate examination
was bestowed, as was just, on the consumptive
and paralytic patients. Those who had lost
a limb were very soon passed through. " Ai "
or " A2," the doctor called out, according
to the missing member ; we replied " Pre-
sent." The examination was brief. Several
non-commissioned officers who had lost a leg,
and who were very nervous, having only this
one wound, were nevertheless passed. One

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 225

of the German doctors soon pointed this
out :

" You can tell them in France that we are
very liberal. We trust France will be equally
so to our wounded."

The reason for this conduct is rather to be
found, in my opinion, in the arrival by train
to-day of twenty-eight German non-com-
missioned officers, not very severely wounded.
This German generosity is the direct result
of a chivalrous French action.

July 1 6. — Our excitement is at fever pitch.
A train is to start for Lyons to-night. Shall
we be among the lucky ones ?

The Constance newspapers say there are
1500 wounded in the town. The sheds are
emptied in rotation. Ours, the largest, con-
tains enough severely wounded men to fill a
train. The orderlies say it will be evacuated on
Saturday or Sunday, and then we shall start.

The time passes very slowly. We are not
able to go out. We may just pace up and down
in front of the door ; but a sentry with his
rifle on his shoulder hampers our movements.
As soon as an officer appears the man stands
suddenly to attention. This amuses us a
little. Our only distraction is to watch the
Landsturm drilling and doing the goose-step
twice a day. The sight is interesting. A

226 IN GERMAN HANDS

sergeant-major — whose two legs must cer-
tainly represent a weight of 200 pounds —
gives the word of command. His voice is
unique, like the bark of a pug-dog in tone and
compass : short, sharp, trenchant, and shrill
on certain syllables. The antics of this
portly non-commissioned officer, with his
very short tunic compressing his waist, and
his enormous posterior are our greatest
diversion.

We smoke, be it said. Tobacco is cheap
here, and our orderlies are willing to trade.

Yesterday I was surprised and delighted to
see two non-commissioned officers arrive in
my shed : M. . . . and R. . . . They were
sent to Constance quite a fortnight ago, and
I thought they were at Lyons. But it seems
that the Commission rejected them. The
usual reason : only one limb missing ; stripes
on the sleeves. Two days later, they were
sent to an internment camp a long way off.
The day before yesterday, they returned to
Constance, recalled by a telegram from the
Kommandantur. The reason given yesterday
was the presence in the train-load of German
wounded of non-commissioned officers lacking
one limb like M. . . . and R. . . ., who had
been repatriated by the French. My two
friends were enchanted. But what emotions

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 227

they must have experienced in one week ! I
shudder at the thought of it.

July 17. — The food is not good ; it is
sufficient, perhaps, but very inferior to that
of Offenburg. It does not much matter, it is
true. Oh ! soon we shall be tasting our own
good bread, and the light wine that gives one
wings ! There is no sugar in the coffee ; but
I suspect the orderlies of filching this, for they
make up half-pound packets which they sell
to us.

All the articles in use are dirty. I have
already spoken of the bedding : it is alive with
lice, and with other loathsome little insects.
Every day we are busy killing them. " They
are brought from yonder," says a corporal
to me. He means from the camps. Our
spoons, our forks, our rounded knives, the
glass we drink from, are all begrimed. And
what shall I say of the sheets — for we have
sheets, though none of us ever use them.

July 1 8. — To-morrow is the day. Some
Swiss deaconesses have come to bring us
flowers. They brought us the pleasant news.

Many of us are anxious. So far, no one
has been informed of the verdict of the Com-
mission. But we know that several of us are
to remain at Constance. They are to be
rejected as not very seriously wounded. We

228 IN GERMAN HANDS

are racked by fears. We talk together to
pass the time.

