ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT

The tocsin bell has ceased to ring. Swedish men are no longer being called to arms. Quiet has once more descended upon Stockholm, and it is only occasionally that one encounters a detachment of Landsturm men marching through the streets to join their units or on their way home. People go about their business in the old familiar way. It would be hard to believe that the great world war was raging outside, did not the newspapers with their great black headlines and their fateful contents form a sinister reminder.

But the individual who under these conditions started out from the Stockholm Central terminus with Berlin as his immediate objective, was only too well aware that it was not an ordinary trip on the Continent on which he was embarking. He travelled from the quiet of the North to the storm in the South--to the great capital where history was being made, the heart of the great empire which was at war with seven states, of which four were great powers. When Stockholm’s thousand lights faded into the distance, he felt that peace faded away with them, and that each passing day would bring him nearer to war. He was committed to a journey the spell of which would each day grow stronger, and he was a prey to a tension which was only to give way before the excitement and the thrill of action.

The train clanged through the pitch-black night, and the rain wove its delicate tracery on the window-panes. On Trelleborg quay only a couple of baggage and mail wagons were brought on board the ferry, which bears King Gustaf’s name. No Swedish passenger coaches are allowed on the German system in war time, and similarly Germany does not permit hers to enter Sweden.

The sun has broken through the clouds, but the mist has wiped Trelleborg and the Swedish coast from the horizon. A fresh breeze is blowing from the south-west, the Baltic is coated with swirling white-capped waves, and the ferry cuts through the foam on its way to the German coast. There is not a ship in sight, no cruisers, no destroyers or torpedo-boats, none of the greyhounds of the sea to track and hold up doubtful shipping. These are peaceful waters. None of the hot winds of war are yet blowing over this sea, only the cool autumnal breezes caress the wave crests. But no doubt grim times are in store even here, so it is as well to make the most of the fleeting hour.

At Sassnitz we set foot on German soil which formerly belonged to us. Everything is as usual, the traveller’s excitement has been groundless. Nothing--unless it be a solitary Landsturm soldier with shouldered rifle--to remind one of war. On landing, our passports are viséd and our hand luggage is examined at the Custom House. Everything is done in a quiet and orderly manner. The German railway and customs officials are most polite, and look very well in their new ornamental uniforms.

The train swings across Rügen to Altefähr and boards the ferry for the mainland. Here the time-worn churches rear their spires over our old possession Stralsund, where we stop a while at the station. Everything is as it used to be, no hurry or bustle; people go about their business as in times of piping peace. But just as the train is about to steam out, a squad of Landwehr soldiers with their kits under their arms rush on to the platform and take their seats in the last carriage. They are not bound for the front as yet, for they alight at Greifswald. A blurred mass of red-tiled roofs framed in the luxuriant foliage of late summer, and a number of churches pointing their spires aloft--that is all we see of the old university town. But there is nothing unusual to be seen, everything runs its normal course. “Papers!” “Beer!” cry the boys on the platform, and, anxious for news, one buys a paper from one and, to quench one’s thirst, a glass of good, dark beer of the other. A light meal is provided by a woman, who at 30 pfg. each sells small bags of waffles, plums and grapes.

From some belated fields the corn is still being brought in, and black and brindled cattle, and here and there a flock of sheep, is seen grazing in the meadows. Summer and prosperity seem to reign everywhere in Germany, and there is meat and bread in abundance. Is it possible that it is six weeks since this country has been involved in the greatest war in history? Everything betokens peace on earth, even the sky is cloudless and the sun sheds its golden rays over Pomerania. Among the trees by the roadside some women are walking with little children in their arms. They are engaged in earnest conversation and walk with bowed heads. No doubt their menfolk are at the war, and perhaps one of them knows already that she is a widow. A conscientious observer might notice that there are fewer adult men than usual. But the difference is so slight that one would not think of it unless one knew that there was war. Old men, women and children seem a little more in evidence than in peace time: that is all.

At Anklam station, not far from where the Peene flows into the Baltic, another body of soldiers board the train. Their uniforms are dark blue with very bright red collars. They are Landsturm men in the prime of life, and have probably been called up for service within Germany; for at the front hardly anything is seen but field-grey uniforms, a protective colouring which blends with the appearance of the soil and is very hard to distinguish.

Prenzlau--so now we are in Brandenburg. Fresh bodies of Landsturm men clamber into the train, which is to carry them away from their homes to an unknown fate. They come running and singing across the platform, as if they long to get away. Their blue tunics with red collars and shoulder-straps, and the red cap-bands, form a bright contrast to the dress of the civilians. They are strong and powerful specimens of the Teutonic type, but too stout for perfect symmetry. One does not see amongst them any ideal specimens bearing the distinguishing characteristics of the Caucasian race, no broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strapping fellows such as one meets with in the mountains of Georgia; but they are a blonde, sound, calm and yet cheery set of men, all animated by one single thought--to conquer or to die. Their women, children and other relations have followed them to the train to say good-bye. All are cheerful, they chat and laugh. There is no weeping and complaining, it is the great day of joy, when every able-bodied man goes to do his duty for the welfare of his country.

My carriage is filled with officers. They are engaged in very animated conversation; they do not care what is going on around them; they don’t look out of the window and don’t allow themselves to be disturbed by the bustle and crush in the corridor. They talk about the affairs of their units and regiments, about the equipment of the troops and the departure for foreign parts. They discuss Hindenburg’s victories and give vent to their admiration for him. The cares and solemnity of war do not rest heavily on these men; they are animated by a glad longing and sure feeling of victory, and without knowing them one realises that they have staked their lives and their existence on one single goal. About the result they have no doubt. They _must_ win, otherwise their country is lost.

But the hours speed away, dusk settles down over Brandenburg, and soon the earth is wrapped in darkness. The carriages are not lighted--I don’t know why. As we approach Berlin it is dark within, but outside there are rows of electric lamps lighting up the interior of the carriage in a fantastic manner.

The train stops at _Stettiner Bahnhof_. On the platform there is the same busy hum and bustle as in peace time. A whole crowd of _Gepäckträger_ hurry to the window to receive the passengers’ luggage--one notices no lack of men. A policeman hands out numbered cab-discs, the heavy luggage is got out in a twinkling, and up one jumps into one of the numberless taxicabs ranged outside and drives off to one’s hotel.

I am an old customer at the Kaiserhof, but this time I was told that I ought to stay in Unter den Linden in order to be able to study at my leisure from a balcony the endless processions of patriots, who, especially at night, file down the road with proud bearing, singing patriotic songs. I therefore chose the Hotel Bristol. Its name has been removed from the large illuminated sign facing the street. Bristol--this name reminded one too much of England’s faithlessness towards her Teutonic kinsmen! Only the first letter remained, to be interpreted as one might wish.

The hotel was only half-full. Most of the visitors were Scandinavians and Americans. It was just as well that there were not too many, as the staff had also been reduced by half--the other half was at the front. The quiet which reigned in the big building was reflected by the atmosphere of the famous avenue outside. To-day there were no closely packed crowds, no singing processions. Only those people who had business to attend to or who wanted to glean the latest news were seen on the pavements--the others kept indoors. The traffic was, if anything, less lively than in peace time, and an amazing calm had descended upon the great city.

I went out in the evening to see the people and listen to their conversation. The talk was almost entirely about the war. I walked through Friedrichstrasse, Leipzigerstrasse and the other familiar streets. Everything is just as usual. Berlin is wrapped in absolute peace. Innumerable shop windows still shed their light upon the pavements. In some of them large maps are shown, small flags indicating the positions of the armies. On one such map the flags were waving and fluttering, as if a storm were ravaging the plains of Europe. Outside, in the street, little groups formed to talk about the war and to express the hope that the German flags would soon be shifted further into the steppes in the east and towards the sea in the west.

“Why are the streets so silent?” I ask somebody. “I understood that Berlin was in such high spirits.”

“It is so long since we heard of any great victories,” is the answer.

“Patience,” I retort, “you must not expect a Tannenberg every week.”

Here comes a woman hurrying along with a bundle of newspapers. It is the latest edition with fresh telegrams from the front. She is hustling as much as possible in order to impress on the public that they must look sharp and get the news as fresh as possible. On the opposite pavement runs a boy with the same newspaper, calling out his ware in a loud voice. At a street corner stands an old man with his bundle of papers. He is too tired to run, and his cracked voice cannot even be heard above the subdued hubbub of street-life and the quick flow of talk of the people. It is all the same news, and it deals chiefly with the gigantic battle of Lemberg.

The restaurants are well filled, in fact they are all overcrowded with customers. Through the big windows one can see the honest bourgeois seated at his little table, where sausage and _wienerschnitzel_, _dunkles_ or _helles_ may be had in abundance. I entered and sat down at a table, overhearing scraps of talk from all sides--all about the war, about brothers and sons who are fighting, one hardly knows where, as the field post has brought no news for a long time. But perhaps the next day will bring a greeting from the front. Maybe a son who has been reported in the papers as missing, has turned up again. But nevertheless the personal sorrow and anxiety is thrust into the background. Every sacrifice must be gladly made, and the loved ones may lie dead on the field of battle so long as Germany wins her fight against almost the whole of Europe.