I have made the acquaintance of several
severely wounded men who have come from
Parchim. They give me details. Life there
is intolerable. The food is unspeakable ;
scarcely ever any meat ; the substitute is
cod, tainted dried cod, the spongy flesh of
which has a repulsive stench. Every kind
of ill-treatment ; but this is most lavishly
bestowed on the Russians. A diminutive
Prussian lieutenant sets the example. His
favourite amusement is to slap the faces of the
soldiers, more especially the non-commissioned
officers. The jailers use a cudgel or an ox-
sinew lash. Bread is hardly issued at all ;
ever since the end of June the allowance
has been three pounds for twelve men, that is,
125 grammes a day. Of course this is Kriegs-
brotj adulterated and fermented, chiefly bran
and potatoes. The postal service is fairly
good, save when the commandant takes it
into his head to stop all correspondence for a
month. Parcels are delivered, which enables the
men to feed themselves, without drawing much
upon the bran-soup and the rotten potatoes.

At the camp of Merseburg, other comrades
tell me, life is much the same. But ill-treat-
ment is less frequent. The punishment of

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 229

" the post " is the only one inflicted. I will
describe this torture.

The victim is tied to a wooden post set up
in the middle of the court. His head-gear is
taken away from him, and he is left in the sun
or the cold, according to the season, for a
certain number of hours, in proportion to the
gravity of the fault to be punished.

Another punishment very frequently in-
flicted is to deprive the whole camp of its
letters. This method has a double advantage.
It lightens the labours of the censors, who are
not very well versed in the subtleties of our
language.

Sound prisoners are made to work. Some,
go as agricultural labourers to great land-
owners, in place of the labour the army has
absorbed ; others work in factories and make
explosives. Many are sent to the mines.
This last, M. . . . tells me, is the hardest
of all the tasks. Young and old are detailed
for it without distinction ; professors and
teachers are even specially selected, and the
results are heartrending. Catastrophes due to
inexperience are of almost daily occurrence,
and claim as many victims as the bursting of a
shell. Many prisoners who were not wounded
on the battlefield will come back from Germany
minus a limb.

230 IN GERMAN HANDS

We talk of the state of mind of prisoners in
the camps. M. . . . tells me it is satis-
factory. He praises the industry of the pri-
soners. The camp is a little bazaar. All sorts
of things are bought and sold there. In one
corner a tea-seller dispenses his hot drink in
the sheds at stated hours. In another, a
manufacturer of milk-chocolate has made
some moulds for himself, and his enterprise
is prospering. Some are tobacco-vendors.
Others sell salads. Among the latter is a
huge negro, a Senegalese, formerly, they tell
me, trumpeter to the Marchand Mission.
This hero, a giant in stature, is the terror
of the German guard. The sentries are
afraid of him and leave him in peace. Attempts
to force him to work were all futile. He
declined the proposal with scorn.

His present occupation is to lay out tiny
gardens in the confines of the sheds, and to
cultivate salads in them.

The Russian element predominates in the
camps. There are a few Englishmen, but
very few. All these prisoners trade with one
another. The Russians sell their splendid
boots to the French for a mark, or a mark and a
half ; the English sell their overcoats.

There is not a soldier but has his souvenir.
Jewels and trinkets abound. The Russians,

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 231

in default of metal, quietly requisitioned the
long leaden pipes which bring water to the
wash-houses. Or again, they annexed the
benches, carving miniature aeroplanes from
them, to the despair of the German custodians
of the furniture. They have even begun to
attack the beams which support the roof.

All these details make us laugh.

They tell us, too, of the cunning with which
the Prussian authorities send trainloads of
prisoners backwards and forwards from one
camp to another. The civilians assemble
and acclaim the Kaiser, for they believe that
these few hundreds of prisoners are the out-
come of victories announced by the Wolff
Agency. And their joy is very natural.

The artistic element is well represented in
most of the camps. Merseburg boasts an
orchestra. Religious services are accom-
panied by music, and, incredible as it may
seem, all the instruments our brave comrades
use are the work of their own hands. Cigar-
boxes and the cases which contained marga-
rine or preserves provided wood for violins
and violoncellos. All they bought were the
strings and the bow, purchased with the
connivance of the jailers. What is still more
surprising is that the sounds of these instru-
ments are very harmonious.