On the 13th September the lingering summer came to an end, and autumn suddenly asserted itself. It poured with rain, it was dark, windy, cold and raw. Shallow puddles covered the asphalt in Unter den Linden, which resembled an enormous river-bed still drenched with the flow, and from which the tide had just ebbed. The great avenue now looks desolate with a vengeance. From my balcony I can only see a few solitary individuals sheltered under more or less elegant umbrellas. Berlin’s inhabitants prefer to keep in their comfortable homes, and not even the longing for war news can tempt them out in such weather.

The rain falls thick and heavy and patters down on the dripping limes outside my balcony. Berlin is dull and miserable in the autumn when the rain sweeps its long, monotonously straight streets with their heavy, dark houses. Not even the trooping of the colours and the march-past at midday raise the drooping spirits, and only a few pedestrians with open umbrellas join the band and march in step with the soldiers. The motor-cars buzz past over the asphalt, flinging up a spray of water as they rush along. They are plainly far less numerous than usual. No calls are made, no visits paid, for the whole of the aristocracy is in mourning for lost relatives and everybody’s thoughts are centred on the war. Nobody feels inclined for the futile pleasures of ordinary times when the newspapers speak of a father who has lost four sons at the front, or of a mother whose three sons have each died a hero’s death for Emperor and country. But no complaints are heard, no tears seen. In the streets one seldom sees signs of mourning. There is perhaps a tacit convention not to express in black and white the sorrow which is felt at the bottom of the heart, but to make the grief subservient to the proud consciousness that the beloved one has fallen for his country, never to return!

Already in Berlin I was greatly impressed by the world-wide influence of German thought. Here is a nation which for long years back has known how to read the inexorable message of time, which has not rested on the laurels gained in its last war, which has needed no warnings, and whose watchmen never closed their eyes and never dallied with an inevitable fate. Here is a nation which during the decades of peace has armed itself to the teeth and which now, when the hour has struck, stands ready to meet four great powers in fierce combat and to contend with one of them for the mastery of the seas. It is true that the German people have been divided into parties, as the democratic spirit of our age demands, but the political factions have nevertheless realised the necessity of a strong defence of their common country. And now that the war is raging in all directions, the parties have disappeared completely. Germany at the present time is inhabited by a people which is at one with itself. Here we have but one party--that of the soldiers. Here everyone has but one goal, and there is no one who does not realise that this is a fight of life and death for Germany; all have the same thoughts, all hold the same hopes and offer up the same prayers, from the Emperor who stands first and foremost in war as in peace, to the street urchin who flattens his nose against the shop window and studies the positions of the tiny flags.

But the rain keeps on falling and beats against the window-panes. I hurry downstairs, jump into a taxi and in a few minutes I am sitting in an elegant drawing-room at the dainty new residence of the Swedish Minister, at the corner of Friedrich Wilhelmstrasse and Tiergartenstrasse, chatting with old friends--needless to say, about the war. When I last met Count Taube in Berlin, I had just returned from a long journey in the Far East. Now I stood on the threshold of a new journey, which might be infinitely longer than the last! Later in the day I visited another nobleman, Prince von Wedel, whom I had met in Vienna when he was ambassador there, and in Strassburg when he was Governor. We had much to talk about, but what is there to discuss in these days but the great and bloody drama which occupies everyone’s thoughts--the War!

My most important visit in Berlin was to the Foreign Office. But before narrating what took place there I must say a few words about the reasons which led up to my journey. It was desirable that no one in a responsible position in Sweden should have an inkling of my journey to the front. Our country belonged to the neutral states, and thus no authority must entertain the slightest shadow of a suspicion that I was travelling on any sort of secret mission. No,--the reason was a very simple one. Only a few days’ journey away the greatest war of all time was being waged. It was clear that the outcome of this struggle would decide the political development for the next fifty or hundred years, or perhaps longer. In any case its shadows must envelop the remainder of the lives of the present generation.

The war of 1870-71 became the starting-point of a new era in Germany’s development. Now Germany is once again at war, and the new political problems which may be expected to come up for discussion in the immediate future will doubtless be rooted in the great Germanic war. If the two contending groups of powers were to come out of the struggle only with depleted forces, the war of 1914 would, in its dying embers, carry the seed of a new world conflagration, even more devastating perhaps than the last. But if Germany were to win at all points, the map of the world would undergo sweeping changes, and Germany would then, in the great triumph of her power, discountenance and forbid fresh wars. If Russia were to win, the fate of Sweden and Norway would be sealed. Whatever happens, great and memorable events will arise out of this struggle. How instructive would it be, then, to study the War on the very scene of the momentous conflict, and to visit the ravaged regions where the German soldiers carried the fate of Germany and of the whole Germanic world on the point of their bayonets! No one who has not seen with his own eyes how the Germans fight, can fully and clearly grasp what the struggle means to Germany. But his presence there will enable him to comprehend more plainly what the future holds in store for us, and the happenings which in due course will be unfolded before our vision.

Thus I look upon my journey to the front first and foremost as a political study.

But there were also other reasons and other thoughts that made me long to get out to the theatre of war. I wanted to see with my own eyes and become familiar with war as it really is, and I wanted to gain the personal experience which would enable me to describe to others the dark as well as the bright sides of war. Its dark sides are the hate, the desire for vengeance, the destruction, the gutted homesteads, the ruined crops, the wounded, the maimed, the graves, the grief and privation, but war is bright when it is fought by a united nation, determined to live and to retain its independence.

The unity, self-sacrifice and confidence in victory of the German nation is one of the bright sides of this war, which otherwise reveals an abyss of human misery. I thought it would be instructive to see for myself how far civilisation, Christianity and pacificism had advanced nineteen hundred and fourteen years after the birth of Christ.

During the first phase of the war the British press accused the Germans of barbaric cruelty to their prisoners and to wounded opponents. Not for one moment did I believe these reports, but for the sake of the Teutonic race I wanted to uproot this calumny and to bring to light the truth. If one cannot ask anything else of a people which stands on the pinnacle of culture, one may at least expect it not to accuse its opponents of crimes which were never committed. German protests against the accusations of foreign newspapers were of course of no avail. Perhaps I shall be believed if I protest before God that I will not write a single line which is not true and will describe nothing but what I have seen with my own eyes.

Finally, it was my wish to study the psychology of war, I mean the _Geist_ and the fighting spirit with which armies went into battle, the mood in which they returned therefrom, the thoughts and feelings of the wounded, the spirit with which the soldiers entered the fray for the second time after having been slightly wounded, tended and healed. In the last phase of the Manchurian campaign there was a noticeable weakening of purpose which led to slackened efforts on both sides and caused the war to die, so to speak, of inanition. Was a like form of mental fatigue, an exhaustion of soul and body under the stupendous hardships in the field to leave its mark on the Germans too? Or would their conviction, that the war meant to them the life or death of Germany, endow them with a buoyancy and tenacity enabling them to fight through to victory? It might be of interest to us, Teutons of the north, to gain some insight into this problem. Such knowledge might be useful, should we at some future time be confronted with a situation comparable with that of Germany at the present moment. The outcome of a campaign does not merely depend upon preparations, war material and training. The fighting spirit and general mental attitude of the soldier also plays a most important part. The soldier must know _why_ he is fighting and _what_ he is fighting for. The psychological factor is therefore of the utmost importance. The officer leading his men to the front and into the firing line has neither the attitude of mind nor the time for such studies. His whole attention is and must be concentrated on the fighting itself; he only thinks of utilising the striking power of his men with the utmost effect at the right moment and in the right place. He is therefore--and quite rightly--blind to everything else. A layman on the other hand, whose attention is not distracted by considerations of conduct of war, has better opportunities of studying the psychology of the soldiers.

Once this war is over, whole libraries of books will be written about it. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that on the western front alone upwards of a million and a half diaries are being kept at the present moment. In all directions, in all fighting units down to the company, the platoon and the battery, official war journals are being kept and accounts of the fighting are being prepared from the bedrock furnished on the one hand by the draft of outgoing reports and on the other by incoming papers, orders, reports and communications. The soldiers record their own personal experiences, the officers their military observations. Many a note-book has no doubt protected a heart or checked the death-dealing bullet. Thus the sections of the German General Staff, whose task it will be in due course to prepare the materials, will be occupied for many years to come with this monumental labour.

When I went out to the front, it was clearly established in my mind that my narrative would be quite different from the military accounts. I was not going to devote any attention to matters of purely military science, which could only be dealt with by experts. Even Sweden has from the very beginning had its military attaché, Major Adlercreutz, of the Scanian Dragoons, and later on Lieut.-Col. Bouveng received permission to accompany the German forces. Strategical and tactical observations would thus be absent from my narrative. It would no doubt have been interesting and instructive to familiarise myself in some measure with these subjects. But it was evident to me from the beginning that I should always have to observe the utmost tact and discretion, and even avoid obtaining knowledge of military matters which ought to remain secret until the end of the campaign. This veto comprised the distribution of German forces, army corps, divisions, regiments and other units, as well as any regrouping of forces which might be effected during my presence at the front. I was destined often to hear of such details, but made up my mind to take no notes in that connection.

Neither did I propose to embody in my narrative any account of the events that led up to the war or of the Notes despatched hither and thither across Europe during the days preceding its outbreak. All this had been fully dealt with before. My book was only to constitute a conscientious account of what I myself had seen and experienced whilst I was the guest of the German Army in the field. Towards this army and towards the German people I thus incurred a certain responsibility--my sketch, in order to possess any value, must therefore be a true and faithful one. Towards Germany’s enemies I also had a duty, not to be unfair to them. I further felt a certain responsibility towards Swedish officers as a body, for although it might have been my wish that my observations should be of use to them, it was more than doubtful whether I should succeed in my object. As regards the public, whatever I might witness, I had to guard against the temptation to satisfy its craving after sensation. Besides, it was evident to me that in a modern war there was very little to be left to the imagination, and that the reality would in most cases render it unnecessary to strive after effect. I wanted to describe life and death on the battlefield, that was all.

Such were my thoughts and plans at the beginning of September. They had arisen and matured in my own mind without the shadow of any incentive from German or Swedish quarters. When I had made up my mind, all that remained for me to do was to obtain permission to go to the front and to spend some time with the German Army. With this object I applied to the German Minister in Stockholm, His Excellency von Reichenau, who with the greatest kindness undertook to transmit my request to the competent authority in Germany. After waiting a week I received a very courteous reply saying that I was very welcome to visit the front. The following day, September 11th, I set out on my fateful journey, and at the present moment--when I broke the thread of my narrative--I am standing on the doorstep and ringing the bell at the Foreign Office at 76 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin.

The Under Secretary of State, Herr von Zimmermann, who is acting Foreign Minister in Berlin whilst His Excellency von Jagow is at the Main Headquarters, received me with open arms and said that all he knew was that I was to proceed straightway to the said Headquarters.

“But where are the Main Headquarters?” I asked.

“That is a secret,” Herr von Zimmermann answered, with a smile.

“Good, but how am I to get there?”

“Oh, the Chief of the Great General Staff, Colonel-General von Moltke, has given instructions that a car is to be kept at your disposal. You may decide yourself when you would like to start. An officer and an orderly will accompany you, and if you like you can travel to the Main Headquarters day and night without stopping, or you can choose your own road and time. In fact, you are at liberty to do as you like.”

“And afterwards?”

“After that your fate will rest in the hands of His Excellency von Moltke. No doubt he will map out a plan for your journey. The only thing you have to think about now is to get to him.”

“And where shall I find the car?”

“This paper will tell you.”

Herr von Zimmermann handed me a permit from the Great General Staff which read as follows: “The bearer of this permit is entitled to use the relays of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to the Main Headquarters. Everything that can in any way expedite his journey is to be placed at his disposal.”

In conclusion I was told that the offices of the Volunteer Automobile Corps were at 243 Friedrichstrasse, and that the Acting Chief was a Dr. Arnoldi.

After heartily thanking Herr von Zimmermann and receiving his good wishes for the impending journey, I went off to look for Arnoldi and his office. I found him in a large room full of maps, piles of papers, telegrams, officers and orderlies, and my reception was as usual most cordial--in future I shall not have to repeat this pleasing fact, for everyone has been equally courteous and friendly. To begin with, I was shown a map of the great relay road, but for obvious reasons I must not tell anything about it.

Then came the question:

“Do you wish to travel independently of all regulations or by relays, that is to say, 700 kilometres in 16 hours--44 kilometres an hour on end?”

I thought a moment, then chose to be independent, for if I had done the journey in sixteen hours, I should have been obliged to travel over the most interesting part of the road by night when there is nothing to be seen, and, after all, I had come to see as much as possible. The trip from Berlin to Headquarters ought to mean a continuous crescendo. I ought to know what it felt like to leave peace behind and gradually to approach the scorching firing lines. I thought in my innocence that the roads in Western Germany would be more or less encumbered with soldiers and vehicles. Not a bit of it! It was a long time before we had to drive slowly on account of the congestion, for within Germany all transports were effected by rail.

“Who is going to be my chauffeur?”

“An officer, accompanied by an orderly. Both are on duty with the Volunteer Automobile Corps.”

“Who appoints the officer?”

“I do; and I am just thinking that Rittmeister von Krum, of Württemberg, will be the right man.”

Dr. Arnoldi touched a button. An orderly entered and was asked whether Captain von Krum was at hand.

“Yes, the Rittmeister is here.” “Ask him to come in.” And an officer in field-grey uniform, of the most attractive appearance and charming manners, enters the room. Dr. Arnoldi tells him what his duties are, namely, to take me to the mysterious region in the west, and I wonder in my own mind whether it will bore him to jog along with me on the road through more than half of Germany. I even ask him how he feels about it, and he replies that it will be a great pleasure to him to take _me_, of all people, to the theatre of war. I assure Captain von Krum that it pleases me greatly to have _him_, of all people, as my travelling companion, chauffeur and guide.

My Rittmeister had retired from active service, but on the outbreak of war he had rallied to the colours and placed his car at the disposal of the Crown in accordance with the mobilisation decree. He drives it himself in the service of the Army and the orderly who is to accompany us is, in peace time, his own chauffeur. I was told that the Volunteer Automobile Corps now mustered 350 cars. The owner of a car reports himself and is paid for his vehicle, and he may at the end of the war buy back his car from the Crown. It is reckoned that the serviceable life of a car is five years. If the owner paid ten thousand marks for his car and has used it for four years, he only gets paid at the last year’s valuation, i.e. two thousand marks, whilst if the car is quite new he receives the full amount.

Three hundred and fifty cars--it doesn’t sound much, but these cars merely form the Volunteer Corps, and I suppose you will feel more at ease when I tell you that at the western front alone there are altogether fifty thousand cars in use, whilst forty thousand are left in Germany. That means fifty thousand chauffeurs. When one considers that each car usually has a crew of two, it will be seen that the equivalent of over two army corps are attached to the Automobile Service. There are plenty of men in Germany, plenty for every purpose. On the eastern front I was told that cars are useless outside the German boundaries, owing to the shocking state of Russian and Polish roads. There one has to ride or requisition ordinary vehicles. But in the west the cars play a part the importance of which had only remotely been guessed at, as may be gathered from the course of this narrative.

Finally, von Krum was told to collect all maps (scale 1 : 100,000) that we should require from Berlin to Main Headquarters. I myself received the pleasing news that I need only give ten minutes’ notice before starting, as car, Rittmeister and orderly were always ready, likewise Dr. Arnoldi’s wolf-skin coat, which he advised me to take with me.

I had thus every reason to be satisfied with my day’s work. The trip to Main Headquarters was evidently only the first step. What was to follow? Probably a trip along the line of German lines of communication to the fighting zone, and possibly to the firing line itself. Perhaps it would be my good fortune to catch at least a glimpse of a modern fight. After such a beginning the rest was sure to go well. My excitement on starting had now changed to longing, and I felt that I was about to be carried with lightning speed along magnificent roads towards a spectacle which I would never forget: the German Army in all its overpowering strength drawn up for the greatest contest in the world’s history. The German Army! These words convey nowadays far more than formerly, and the same may be said of the French Army. In these days it is not armies of mercenaries that meet one another in the field, it is entire nations that range up for battle. The difference is only that the German Army is one homogeneous whole and pure in race, whilst the French Army is reinforced with Englishmen and a whole colour-scheme of imported heathens.

The next day I was out with my friend the Rittmeister and got fitted out from head to foot with motor cap, boots and puttees, a sporting suit of suitable warmth, leather coat and vest, rain-coat, a warm muffler and a pair of motor goggles, which I never used.

I ended my day at a reception at the house of the Countess Wilamovitz, née Fock, whose husband, Captain of one of the Reserve Regiments of the Uhlans of the Guard, is fighting at the front. The sole topic of conversation among the guests was the War and the final victory.

The 15th of September we started out. I turned up in good time at the offices of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps, where the car was waiting. But as usual it takes a long time to get away; von Krum has several papers to sign and maps to arrange and Dr. Arnoldi conveys to me very hearty greetings from Lieut.-Colonel Gross, the great airship expert and inventor, who is commanding the Field Telegraph Battalion. Before I left he insisted on my going out to inspect his magnificent establishment. So we drove out to see him and were received at the gate by the Colonel himself, an energetic, virile, distinguished little man surrounded by several officers. The establishment is truly imposing, a whole row of barracks, workshops, depots, stores and stables surrounding an enormous yard, where masts for wireless telegraphy tower aloft. The station is thus in communication with the whole of Germany, and the aerial news operator was just engaged in reading out for the general edification some atrocity stories received that moment from English sources. The telegraph battalion with equipment, men and horses, is, of course, in the field with its Army Corps. But, nevertheless, depots, barracks and stables are replete with a completely new set of everything. In the stables every stall was occupied by recently requisitioned farm horses, fat and sleek and contented in their new unaccustomed surroundings. As regards the men, they were all volunteers, who had offered themselves in far greater numbers than were needed. Just as we were walking across the yard a detachment drove in at full speed with its loads of masts and wire. It had been out practising, and the precision and resolution which distinguished the work of the men was astonishing, seeing that they had only had four weeks’ training. One of them, by the scars on his cheeks, showed himself to be an old University student, and was now headmaster in a school. When addressed by the Colonel he came to attention and saluted with a smartness which made us suspect that he preferred the driver’s seat on a field telegraph lorry to the schoolmaster’s desk. We also visited the immense sheds containing the wagons with their substantial provision for batteries, telegraph and telephone apparatus, insulators, tools, wires and the innumerable objects required for field telegraph lines. The wagons, which are motor-driven, resemble enormous but well-built and graceful boxes. They are of immense weight and can only be used on paved or macadamised roads. On the Polish roads, soaked by the autumn rains, they would not get far. But on the western front it is sufficient if they keep to the main roads, where they are stationed at suitable points as depots from which supplies are conveyed in lighter vehicles to the spot where they are wanted. One store shed contained perfect mountains of gigantic wire coils. The wire seemed to me somewhat thin, but I was told that it fully answers its purpose. The Colonel showed me the lances by means of which experienced and expert riders throw up the telegraph and telephone wires among the branches of an avenue of trees. When I saw all these heavy lumbering vehicles and appliances and all these thousands of miles of wire, the idea crossed my mind that it was all very well when it was all ranged up before one as at an exhibition in Berlin, but how would it all work out in war? Was it possible that everything would turn out as calculated? Would the wagons arrive in time and would there not be endless bother with all these wires in trees and on the ground? I was soon to learn how wonderfully everything panned out and with what meticulous care every detail was superintended by trained soldiers.