232 IN GERMAN HANDS

Unhappily this picture, almost a cheerful
one, has its mournful side. Consumption
ravages most of the concentration camps.
My interlocutors themselves are full of deep
anxiety as to the future of the French prisoners.
The human capital which the military au-
thorities detain in the camps is a valuable
asset. After our victory, when a treaty shall
oblige German doors to open before them, our
unwounded soldiers will represent an important
national possession. But in what state shall
we find them ? Anaemia is doing its deadly
work among the less robust. Will the others
be able to endure ? Insufficient food pre-
disposes these men to disease. The much
vaunted German hygiene exists in the hospitals
but not in the Prussian Lagers (camps). The
neutrals must either be the dupes or the
accomplices of the German authorities. Indeed
it is unquestionable that a good deal of dis-
tressing complicity on the part of the worthy
neutrals will come to light in due season in
connexion with their visits to the camps.
The unusual manner in which they are con-
ducted is a sufficient proof of this. To be
effectual, inspection should be unexpected.
The camps, contrary to all reason, are warned
of the visit, often several days beforehand.
Thus there is time to conceal anything that

EN ROUTE FOR FRANCE 233

might strike the distinguished visitor un-
pleasantly. Additions are made to the dietary ;
it becomes normal. If the weather is cold, the
coal-buckets, which always stand empty, are
rilled up that morning. . . . How then can
the report be anything but temperate, and
even laudatory ? _.. . This is the more regret-
table, in that the neutrals will find it difficult
to prove their good faith when the truth
comes to light.

Meanwhile innumerable soldiers are suffer-
ing daily from hunger, languishing and fading.
Many will contract incurable tuberculosis, and
if they come home, will come home only to
die, perhaps after infecting those they love
best. . . . Moreover, there is one phrase on
all lips : it is a plain expression of the thoughts
of all around me : Germany is making a
deliberate attempt to impair or destroy the
health of her prisoners. She is attacking the
race. Facts, identical in most of the camps,
aggravate our fears and transform them into
realities. When, after the war, we know how
many of our soldiers have died in the camps,
an inquiry will be inevitable. Properly con-
ducted, it will give the low water-mark of
Prussian mentality, the deliberate cruelty,
the cold desire to injure that characterizes
German militarism, and its evidences will be

234 IN GERMAN HANDS

such that the German nation will appear
a monster in the literal sense of the word,
having recourse to the most indefensible acts
to vanquish us even in the future.

So each of us contributes his experiences.
It would take a volume to hold them all.
Others will record them better than I, and,
indeed, my notes already cause me some
anxiety. How shall I get them through
without discovery.

July 19. — The sergeant-major has come.
An agitating moment. He reads out the
names one by one in their order on the list :
" no, So-and-so . . . '

Why does he pause thus at my name ? . . .

"in, Charles Hennebois. Well, are you
deaf ? " I felt choked. I answered " Pre-
sent." Then I moved away, all my blood
rushing to my head. I took a turn in the
courtyard, breathing in the pure air. Then I
came back. A joyous commotion filled the
great room.

We are going, going to-day, in a few hours.
Quickly, let us pack. The examination of our
belongings has already begun. By 1 1 o'clock
it is over.

VII. THE WONDERFUL RETURN

Evening, 7 o'clock. — I did not wait for the
ambulance. With five or six others I boarded
the cart a horse was taking along to the
station with a great jingling of bells. The
vehicle is very much like those used by
market-gardeners at home. We sat on the
edges on either side, our one leg dangling. We
soon make our way through the busy streets,
in the sunset glow.

A doctor with grizzled hair and a pale
complexion awaits us on the platform.

" Here, all the men who have lost a limb.
Right up in front."

I lead the group. To our dismay, all the
carriages are fitted with berths. Sleep on
such an evening as this ! All my comrades
agree. I go back to the doctor."

" We should like to sit up."

" Sit up ? How can you suggest such a
thing. You won't get to Lyons till to-morrow
at 9 o'clock. You would be exhausted."

A deaconess belonging to the train is of the
same opinion as the doctor. But I insist.

" We came from Offenburg, and before that

236 IN GERMAN HANDS

from Metz on wooden seats without any
cushions. Those journeys ware fairly long.
Why mayn't we sit up like the others when
we are going to see our own country again ? "

A brief argument. Then the doctor gives in.
As if we could sleep to-night ! Fancy making
us travel in a close carriage without lights.
They might as well leave us at Constance !