But time flies, we rush back to Berlin, cross Unter den Linden and pass out through the Brandenburger Tor. The war cars always create a good deal of interest. The Rittmeister sits at the wheel himself and steers his car with wonderful assurance. He threads his way with the most daring turns and twists in between and past other cars and carriages in the Tiergartenstrasse, and by pressing a little bulb on the wheel he produces a piercing, twittering noise which during the day caused an officer to shout after us: “That’s a nice little canary you’ve got hold of!”

By the side of von Krum sits the chauffeur, the excellent Deffner, also from Württemberg, an enormous chap. His rifle is lashed to the front of the car. I myself occupy the back seat, where I have the map of the General Staff at hand, making hasty notes now and again. At the bottom of the car is my luggage, two bags no larger than can be carried by myself if necessary. In the field one should not carry more baggage than one can cope with personally. Our first halt is at Potsdam, 28.9 kilometres. We fly along at a rattling pace on the magnificent road lined by avenues of trees, parks and long rows of large new houses. Here we have the Wannsee with its innumerable sailing boats at anchor, its leafy nooks, its villas and inns. There are very few people about and we seldom meet another vehicle. But when we sight one down the road, the shrill sound of the canary rends the atmosphere, and Deffner conjures forth a melodious note out of his hooter.

We are not far from Beelitz when a report is heard under the car--it is not a shell, merely a burst tyre which compels us to stop and change it. A horseshoe nail has worked its way through the cover, but Deffner is a handy man and it is put right in no time. There is a fresh breeze blowing, and it murmurs through the pines by the roadside--it is the last breath of summer complaining that autumn is so near. One finds it rather windy travelling in an open car at sixty kilometres an hour with a head wind, but it is delightful and exhilarating to travel fast, to fly along the road regardless of everything and to approach the scene of events which are now daily filling the pages of the world’s history. All unpleasant thoughts are blown away, all fuss and pettiness which one otherwise has to endure are left behind, one simply runs away from it all and is filled with a feeling of buoyant joy and freedom as one rushes past the fields, the homely villages, the farms, the copses, the endless, straight avenues of ash, oak, maple and elm--everything flits past and disappears, whilst the hand of the indicator marks seventy kilometres an hour. There is nothing to indicate that Germany is in the throes of her greatest war. Huge cartloads of scented hay are being brought in from the meadows--not all Germany’s horses are busy pulling guns and ammunition. The sails of the windmills travel round busily with several reefs taken in, grinding the corn which is to be made into bread for millions of soldiers and their families at home. At Treuenbrietzen we encounter groups of merry school children who shout and wave, and in the fields outside women, young and old, are busy gathering potatoes and beet. They greet us with a flutter of aprons and handkerchiefs. Why on earth are they waving to us, I say to myself, but the answer is obvious--the uniforms and the streamer denote a war car, and they realise that we are on the way to the front; whether they know us or not does not matter, but perhaps they think we shall meet their own dear ones who are fighting out there for hearth and home!

Now the country opens up more and stretches out in undulating vistas before us. Presently we reach the top of a rise and see the tower and roof of Wittenberg church in a hollow before us--the Elbe valley. Here is the Schlosskirche, and I see in my mind’s eye the wonder-struck crowds gathering before the portals where the monk Luther nailed up his ninety-five theses. But disturb not the peace which reigns within the church, where the great reformer rests before the pulpit! Outside in the street a body of volunteers are marching; they look cheerful, they march well with a rhythmical firm step and sing a lively and inspiriting war song. At the next street corner we meet another detachment on the way to or from its drill ground. They are strapping young fellows of martial bearing, and one can see how they are longing to get out to fight. They do not sing, they whistle a pleasing tune which sounds quaint among the venerable houses of Wittenberg. They are Teutons, they were not born to be conquered by Slavs and Latins. Their forefathers were described by Tacitus, and they fought and conquered in the Teutoburger Wald. Now it is the descendants of the old Teutons who are gathered under the German eagles to struggle for freedom between the Rhine and the Vistula, and far beyond the valleys of the great rivers. It is a dangerous game to trifle with the eagle, for he may leave his nest and spread his wings for flight. But Germany’s fateful hour has now struck, and the moment has come for the Teutons to assert themselves and to lay the foundation for an assured future. Listen to the echo of their ringing stride in the streets of Wittenberg--the same echo is heard in all German cities where the volunteers rally round the flag! It is a migration the like of which the world has never seen, and the country is filled with the spirit of resolution and enthusiasm which does not know what fear is or doubt, an understanding which asks no questions. They march off to unknown fates, glorious and horrible alike. Very soon they will say their evening prayers to the accompaniment of the thunder of guns and the shrieking of shells. It is not for German liberty alone that they are fighting, it is for the independent existence of the other Germanic nations as well that they fearlessly face death on the battlefield. So no wonder that my eye follows them until they disappear round the next street corner--the sound of their music still ringing in my soul.

_Zum König von Preussen_, _Zum Goldenen Anker_--they show wonderful fertility of mind in hitting upon attractive names to lure the customers into their inns! Many a _Bierkneipe_ in these parts has venerable associations, and inns are still to be found where it is known that Luther sat and quaffed his good old beer.

But Wittenberg also has Swedish memories. Many a Swedish soldier has marched over the Elbe bridge since the memorable 3rd September, 1631, when Gustavus Adolphus came over for the first time to rescue Protestantism and the liberty of thought on earth--up to the October day, 1813, when our old regiments for the last time trod the road to Leipzig to take part in the struggle against Napoleon. How different was the conduct of war on these two occasions, but how alike were the will and spirit of the people!

It was with a mixture of pride and melancholy that I sat thinking of those good old times, as we skimmed the surface with lightning speed.

With the car as a pair of compasses we measure out the distances on the full-scale map of Germany itself. The Elbe valley has disappeared behind us, and we now pick up and leave one village after the other. Sometimes the village streets are paved with cobbles, and our speed slackens considerably. In other places rattling carts drawn by powerful dogs in complete harness come jogging along at a brisk pace. It is a pleasure to look at them. Truly they are examples of faithfulness and conscientiousness. With panting mouths and dripping tongues, and with all muscles and sinews of their bodies strained to the utmost, they tug so fiercely that their paws and chests might be expected to be a mass of sores. The man at the cart does not urge them and has no whip in his hand. He seems, on the contrary, to wish to hold them back when they struggle along too fast. If anyone seems to approach too close to their master’s barrow, they set up a ferocious bark. They long to be in harness as soon as the sun gets up, just like Jack London’s pals in Alaska. It is touching to see their sense of duty and honour. And yet they are but dogs. I felt I would like to follow them on the road and study them. But the car goes on inexorably, and in a twinkling they are far, far behind.

Gräfenhainischen--what a delightful little monosyllable! One must never be in a hurry when one lives at Gräfenhainischen. As long, nay, longer than the name is the narrow street that leads through the village and finally loses itself in the flat country beyond.

Mulde with its bridge and Bitterfeld, where the market is in full swing, are the next landmarks in our journey. The stalls with the busy market life around them look very picturesque. Full of colour, but at the same time so old-fashioned and tranquil--nobody could imagine here that Germany is at war. On the road outside the town we see plenty of women driving or walking back to their rustic farmsteads after their marketing.

At the lignite mines outside Bitterfeld the little baskets on the cable-ways are busy carrying the coal to the factories, where it is made into briquettes.

Next we roll into Halle and are now on the most classic ground of our national history, for it was at Halle that Gustavus Adolphus rested from the 10th to the 17th September, 1631, with the army which had conquered at Breitenfeld on the 7th of the same month. In passing over the bridges we cross a seemingly inextricable maze of railway lines. The bridge-heads here, as everywhere in the German Empire, are guarded by Landsturm sentries with loaded rifles. All railways and high roads, all arteries of communication on land and water, in fact everything that can pass by the name of road is of the utmost importance in war time, as they are the means of carrying the troops to the parts where the fighting is going on. But most important of all are the bridges, especially those spanning the great rivers. Any accident to one of these bridges means the severing of an artery for some time ahead. It may mean the loss of a battle. Everything must run as if it were greased, in war there must be no miscalculations, no sundering of the points which join the front with the interior. The cutting of his lines of communication is a distinct reverse to the enemy. The profession of the spy and plotter carries with it little honour and much danger. But had the allies been able to do so, they would certainly with the aid of enterprising emissaries have attempted to destroy the bridges, say across the Rhine, and thus stop or delay the German advance. Hence every important bridge throughout Germany has been guarded with sentries since the beginning of the war, and no bridge and viaduct is ever without one or two Landsturm men of middle-age, wearing dark-blue uniforms, and in the evenings and at night grey overcoats; they pace faithfully up and down at their posts on the bridges or under arches with arms crossed and the rifle held vertically inside the left arm, until they are relieved by their comrades. As the car dashes past with its fluttering war streamer, they come briskly to attention with the rifle to the order.

Well, we are now at my dear old Halle on the Saale, where I once studied geography with the charming and humorous, one-eyed but yet keenly wide-awake Professor Kirchhoff. Halle is exactly as it used to be. In its main street there are plenty of people about, mainly children and young people, for this is the great highway to Merseburg and to the fighting West, and many military cars dashed past during the hour we halted in the town. Here also large war maps are exhibited in the booksellers’ windows, and outside them interested groups of Halle folk are gathered, mostly schoolboys, who talk importantly in loud voices of the silent, significant evidence of the little flags. At Halle another horseshoe nail or maybe a bit of glass caused tyre Number 2 to burst, and as the accident happened exactly opposite Schultheiss’s door, von Krum and I saw in this a direct hint from fate that we wanted a glass of beer. There we sat and chatted at the table with its many-coloured cloth and round discs of felt under the beer mugs, and wondered how far we should get before nightfall. But as we sat and talked, dusk quietly descended upon Halle and when we got outside the street lamps were being lit. Further away in the west on the horizon the sky was a flaming red--a symbol of the bloody battlefield.

After lighting our lamps, off we went from Halle southward past Merseburg on the way to Naumburg, still hugging the Saale valley. We are still on classic Swedish soil. November memories of 1632--Pappenheim’s cuirassiers, Isolani’s Croatians, holding sway at Halle and Merseburg whilst Gustavus Adolphus is lying at Naumburg. Two hours before daybreak the King left this very town for Lützen. One can almost hear the Swedish cavalry bugle-calls. It was at this same Merseburg that the proud dragoons of the bodyguard under Field-Marshal Count Rehnsköld were installed in 1706-7.

The bright light from our lamps shows up the road for some distance ahead. We have now slackened to 40 kilometres an hour. The leafy trees by the roadside are lit up from beneath, and we seem to travel through an endless fantastic tunnel of foliage. Far away on both sides of the road are strings of glistening lights--the windows of farms and villages where fathers and mothers, brothers and sisters, maids and children are sitting round the lamp to read for the twentieth time the letters and cards received from their soldiers at the French and Belgian front. What do these letters say? I have read several. There are millions of them. The soldier tells his people how he likes his billet, what food tastes like after the heat and stress of the day, what it feels like when the shells burst close by and comrades fall at one’s side. They tell also that the enemy is done for, that he will be thrown back as soon as the commander deems fit to order them to charge. They speak with good-nature of the Frenchmen as courteous and honest soldiers, but of the English with glowing hatred. And, as often as not, the soldier finishes up by saying that there can be no question of any return to the village until he is wounded or useless--which God forbid--and until victory has been gained over Germany’s enemies. For the soldiers know, from the oldest veteran to the youngest drummer boy, that Germany was armed to the teeth to be ready for the war, but that Germany’s Emperor and statesmen did all in their power to avert a disaster which would surely affect the whole world and cause rivers of blood and tears to flow, bring nameless misery to ravaged homes and ruined countrysides, untold nights of anguish and expectation and long years of inconsolable grief and sorrow.

But the evening is wearing on. We have left Naumburg behind us. The good people in the town have gone to bed, for the lights are mostly out and the windows dark. Tucked into their snug beds they listen to the whir of the motor-cars and the warning tooting of horns, and their thoughts no doubt run on to the fateful west whither the cars are speeding. But they will soon get left behind, the buzz dies away in the distance, and sleep carries them into the peaceful realm of dreams. I too begin to get a little sleepy. My eyelids begin to droop and my head feels heavy; it sinks down and recovers with a jerk as the car quickly takes a corner. The excellent Rittmeister seems to suspect something, for he slackens speed and says it is only a few minutes to Kösen; he asks what I think of this little watering-place as a spot for putting up for the night. Yes, I think Kösen is an ideal spot and quite agree that we ought to stop there. So we drive quietly into the little town, the two halves of which are separated from one another by the Saale, but reunited by a stone bridge. We stop at the hotel _Zum mutigen Ritter_ and are soon wide-awake again in its parlour, with a warming cup of steaming tea before us. The host keeps us company and tells us that all the visitors disappeared like magic when the war broke out, and that his own hotel business has dwindled to nothing at all. “But what does that matter as long as we win,” he adds.

The 16th September was heralded by a cloudy sky and heavy, sleepy raindrops, which, however, soon stopped falling after obligingly laying the dust. From Kösen there was a steady rise across and along the heights which line the Saale and Ilm valleys in the north. Pretty vistas open up at the sides, where the valleys sink between the hills and where the forest, dark and heavy, silently mounts guard over its secrets. A little further on the country becomes more broken and the road winds along in big curves. On the left we leave the Apolda and its valley. On a commanding height we catch sight of a so-called Bismarck tower of granite, with the great chancellor’s name hewn into the stone at the top and his portrait medallion at the bottom. These towers are often to be met with in Germany, and on certain days of national rejoicing huge bonfires are lit on their summits.

We cannot drive through Weimar without visiting the house where Goethe lived for forty years, and which stands in the square now bearing his great name. It is with a feeling of reverence that one sets foot on the steps and thresholds and in apartments where Germany’s, perhaps the world’s, greatest poet and thinker lived his life. As far as possible the furniture has been reinstated and restored to its former state. One admires Goethe’s discrimination as a collector and the quick intelligence he brought to bear on all departments of the natural sciences. These traits are evidenced by his large and magnificent geological and mineralogical collections, his zoological and botanical finds, and his physical laboratory. I stop, however, longest before the cabinets containing in large portfolios his pen-and-ink and water-colour sketches. I am touched as I look at them. Every stroke of the brush in these landscapes, portraits and groups has been made by his own hand. Their execution is masterly, and the perspective and general effect superb. Yet this was but a trifling detail in his wonderful endowment. Equally fascinating almost are the busts which render his glorious head and the oil paintings for which he sat. What wonderful eyes, full of life and energy and geniality! They reveal an intellect to which everything is as clear as crystal. With a feeling of awe and without daring to speak to the courteous Dr. Hans Kroeber, who showed us over one of the greatest national treasures of Germany, we entered Goethe’s study on the ground floor with its windows looking out on to the little garden. How simple and modest everything is; it occurs to one that one of the lighter rooms upstairs would have been a good deal pleasanter to work in. Behind the study we see his little bedroom, rigidly simple, where, with the words “More light,” he ended the saga of his wonderful life.

When the mind has tarried for a little while in this world of great and precious memories, and is suddenly confronted on issuing into the square with a detachment of Landsturm soldiers marching off to their shooting range, when one leaves Goethe’s home behind and is once more surrounded by the modern world and thinks of Germany’s gigantic struggle against half the world--then, indeed, one has to rub one’s eyes and steady oneself mentally so as not to lose one’s balance. And this people, which has produced Goethe, and which now with honour and splendid courage fights on half a dozen fronts, has by the press of many countries and in fact entire nations been called a people of barbarians!

But let us continue our trip along the great highway; it is now lined for a long distance with plum trees where women and girls on ladders are seen picking the great violet fruit and collecting it in baskets drawn on small barrows by dogs. On the whole we do not see many people, apart from the handful of peasants driving hay home in their carts drawn by cows, and a few women mowing the grass on banks and meadows.

Next we come to Erfurt, a town which like so many others in these parts is memorable to us Swedes. At “The Tall Lily” Gustavus Adolphus spent one night of his great life. It was the night between the 28th and 29th October, 1632, after the assembling of the Swedish Army which a few days later was to fight and conquer at Lützen. At Erfurt one also thrills with pride at the memory of Field-Marshal Johan Banér. Here, as everywhere, the Landsturm soldiers sing as they march along. We lose ourselves in the labyrinth of old-world streets, and not even my experienced guide von Krum is able to find his way. “Which way to Gotha?” we cry at every street corner, and the answer comes quickly, _rechts_, _links_ or _gerade aus_. At last we work our way out of the tangle and fly along towards Gotha, the city of Justus Perthes and the Almanach de Gotha. Here it is easy to find the way, and before we know where we are we find ourselves once again dashing along through avenues of tall, graceful poplars towards Eisenach.

On our left the ground rises towards the rain-shrouded, misty ridges of the Thüringer Wald, but the road itself runs through smiling villages with their picturesque houses of the timber framework type, where cackling geese and clucking turkeys sometimes do their best to get run over or at all events to hamper our progress. At every bridge we come to, we receive a smart military salute from the sentries. We spin along at a lightning pace to Eisenach, and are as quickly out of it. The road now turns sharp to the south-west and by a series of gentle curves ascends the heights of the Thüringer Wald. On both sides of the road is a fine wood of lofty pines. I could almost fancy that I had been transplanted to certain parts of my own land where the eye is accustomed to dwell on these dark green, solemn firs standing like sentinels by the roadside. It is a beautiful piece of country. The smell of damp earth and juicy pine-needles rises in the air and reminds one vividly of the country on the road from Rawalpindi to Kashmir.

From the top of the hills a vast perspective opens up towards the south-west. Once again the road runs in serpentine curves down from the Thüringer Wald. The forest here consists largely of foliaged trees rather than conifers. Marksuhl is situated in a broken piece of country, where the higher-lying parts are occupied by clusters of trees whilst the rest of the land is cultivated. At Vacha we cross the important River Werra. From this point we progress again at lightning pace. Villages, fields, meadows, farms, gardens and leafy coppices, everything seems to fly past us.