I lead off my band. A wounded soldier
beckons to us : " Here ! In the last carriage."
I recognize M. . . . from afar. Now we are
installed. It is a fine carriage, almost new,
with first- and second-class compartments.
That in the middle is reserved for the staff.

We wait an interminable time. French
soldiers and hospital orderlies, and a group of
bandsmen defile before us on the platform.
They are prisoners of the month of August,
going home like ourselves. A train of " Sani-
tarians," as the Germans call them, will
follow ours in twenty minutes. R. . . . de la
F. . . . comes up. He had been placed quite
at the end, beyond the platform. He wants
to be with us. One of the wounded men gives
up his place to him, and goes off to take his.
We are quite full.

" No examination here," says a deaconess
to one of the wounded. I should not have
asked ; but I am delighted to hear it. A

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 237

German orderly comes and takes away my
crutches. I grumble a little at first. But
never mind, I shall get some at home. ... At
home !

A shunting manoeuvre begins which makes
me tremble. Our portion of the train is
taken off and coupled to the last carriages.
It is 7.30. We are at the second platform.
Two Prussian lieutenants with single eye-
glasses walk slowly up and down. A few
French heads look *but and disappear again.
I keep close to the door. I want to see
Swiss ground, to be one of the first to greet it.

A subdued Marseillaise is already beginning
to be heard in our carriage. The lieutenants
prick up their ears. We silence the imprudent
singers. A kindly Swiss captain says smil-
ingly : " Have patience, my friends. You
will be over the frontier in two minutes."

How long those two minutes seem ! A
sharp, short whistle. The train gets under
way heavily. What a length it is. We
soon pass out of the station. There are high
banks to the left and right, a hedge of curious
spectators, and, all at once, noise and ap-
plause. Great Heaven ! We are in Swit-
zerland !

A tremendous, deafening shout drowns the
noise of the train : " Vive, mve la France ! "

238 IN GERMAN HANDS

It is marvellous, delirious. A crowd of people,
light dresses on each side of the line ; not so
many older men, but young ones by the
thousand. " Hurrah for the wounded ! Hur-
rah for the mutilated ! " Kind hands throw
their bouquets at us. Parcels are held out at
the ends of long sticks, bottles of wine, boxes
of cigars, and flowers again, avalanches of
flowers. How this welcome warms our hearts !
We lean out, feeling we have not enough
hands to catch the tricoloured blossoms, not
enough eyes to see the sympathetic crowd.
The train thunders along, bears us towards
happiness. Oh ! such minutes are well worth
months of suffering ! Long live Switzerland,
who offers us this fraternal greeting, and all
the sweetness of her flowers !

Wintertbur. — An immense crowd. The train
does not stop, but it slows down. And we
receive a ringing ovation !

France, didst thou know thou wast so
dearly loved ? Be proud, be happy. These
cries, these acclamations, this tumult are all
for thee ! Listen to these exclamations : " To
France and the Right ! To calm and noble
France ! To her who is fighting for us ! "
And all the notes that we hold in our hands,
and all the flowers piled upon us are for thee,
other !

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 239

The train rolls on. Night is falling. Dark-
ness is about to lend its mystery to our
journey across the plain.

M. . . ., R. . . . de la F. . . ., and I
examine the various missives. Dear artless
letters, strong, noble messages, sincere and
tender expressions of affection and faith.
They are fastened to little tricolour bags, to
pipes which will be a more lasting souvenir,
or slipped in among cigars, tobacco, cigarettes,
and matchboxes.

Shouts bring us to the door every minute.
We pass through small stations, packed with
curious spectators. And everywhere there
are the same cries, the same greetings to
France. I am too hoarse to shout any more.
All along the railway banks, on the bridges, in
the fields, every few hundred yards groups of
men and women offer us flowers : wreaths of
fresh blossoms, or crowns of dark laurel that
were meant for victors.

We continue our work of sorting the letters
as soon as there is silence again. Marvellous
words ! These are unique. They were tied
round the neck of a bottle of old Rhine wine :

Dear and, great French soldiers, — These lines
are to tell you of the heartfelt admiration of some
young Swiss citizens of twenty. You fell for the

240 IN GERMAN HANDS

peace of the world,; mutilated and wounded,
you suffered in exile for the victory of Right.