Here we have Hünfeld in Hesse. Let us stop a moment and drink a cup of tea. There is a cosy dining-room in the restaurant. At a table sits a nurse with the Red Cross badge on her arm talking to two gentlemen, evidently doctors, for they speak of the care of the wounded soldiers. A few sportsmen enter with their bags full of partridges and hares. They are dressed in brown and green, with sporting-looking felt hats with plumes, and carry their guns on the shoulder.

We jump into the car once more and proceed to the old bishopric of Fulda, which does not long engage our attention, then across bridges and streams through a series of villages, one of which with its sinuous main street is called Schlüchtern. We continue to be delayed by poultry, geese and dogs, but the children seem to have learnt to leave the roadway clear. The boys give us a military salute and shoulder their little wooden guns, whilst the little children play on steps and benches, the mothers waving to us almost affectionately as if to say, “Give him my love and God bless him and you and the whole of our country!”

_Via_ Gelnhausen we travel on to Hanau, in which neighbourhood we come across swarms of civilian cyclists. “Who on earth are these people, are they recruits on the way to join the army?” I ask. “Bless you, no; they are workmen from the factories and workshops at Hanau returning to their villages at the end of their day.” Big and majestic the Main sends its muddy waters towards the sea. It is raining a little, the roads are soaked but just as good. We can see that we are approaching a big town, the traffic on the road increases, people live closer together, and the telegraph wires combine into mighty clusters--those silent wires which yet talk and know far more than we. When I come to the Valley of the Main I seem once more to hear the good old Swedish music and to see Stålhandske’s cavalry before me, and into the moaning of the tree-tops I seem to read the words of Adler Salvius: “Our Finnish lads who are getting used to those wine-lands are not likely to come back to Savolaks in a hurry. In the Livland wars they often had to put up with water and coarse mouldy bread with their beer-broth; now the Finn quaffs his wine out of his helmet.” Such wealth and such abundance our poor old horsemen and their retainers had never even dreamt of.

Before us through the mist and gloaming twinkled the thousand lights and electric lamps of Frankfurt. When Gustavus Adolphus first came to Frankfurt the good burghers did not want to let him in, but made excuses and put the blame on the Elector of Mayence. But the King answered that he knew of no Elector of Mayence but himself. “I do not want to be delayed. If you refuse to open the gates, I dare say I can find some keys as I have done before in places which have fallen into my hands.” The city surrendered at once. During the winter of 1631-32, when Sweden’s King held his court at Frankfurt, this city was the centre of Europe. It was from here that Gustavus Adolphus said to the French who asked him not to direct his armies against Alsace, which country they pretended to have claimed ever since the death of the remote Dagobert: “I have come not as a traitor to Germany, but as its protector. I will restore it, not rend it asunder.”

We drive on and on. The clusters of houses in the outskirts and suburbs close up into the streets of a large town. The traffic grows, the tram bells ring, the motors hoot, vast crowds of people walk about busily under umbrellas, and after a short while we stop before the entrance of the Hotel which before the war was called _Englischer Hof_, but which has now been re-baptised the _Hessischer Hof_, owing to the feelings of the Germans towards their Germanic kinsmen of the island kingdom.

It is wonderful how attached one gets to one’s car on a long journey! It is with a feeling of boredom that one stops at the hotel where the night is to be spent, and with a sensation of delight that one rises from the breakfast table the next morning to enter the car once more. This is how we felt on the 17th of September, a fine and pleasant day, though heavy clouds raced across the sky. But we could not start at once, we had first to go to a garage to get petrol and then to an _Immobiles Kraftwagen Depot_, where absolutely everything that may be wanted for repairing war cars is to be had. Here we took five spare tyres, which we lashed to the right side and to the back of our car. Of course, we do not pay a single _pfennig_--for we are travelling on Government service.

At last we are off again and follow the long streets of Frankfurt, leaving the city by the western outskirts with their large working-class population. Perhaps it might be thought that these workmen are opposed to the war which Germany is now conducting for the sake of her future? It certainly does not look like it. The social democratic workmen have equipped their little sons with helmets and wooden swords to fight out real battles in the backyards, and you hear them call each other Kluck and Hindenburg.

Once more we get out into the open country, and follow the great road which runs in a direct line to Wiesbaden. The avenue skirting it consists chiefly of apple and pear trees, weighed down with fruit. Farther on we meet with poplars, standing like sentries along the roadside. We do not stop at all in the graceful and elegant Wiesbaden, but fly past its parks and gardens, which are quieter and emptier than usual.

Soon we begin to ascend the Taunus heights via the Eiserne Hand. The rise is gradual and the curves numerous. A trim and straight-stemmed pine wood skirts the road on both sides. One seldom meets a vehicle or a pedestrian. From an eminence a vast panorama is suddenly spread out before us, but the weather has got foggy again and one cannot see far. At Langen Schwalbach the elegant hotels form a striking contrast to the solemn Red Cross flags and the wounded soldiers, now convalescent, who are sitting on balconies and in gardens, taking the air. The road now winds upwards once more, and we breathe a crisper atmosphere, but the view across to smiling dells and wooded hills is limited through fog. Up we go and down again over the gentle undulations of the country, where the ploughed fields merge together in a colour scheme of green, yellow and brown.

Next the road descends steeply to Nassau on the River Lahn. The country is gloriously pretty, its roads magnificent, its forests regal in their dark, silent splendour. On the brow of a hill stands an old ruined castle. The people in Nassau are friendly and greet and wave to us, and a stylish-looking young girl throws a red rose into our car--not for us, forsooth, but as a greeting to her lover, who no doubt is fighting in the war.

A moment later we skim the pretty riverside road to Ems along the Lahn, line up the car in a side street and walk back to the pavement to greet with bared head and a salute a funeral procession which is going through. The dead man was a major who had succumbed to his wounds. First comes a band playing a slow and melancholy march, then two banners which precede the black-craped coffin on its carriage, and behind it the _Kampfgenossen_, members of the Ems _Kriegerverein_, all in tall hats, frock-coats and black ties; the procession is closed by a number of wounded convalescent soldiers housed in the Kursaal. The solemn cortège moves slowly up the street to the railway station, for the dead major’s body is to be sent to his own home. After a while the band returns accompanied by the convalescent soldiers. But now it plays a spirited and lively march. I was told that this was customary after military funerals--first the grief and the sorrow at the parting, the duty towards the honoured dead, then the joy of the survivors returning to the things of life.

The Kurhaus, a fine and roomy building, now contains eighty patients, and more are expected. Most of the badly wounded are in bed, but those who can get up are sitting about on balconies and enjoying the fresh air, and from what they said to me they all long to be back at the front.

I was told here that a young French lieutenant who had been badly wounded in the war had found an asylum in the Kurhaus, and recollecting the reports of the horrible cruelty with which the Germans, according to the English press, treat their French prisoners, I could not resist the temptation to enquire what the French lieutenant had to say about it. His room, which he occupied alone, was certainly not a matter for complaint; it was immediately above one of the six small rooms in which King William I. spent a short time each year from 1867 to 1887, and the view over Ems and the Lahn valley was the same as the King had enjoyed all those years. The wounded man was tended by a German doctor, who entertained good hopes of his recovery, and by two sisters of mercy, one of whom spoke French. But I hasten to add that Lieutenant Verrier, on my asking whether he was satisfied with the treatment he received in Germany, at once answered “yes” with warmth and conviction, and I suppose that wherever his fate will direct his steps he will always remember with gratitude the time he spent over William I.’s apartments in Ems, where the doctor did all in his power to save his leg and the sisters all they could to alleviate his suffering and dispel in a measure his loneliness and homesickness. I am sure that he will be the first to acknowledge that I am right.

I went up to his room and was at once admitted. He lay in a large bed with clean white sheets. His face was little less pale than these, but he looked very handsome with his hair brushed from his forehead, his finely shaped nose and well-kept moustache over a firm mouth, and his black French eyes bespoke a _joie de vivre_ and a bright intelligence. He told me that he had come home from New Guinea in June and that he was just about to be married when the war came and took him away from his bride and parents. He received his wound in the scrap at Rossignol in Belgium. It was a terrible day, spent in the midst of bursting shells and fire from rifles and machine guns. His bullet had struck him obliquely through the knee and calf. He fell and remained lying all night on the field of battle. The following morning he was picked up and taken to a German Field Hospital and subsequently by easy stages to Ems. At the end of August Emperor William visited the town and when he heard that there was a wounded Frenchman there he went to see him. Lieutenant Verrier told me that the Emperor had enquired in excellent French about his adventures in the war and how he felt. I said that I should in all probability soon be meeting the Emperor, and would then tell his Majesty of the impression the gracious visit had made on the invalid. When later I carried out my self-imposed task, the Emperor remembered the French lieutenant very well and was gratified to hear of the hopes entertained for his recovery.

In conclusion I asked Lieutenant Verrier whether there was anything I could do for him within the limits permitted by the German regulations. He seemed almost to have longed for this question, for he had the answer quite ready. Day and night he had been tormented by one single thought: “How are my parents and my fiancée to learn that I am still alive and doing well? I am now in enemy country and have no means of writing.” I asked him for his address, and he wrote in my diary, “Monsieur Verrier-Cachet, Horticulteur, 52, rue du Quinconce, Angers, Marne et Loire.” A minute later I was seated at a desk and wrote on postcards in German the adventures of the young Frenchman and sent them to my family in Stockholm, who, with the assistance of the French Minister, would forward the news to the above address. I know that it reached its destination and caused great joy, for later on I received very hearty greetings and thanks from Verrier’s home.