Ton are going home now. Well, tell your
•people that sincere friends are full of admiration
and of joy, in spite of their tears, thinking of
the French army and the great nation.

Oh ! would that we could help you, in spite of
our weakness. But we have only our good wishes,
our admiration, and our love, and these we give
you.

Signatures followed.

Then there was this other, eloquent in its
simplicity :

1 wanted to offer my services to France as a
military airman. I have applied to the Consul-
General. 1 bring my own aeroplane. French
heroes, what must I do to enable me to come and
help you ?

And innumerable others. I should like to
quote them all.

We are at Zurich. But the vast station is
empty. No one is allowed on the platforms.
It is too near to Germany. The authorities
fear altercations. And I was told just now
in the train of the rough handling of a German
merchant who objected to the enthusiasm
shown by the crowd for the French wounded.

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 241

However, in the open space to the left of the
station, on the bridges, in the windows of all
the neighbouring buildings, the crowd, though
it is kept at a distance, is not silent. Pro-
longed ovations greet the train, and all the
wounded acknowledge them. In the groups
on the platform there are certain sinister
persons, who, under cover of a Swiss name,
try to secure us as correspondents, for what
purpose it will be readily understood. How-
ever, they fail to beguile any of us.

The train goes on again. ... It gets dark
and colder, but we still keep at the windows.
On the neighbouring hills, some few hundred
yards from the train, lights flash out as we
pass. They are transparencies on which we
read a greeting : " Hurrah for victorious
France ! Honour to the French wounded ! "

Food is distributed ; little golden brown
rolls, smelling of good wheat, chocolate, fruit,
cold meat and potted meats. After our
privations and our longing for French bread,
our joy is childlike. We hold the crisp bread
with a reverent hand ; with the other we hang
on to the door to keep our balance. The
train is going fast, and we have been standing
since we left Constance. Sit down ? . . .
But where ? . . . Our compartments are full
to overflowing. Masses of flowers, in sheaves,

242 IN GERMAN HANDS

in bouquets, in every form, and scattered pell-
mell ; magnificent scented carnations, roses,
crimson or pallid. The whole flora of the
country, that of gardens, mountains, meadows,
and banks. In the racks and on the seats
little half-open parcels, tied with tricoloured
ribbons. When we started we were given a
brown holland bag to put all these things in.
And what a clamour everywhere ! Do people
never go to bed in Switzerland ? It is nearly
midnight. Fireworks galore and luminous
inscriptions !

Berne. — A very short wait. More presents.
A dense crowd. Cheers and acclamations.
Suddenly one of us, leaning out of the window
towards the crowd, cries in ringing tones :

" Long live Liberty ! "

A prolonged clamour, the frenzied mani-
festation of intimate aspirations, answers him
at once. It is an intensely moving moment.
The cry is taken up by thousands of mouths
outside the station. It rolls under the station
vault with a sound as of thunder, and is
repeated by distant echoes. . . . The train
moves off slowly.

Fribourg. Lausanne at last. — What words
can I use to describe the growing enthusiasm ?
Massed upon the inner platforms, a human
tide surges up to the two sides of the train.

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 243

In one corner to the left, strong male voices
have started our national hymn, and the
Marseillaise is taken up by fervent voices.
The whole train-load is singing to a man.

Soon, the enthusiasm becomes delirium.
When we reach the passage : " Libert^ liberte
cherie, combats avec tes dtfenseurs," the crowd
roars and stamps. Our carriages are invaded,
the buttons are torn from our coats, my over-
coat is in rags. I try in vain to keep its last
remaining button.

" A souvenir of a severely wounded soldier !
A relic of the war ! For a Frenchwoman,
monsieur ! "

Children are held up to kiss us, and clasp
their little arms round our necks. Eager hands
are held out to press ours.