I have often since wandered with a heavy and lingering step through the “field” and war hospitals, especially the wards containing wounded Frenchmen, British and Belgians who lay there counting the slowly passing hours. How easy would it not have been for me, who had both liberty and health, to send off a postcard here and there which would have reached distant homes with a message of release from the wearing anguish of anxiety! There is nothing so trying and so difficult to bear as the uncertainty of the fate of those we love. When the name of a son, a brother, or a husband appears in the list of missing after a battle, the sickening anguish is almost greater to those at home than if they knew that he had fallen. Their mental vision pictures him as wounded, bleeding to death, alone and abandoned to the horrors of darkness, cold and thirst. But I had really no grounds for such qualms of conscience, for in the first place I had no business to interfere with the regulations of the German military authorities regarding the communication between wounded prisoners and their homes, and in the second place there were far too many of them, and by the evening I realised that the task of acting as a good Samaritan was an altogether hopeless one.[2]

[2] After the beginning of October all prisoners, even wounded Frenchmen in German hospitals, had permission to correspond with their homes. This was given after the French Government had granted the same privilege to German prisoners and wounded.

Meanwhile I took a hearty farewell of Verrier and wished him a speedy recovery and a happy reunion with his people at home at Angers.

Before leaving, we looked at the memorial stone commemorating the fateful and firm reply given “on the 13th of July, 1870, at 9.30 a.m.” by King William to the French Ambassador Benedetti, which gave the signal for the Franco-German war. And now, after a lapse of forty-four years, we were back again at the same point. Now it seemed that the thought of revenge for Alsace-Lorraine had ripened into action--unless it be indeed that other evil powers had exploited France’s longing for revenge, or revived it when, as some say, it was dead, to benefit themselves thereby and stop the advance of German prosperity. The near future will be the judge.

After dinner we mounted our car once more and the canary began to sing so that the good people of Ems might get out of our way. We proceeded along the right bank of the Lahn, following its bends in noble curves. The country round here is exceedingly pretty. It is almost a pity that we have to travel so fast; one hardly has time to visualise the beauty of a perspective before the picture disappears and is replaced by another, if possible even finer. Suddenly, beyond a steep spur jutting from the mountain on our right, the majestic Rhine is revealed to our vision, whilst on the crest of a hill on our left towers a romantic old castle. We dash under another railway bridge faithfully guarded by the worthy Landsturm men. Suddenly we enter a street so narrow that its entire width is taken up by a Red Cross flag of more than ample dimensions. Following this street as far as it goes, we suddenly come to the bank of the enormous river whose German waters silently flow between its prosperous and well-populated banks to deliver their burden through neutral Holland into the mighty bosom of the sea.

Once more the river is hidden by narrow streets, but soon it greets us again in all its wonderful splendour as we cross its dancing wavelets by a long pontoon bridge guarded more zealously than any we have yet passed. Next we are in Coblenz, where, at the point where the Moselle empties itself into the Rhine, stands a gigantic statue of old Emperor William on a charger. The plinth of this monument bears the following memorable inscription: _Nimmer wird das Reich zerstöret wenn Ihr einig seid und treu_.[3] The truth of these significant words is now indeed brought home to Germany and to the world.

[3] “Never shall the Empire be destroyed if ye united are and faithful.”

The road next takes us up along the right bank of the Moselle, where a stone bridge with beautiful arches takes us across and past a couple of Moselle steamers which are lying moored, carrying the Red Cross flag. The narrow, winding streets are filled with tramcars, cabs, vans, men and women, and last but not least soldiers in German army uniforms. We breathe more freely as we come out again on to the open road and speed along the bank of the great Rhine tributary. There is plenty for the eye to feast on. Now and again we catch sight of a little steamer or tug gliding on the river; on the steep left bank stone buttresses support the vineyards. The landscape itself is indescribably beautiful round these endless bends, as one village after another comes into view, the grey houses with their black slate roofs and the beautiful churches showing up strikingly against the luxuriant background of foliage. Still bowling along at lightning speed, we soon reach Treis, where a curious-looking ferry, reminding me of those of the Siberian rivers, is ready to take us and our car across to the left bank. We drive down on to the other end of its deck so that another car which has just arrived can be taken on board. The principle upon which the ferry is worked is as follows: A stout cable is stretched across the river and made fast on the left bank to the rock and on the right bank to a securely imbedded pile. From a ring on this cable runs a line, the other end of which is made fast to the bows of the punt-shaped ferry. A long steering-oar projects into the water astern. The rest is done by the current. By reversing the action and the steering-oar, the ferry runs back to the opposite bank.

On the left bank we continue our swift, winding journey. Here and there we pass a military convoy or meet an ambulance train, the first two carriages of which contain wounded Frenchmen, the others Germans. The Frenchmen are no better or worse off than the Germans; all lie on straw and are covered with blankets. The sliding doors of these goods wagons, fitted up specially for the transport of wounded, stood open in order to admit fresh air to the wounded.

At the village of Eller we stop for a moment at an inn, where the host, Herr Meinze, entertains us with what he knows about the war. His young daughter runs off to fetch a letter just received from the son of the family, twenty-two years old, an Uhlan of the Guard from Potsdam. The letter bears the somewhat vague postal address of La Ferté, and the writer complains that he has not had a word from home for a month. He mentions that he was present on an occasion when a French airman dropped a bomb over a gun team, killing three men and wounding twenty. Of his British opponents he speaks very disrespectfully. But he forgets that the English mercenaries, whatever their faults, show great personal courage and fight with bravery and contempt of death. He ends his letter with the hope that Germany will soon have made mincemeat of all her enemies. The chief trait which pervades all these field postcards is the bright and cheery spirit of the soldiers and their blind faith in the unconquerable might of the German Army and final victory. That _I_ may fall is of no account. That _I_ may not be one of the triumphant army which will march in through the Brandenburger Tor cannot be helped, but Germany must win, if not before, then after the spring flowers have begun to sprout and blossom round my grave.

At Alf, where a white paddle-steamer flying the Red Cross flag lies at her moorings, we leave the Moselle and follow the laconic advice of a signpost pointing up towards the hills which mark the nearest way to Treves. It pours with rain. We put up the awning and the rain patters loudly on the taut canvas. Owing to the great speed we get one drenching after another. The water in the puddles spurts up around the wheels as before the bows of a swift steamer. The road is only half as wide as the great main road eastward. But on the other hand the traffic is insignificant. “Way to Wittlich?” von Krum asks in a village, when uncertain of the road. “To Paris!” comes the retort of a couple of joyous maidens who point in the direction we are to go. In due course we get to Wittlich and struggle through its horribly narrow streets, which, to make matters worse, are encumbered with all sorts of vehicles. The houses both of villages and towns in this part of the country are almost entirely of stone, and the streets are very narrow--sometimes one almost gets the impression that they were originally built with a view to protection against foreign invasion.

Off we go again down to the banks of the Moselle and to its beautifully situated villages, and when at length we stop at the _Trierischer Hof_ at Treves, it is pitch-dark and raining pitilessly. We were drenched to the skin, and had intended to proceed to Luxemburg after a moment’s rest to dry our clothes. But as the deluge grew worse instead of better, and as we were told that there were no rooms to be had at Luxemburg for love or money, we decided to stop where we were. Soon we were sitting in the restaurant at our belated dinner. The place teemed with officers, and in the streets the soldiers splashed about in the wet in their grey overcoats. We asked everybody where the Main Headquarters were, but nobody knew anything about it. Some said that the General Staff was at Luxemburg, others that it had moved to Belgium. “Well, we shall get there in time,” we said to ourselves.

The _Trierischer Hof_ actually had a couple of modest rooms, where we made ourselves at home. My excellent friend von Krum told me that officers were entitled in war time to billet where they liked. Room with breakfast must always be placed at their disposal free of charge. Dinner and other meals they have to pay for. The officer has only to fill in a printed receipt which he hands to the host on leaving in place of currency. On producing this receipt before the competent military authority, the host receives his money, but not at the same rate as in peace time, for values are set at a lower figure than under normal conditions. The same applies to horses, carts, motor-cars and much else that is needed in war. Everything is valued by special committees and then paid for with a receipt. At Treves it was impossible to get a car or even a horse-cab, as there were no horses left. When therefore our host received a telegram saying that his son, who had probably been slightly wounded at the front, was expected at 3 a.m., there was no means whatever of getting a conveyance to meet him and take him home in. He asked if he might borrow our car, but unfortunately we were not allowed to leave it in civilian hands. In the end he managed to borrow a doctor’s car and found his son in pretty good condition.