We are overwhelmed. Flowers, cigarettes,
chocolate in heaps. A Swiss takes my k/pi
and gives me his in exchange. Women who
cannot get near the train beg us to throw them
a flower. We pelt them with roses. M. . . .
kisses his hand to them. Our eyes are full of
tears. When the train moves, groups hang
on to it, like bunches of human fruit, eager to
see and touch us.

We shall soon be at Geneva. And a faint
grey dawn just begins to touch the horizon.
Higher up, the sky is still full of darkness.

244 IN GERMAN HANDS

Trembling stars spangle its sombre blue.
The train increases its speed. And very
low down in the distance, where the mist
seems to part now and then, there is a soft
whiteness, which must be Leman, Lake Le-
man ! And on the other side, those lights that
disappear and then gleam again, must be
the Land of France, the French bank of the
lake!

We fall into a reverie, and the train forges
ahead. A tinkle already announces our arrival.
We rush along the line and enter the station,
greeted by acclamations as at Lausanne.

How shall I find new words to describe a
welcome that was the same everywhere ?
From Constance to Geneva, the various stages
of our triumphal march were marked through-
out by joy. At Lausanne and Geneva, the
welcome, emotional as elsewhere, was already
more intimate, more French in tone and
manner ; it was the crown of joy, the fairest
bouquet offered by love. I find it difficult to
say what I mean. There was a shade of
difference, perhaps not perceptible to the
crowd itself, but to us who know, and who
are familiar with these towns in which so
many French hearts beat in unison. And
then again, it was the last stage for us, after
which our eyes would rest on our own soil.

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 245

The train is off again, and runs on to the
incline which starts from Cornavin. At every
window overlooking the embankment there
are sympathizers who have left their beds
before dawn to greet us and smile to us.
The houses are hung with flags — Bengal fires
everywhere.

And now we are in the country. We
gather in the corridor on the left. In another
instant we shall be in France. After the
exaltation, the various emotions of our wonder-
ful journey, a silence has fallen upon us.
M. . . . drums with his fingers on the window-
pane. R. . . . de la F. . . ., standing very
straight, supporting himself against the door,
lets his eyes wander over the flying landscape.
He must be seeing something in the deepest
depths of his own being.

The deaconess with us respects our silence.
And suddenly, close beside us, a grave voice,
that of the hospital orderly, pronounces these
words :

" Gentlemen, we have crossed the frontier.
You are in France."

Then, strange to say — for we had thought to
cry aloud, greeting France, intoxicated by the
first contact with her soil — we are all silent,
and tears, tears that spring from a very
remote source, the best, the purest and the

246 IN GERMAN HANDS

highest of our being, roll down our emaciated
cheeks, as we clasp each other's hands very
tenderly.

On the platform of a station — Pougay or
the next, I could not read the name — a gen-
darme and a few sympathetic civilians watch
the train go by. Day has come, soft and pale.
When the mists lift, the deep bed of the Rhone
appears from moment to moment. I think
of all my loved ones. My soul is open to joy ;
my whole heart yearns for it. Nevertheless, I
am a little sad. Is it a vain regret, the painful
sense of the irreparable, the melancholy
inherent in these tardy returns, when health
is broken, the body mutilated, the heart
weary ? No, it is not that. The springs of
life have not lost their freshness for me.
Enjoyment still lives. I suffer in my pity
for others. I think of the wounds of France.

Now Bellegarde. — I dare not lean out to
look on the platform. The train comes in
slowly. Hardly has it stopped when music
breaks out, vibrates, swells, and brings us to
our feet. Our legs tremble under us. Oh !
the intense emotion of that Marseillaise on
this bright July morning ! We want to speak,
to shout, but our throats contract, and we
stand trembling and shaken by sobs in our
invaded corridor. But 'fall along the train

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 247

the voices of the wounded beat out the im-
mortal rhythm. A tempest of passion vi-
brates in the words and reverberates in the
glorious strophes.

At last we can see. Our eyes, washed by
tears, take in the sun with delight. Our little
soldiers are present. There is a company
under arms to do us honour. They greet us
with gallant laughter. They look very well
in the new uniform : the grey putties and green
velvet breeches. Even the customs officers
look new to me. My former journeys seem so
remote at this moment.

Our men are already gulping champagne.
A bevy of young girls are decking us with
flowers. We ask them simply, but not without
emotion, to give us the first kiss from French
lips, after so many months of exile. They
acquiesce prettily. . . . An old colonel ques-
tions me.

" So they have taken off your paw ? "

" Yes, mon Colonel."

He clasps my hand. His lip trembles a
little under his white moustache. M. . . .,
who had got out, comes back laden with
flowers. Alas ! I have not been able to
touch our beloved soil with my quivering
foot.

Amberieu. — The same crowd. French aero-

248 IN GERMAN HANDS

planes have come to meet the train. They
hover about two hundred yards above us,
dropping flowers and bouquets.

I am alone, almost sad, in the empty
carriage. Those who can walk have gone to
the flag-bedecked waiting-room, where wine
is offered them.

I think with much emotion : to-morrow at
this hour I shall be at Toulouse. When we left
Bellegarde, French hospital orderlies came along
the train. We filled in a paper and noted the
town of France to which we want to go. A
card pinned on to my old overcoat bears my
number in the train, 143, and my destination.
I have read it over a hundred times. It is a
childish pleasure, but so sweet that it moves
me to tears. To-morrow, actually to-morrow !
And I have no money. A postal order I
expected did not come in time. How can I
let my people know of my arrival ? A
cordial greeting rouses me from my dreams.

" Can't you get out ? "

" No, mon Colonel, I have no crutches."

" Wait a minute, you must have a drink
here."

He goes to the door, gives an order, and
comes back, accompanied by a handsome
sous-prtfet. We talk for a few minutes.
Then, suddenly :

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 249

" Is your family expecting you ? Have you
telegraphed to them ? "

I am taken by surprise, I answer frankly :
" I can't, mon Colonel. I haven't a sou left."

" Where do you live ? "

" Near Toulouse."

" Near Toulouse, you rascal ! And you
never told me ! Why, we are compatriots ! "

He hands me a card.

" Write your telegram. I will send it off
from Amb6rieu."

I scribble hurriedly.

*' Thank you, mon Colonel."

" Your good health, my dear fellow, and
au revoir down there."

He points with his broad hand to the South-
West. Then he continues his visit. All my
comrades come back. One of them kindly
brings me a fine poem by Agu6tant : Sou-
venir cPAmberieu, Aux MutiUsfran$ais, printed
on a double page with the national colours.

The train starts again. The sun has risen.
It has been shining since we left Amb6rieu,
putting dots of gold in the dust on the road,
where our eyes are rejoiced by the sight of
troops drilling. They stop to look at us.
On the edge of the line to our left there are
colonial troops in great numbers, gallant
infantrymen waving their ktpis. We throw

250 IN GERMAN HANDS

them cigars and flowers. Sometimes an officer
on horseback, rising in his stirrups, salutes
with a sweeping gesture.

" Long live the Army ! " replies our train.

But we are beginning to feel the strain.
M. . . ., leaning against the door, looks half
dead. A few of the wounded are dozing.

Lyons. — Our train comes slowly into the
gaily decorated station. The Marseillaise re-
sounds, and is taken up by our men ; the
Swiss national hymn follows. The public is
kept back by excellent arrangements for
maintaining order. There are a great many
uniforms on the platform, a General in full
dress, then the representative of the Minister.
The Red Cross is represented by a large band
of ladies, solicitous and sympathetic, who
help us to get out.

I have buckled my haversack. A wounded
Belgian, who has been provided with an
artificial leg, lends me his crutches, and I
follow the crowd, gently supported by our
kindly Red Cross nurses. M. ... is beside me,
R. . . . de la F. . . . in front. We like to keep
together. They will go to Paris this evening.
Until then our group is to remain intact.

The lift takes us down to the ground floor
of the station. Is it Brotteaux ? I think so.
We walk slowly into a great hall, hustled a

s

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 251

little by the crowd. The walls have dis-
appeared under a perfect avalanche of flowers.
Lyons offers us champagne. The representa-
tive of the Minister of War is going to receive us
in his name. Only those in the first rows can
hear what he says ; but fragments of his speech
reach us. ". . . duty accomplished . . . the
glorious task ; the gratitude of France . . .
her maternal love which will heal our cruel
wounds. . . ." Our voices unite in a clamour
of tenderness : Vive I vive la France ! Then
we all stand and sing the national hymn, and it
is over. En route again now. But these emo-
tions overwhelm us. And the heat is trying.
We need rest.