Luckily the trams were running, and in the evening we took one to the Horn Barracks, usually occupied by Infantry Regiment No. 29 _von Horn_ (3rd Rhenish). But now the entire regiment is in the field and the barracks have been turned into a hospital. They hold in peace time three battalions, but at the present time only 500 wounded, as the latter need more room with special accommodation for doctors and nursing staff. Premises have, in addition, been requisitioned for operating theatres, bath-rooms, store-rooms, etc. Just now there is plenty of room, as only 220 beds are occupied, of which 150 by Frenchmen. Six doctors and one head surgeon, assisted by a great number of Red Cross sisters, were in charge of the wounded soldiers. In due course we arrived at the barracks, were passed by the sentry at the gate, entered a corridor and knocked at a door which was duly opened, and a moment later we had become the bosom friends of a couple of young doctors sitting at supper before a steaming bowl of soup which had just been brought in. I asked them, whatever they did, not to interrupt their meal, as we could sit and chat with them in the meantime. But no, that would not do at all, the soup could wait, and guided by a little oil lamp we marched out through the long corridor and began at once by inspecting a couple of the operating theatres, which had been rigged up hurriedly on the outbreak of war and equipped as far as possible on thoroughly modern lines. The operating tables were in the middle of the room. Water-pipes, vessels, appliances and a number of surgical instruments--everything was in superb condition. The walls and floor of these rooms had been painted over in oil and an average of fifteen operations took place in them daily. Several other barracks at Treves have been fitted up as hospitals in a like manner.

Thereupon we went into a large ward filled with wounded German soldiers, and chatted with several of them. All were very satisfied and cheerful, they all felt thoroughly at home and could not conceive it possible to receive better and kindlier treatment than they got at the hospital. Nevertheless time hung heavily on their hands, and they could not help thinking of their comrades in the field. They longed to be back at the war and hoped soon to be about again--that is to say, those who knew that they would not be crippled for life.

We left them with a “_Gute Nacht, gute Besserung_,” and proceeded to a ward higher up, where French soldiers were being tended. Here we also spoke with some of the patients. They were all polite and communicative, but lacked the cheery disposition of the Germans, which was really not to be wondered at, as they were in enemy country and cut off from all communication with their own people. One of them had been wounded at Rossignol like Lieutenant Verrier, but did not know him. He had been shot through the left hand and the left leg, which the surgeon had been obliged to amputate. When he got his bullet wounds, he had strength and presence of mind enough to creep into a ditch for protection against the weather and the firing. He had torn off strips of cloth from his greatcoat and wound them round his wounds. Next day the German ambulance men had found him, applied a proper “first field dressing” and carried him to the nearest field hospital, from which not long ago he had been conveyed by rail to Treves.

Another soldier had been left lying on the field for two nights and had suffered maddening torture from thirst. The thirst had if possible caused him greater suffering than his wounds. Twice the Germans had in passing given him water and chocolate. Finally the ambulance people had found him and taken him to a field hospital. Like his comrade, he expressed his gratitude for the treatment he had met with here at Treves, and several assenting voices were heard from the neighbouring beds. The two German doctors who took us round told us that the French wounded usually did not want to leave the hospital, as they knew that as soon as they recovered they would be treated as ordinary prisoners. This view of the matter is quite natural and is most certainly shared by all wounded, no matter to what nation they belong. For it is pleasanter to lie in one’s comfortable bed and be coddled in every way, than to live in a barracks or a concentration camp with crowds of other prisoners, including Senegalese negroes, Moroccans and Indians.

Finally our guide took us to the door of a room containing three French officers. One of them, who had been shot through the lung, slept well and did not permit himself to be disturbed by our talk. Another had a more dangerous lung wound and was continually troubled by a nasty cough which, whenever it attacked him, threw his head backwards and forwards with great violence. His condition was considered very critical, and even if one had known the address of his people it would have been no relief to them to learn his condition.

The third, a big and somewhat stout Captain, had served for several years in southernmost Morocco and was accustomed to little scraps with the Tuaregs in the Sahara. But _this_ was something very different. It was terrible, _terrible_! He had been called home from his African station to take part in this horrible struggle. His right foot had been smashed in a fight in Belgium by a rifle bullet, whilst another had carried away a couple of his fingers. He said he had a sort of recollection of having the wound dressed on the battlefield by German Red Cross men or doctors who had done all they could to check the flow of blood. Afterwards he had been taken to a dressing station, where his wounds had received further treatment. As he was classed amongst the comparatively slightly wounded, he had been taken to Luxemburg and now at length to Treves. He was probably aware that when discharged as convalescent he would remain a prisoner with all the privileges to which his rank entitled him, receiving, besides, half the pay he had been getting at home. There he lay, the poor Captain, with his jovial face, aquiline nose and heavy beard. He was cheerful and good-tempered, and assured us that he had absolutely nothing to grumble about--apart from the fate which denied him the honour to continue fighting for his country. But it was evident that he was a bit of a philosopher and he bore his unkind fate like a man. He lay there with a smile on his lips and was grateful for anything that was done for him and for the interest taken in him by the unknown visitors. During the long lonely hours of the night he often heard his comrades struggling and wrestling with death, whilst his own thoughts wandered to the palm trees on the desert fringe, and he seemed to hear the dromedaries’ swishing steps over the sand and the desert winds calling “come home, come home!”

The young doctors who accompanied us told us that the German soldiers always and without exception longed to be back at the front, unless their condition was such that they had not strength enough to desire anything. Among the French the feeling was different: “Whatever you like, anything but the fire at the front.” But this is, on psychological grounds, quite natural and cannot well be otherwise. There is nothing that depresses and demoralises the soldier as much as being a prisoner. He feels that he is playing the part of the weaker, that he is entirely at the mercy of others, that his strength is gone, his initiative taken from him and his fighting spirit rendered unavailing. In such a situation, to gain personal advantages and to make the best of a bad job, he will say much that he would never have dreamt of uttering on his own side of the fighting line. It is therefore unfair to judge the fighting value of an army by the remarks of prisoners detached from it.

Herein we have perhaps the explanation of the fact observed at the Treves hospitals, or, at all events, at the Horn barracks, that the mortality amongst the Frenchmen was incomparably greater than amongst the Germans. It would be futile to try to explain it by the suggestion that the doctors and nurses involuntarily felt greater compassion for their own countrymen, for when it is considered that 35,000 wounded have been transported through Treves _Westbahnhof_--latterly 1500 a day--it will be realised that the doctors available must be so overwhelmed with work as to have no time for sentiment. To them the case is everything, and it is a point of honour with them to save as many as possible. The whole care of the wounded becomes a professional, almost mechanical, matter, and one cannot wonder at it when one sees the stream of wounded passing through. I was told that the wounds of the Germans heal better and quicker than those of the Frenchmen, whatever the reason may be. But plainly the psychological factor has something to do with this also.

To this must be added another point of view--the wounds of the Frenchmen are usually more malignant than those of the Germans. Whilst the former are all too frequently hit in the lungs, stomach or abdomen, the Germans in the great majority of cases are wounded in the shoulders, arms and legs. It becomes obvious that the Germans must keep closer to the ground and are more skilled in using cover. It would be interesting to know exactly in what measure this point is affected by the French army uniform, the dark-blue tunic and the bright red trousers, exactly the same as worn in 1870-71. This dress obviously presents a most excellent target, whilst the Germans with their grey field uniforms and grey headgear merge into their environment.

We were talking in this strain as we were leaving the hospital, and the young doctors were inexhaustible in their stories of what they had experienced during their work at Treves. It was not only the barracks that had been converted into hospitals--churches and schools had also been requisitioned. “But how do the children get on with their schooling if the schools are turned into hospitals?” “Well, it is this way. Since the younger professors and masters were called to the war, older teachers, both men and women, have turned up from almost everywhere and carry on the work to the best of their ability. Thus they earn a little money which they badly need in these hard war times.”

We also spoke, of course, about the unceasing stream of wounded who are being brought into Germany. The seriously wounded and those not expected to recover are kept near the front, as they cannot stand being moved. But the lightly wounded, or at all events those who can stand the journey, are sent home. Soldiers who have had a bullet through the hand or a flesh wound in the arm, may, if they wish it, go straight home to their people. In such cases, on leaving the army, they are provided with the receipt which entitles them to free medical care at home. They must then attend daily at a certain hour at the doctor’s for examination; when fully recovered they return to their own regiment. Soon I suppose there will not be a single village in Germany without its war hero and its Iron Cross. One can imagine the pride and joy with which a son is received on returning home after his deeds of valour, and the heartfelt good wishes which accompany him when for the second time he leaves for the front!

I was told that a fresh train-load of wounded was expected at Treves at half-past twelve the same night. The doctors were holding themselves in readiness to receive another avalanche of exhausted and maimed heroes. Our doctors told us that when the train stopped they used to go through all the carriages to examine the patients. Those who were too bad to go any further were carried on hammock-stretchers to the hospitals. The others were allowed to go on after having their wounds redressed. This is another phase of the struggle between life and death--the doctor on the side of life struggling to snatch back those whom death has vainly sought to capture on the battlefield.

To wind up our visit, we had a peep into a store-room, the floor of which was encumbered with entire bales of cotton, gauze dressings, oil cloth, sticking-plaster and bandages of all kinds. Entire railway trains full of dressings and bandages, surgical instruments and drugs, are constantly running east and west from the heart of Germany. Our hospital at Treves was also permeated with a strong scent of carbolic, ether and chloroform. When one sees the pale faces and red scars of the wounded and the mountains of dressings, and when one inhales this penetrating hospital odour, one almost seems to hear the ping of the rifle bullets and the fierce shrieking of the shells. At such moments the deep and horrible solemnity of war seems to draw closer, and one realises indeed its sinister reality. Late in the evening, as we wandered back in the wet to the _Trierischer Hof_, I felt that we were, indeed, not far away from those parts of Europe where entire nations are grappling in a life-and-death struggle.