Under the trees of the Pre-aux-Clercs.

Calm is restored. It must be 4 o'clock.
After a comfortable meal in the great flower-
decked hall, we had a concert. Now we are
all resting, save a very merry Zouave, whose
right foot has been amputated ; he is per-
forming acrobatic feats which raise a laugh.
R. . . . de la F. ... is talking to some
ladies a little way off.

We tried just now to lie down and sleep,
for some beds had been prepared for this
purpose in the hall. But as we found it
impossible, we preferred the pure air out of
doors, cooled by a little breeze.

252 IN GERMAN HANDS

My throat is very painful. I cannot talk.
M. . . . has given me his address :

" Write to me soon."

I give him mine. When shall we meet
again ?

Very close ties have been formed by the
accident of fortuitous meetings. Isolation
and exile favoured the union of hearts. Now
parting is at hand. Each of us goes off in
a different direction, perhaps to link up a
precarious future to his past. How many
cripples there are among us !

But they are hurrying us now.

" Those for Paris. . . . Those for Toulouse.
. . . The wounded for Bordeaux."

A motor takes us back to the station close
at hand, and once more we are saluted by the
troops. A second-class carriage, each com-
partment allotted to four wounded men, has
been reserved for those going to Toulouse.

" Take your seats."

And as night falls, a train goes off slowly
to Perrache, handkerchiefs waving to the last
carriages. They are going north to Paris :
we are going to the South.

At what time do we start ? A civilian tells
me :

" A little before midnight, by the Marseilles
train."

THE WONDERFUL RETURN 253

I tell my comrades and set down this
final note.

Oh ! to sleep now ! To sleep, and live
these wonderful hours anew in dreams. To
gather up with both hands, as a child gathers
up a toy, those pure, sacred and unforgettable
emotions, and hide them away in one's heart.

August 5, Mauvezin, Gers. — An afternoon
in the garden. The sky is a transparent blue.
Flowers all around us. My wife sews in
silence, her work upon her lap. Sometimes
she looks up and her eyes rest tenderly on
mine. I write or dream. The calm is pro-
found, the hour is sweet. But for the sound of
wheels, a cry in the street, or a few sonorous
words in our musical patois, the town would
seem asleep, lulled by the warmth and the
pure air.

How far we seem from the war ! It is now
a week since my arrival. I longed so to be
free, to move spaciously in a broader road, to
be among my own people. The meeting was
painful. Not that any regrets saddened this
sweet hour ; but that so many tears had been
shed in my absence, so many ills had been
bravely borne, calling for the final tears, those
that exhaust the cup.

The melancholy of long-expected returns is
intense. I left you young and strong ; joy

254 IN GERMAN HANDS

shone from my eyes ; it did not seem possible
that evil should befall the firm, supple,
vigorous body you held in your arms. I
come back mutilated, walking uncertainly,
unused to joy. No, there is no regret,
assuredly ; but why do I stop suddenly before
the familiar house, at the garden which a
stone step separates from the old walls. Why
do the two hands that grasp the crutches
tremble so ? Why do I go so slowly up the
polished stairs ? . . . The physical being re-
members ; it suffers and bleeds. What !
No more easy movements, no more long walks
through woods and meadows. Then the
spiritual being, matured by suffering, prevails,
and silences the heart.

The struggle was very brief in me. The
spiritual being gained the victory. My serene
thoughts are busy on this balmy evening,
and they are untouched by regrets. I taste
the salt of life. If my physical strength has
been inexorably diminished, my vision is en-
larged, it embraces new things. My faith has
not succumbed in the tragic encounter with
the realities of conflict. I have purified it,
cleansed it of doubt, and I no longer believe
in death.

FINIS

PRINTED AT THE COMPLETE PRESS

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UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY

Hennebois, Charles

6^-0 In German hands, the diary of

H3713 a severely wounded prisoner