Chapter III (3)

The bridge-keepers in Magdeburg took toll of us as we passed through during the early afternoon in high hopes of reaching the capital early in the evening. The road improved still more and there was but little traffic to detain us. For long stretches our speed never dropped much below sixty miles an hour. The gods seemed to be smiling. We forgot the worries induced by the bad maps and the German food and became for a space almost happy. When ten miles from Brandenburg I tried to pass a large cart on the proper side and promptly ran into it, with disastrous results to one of our front wheels and to both head lamps. After changing the wheel we managed to proceed, only to find when six miles from Potsdam and three miles from the nearest garage that we had no more petrol. At the same time a tyre gently subsided and our troubles were complete. At this point our very frayed tempers collapsed entirely and we each accused the other of being responsible for the existence of Germany and all its ills! Mercifully all troubles come to an end in time and we reached Potsdam before ten o’clock.

The Hotel Stadt Königsberg where we stayed was also full of officers and those dependent on them. A curious note of suppressed excitement was obvious to strangers like ourselves, though at the time we were quite unable to account for it. Serbia was surely too small to affect the German officer caste to such an extent.

The next day, July 31, a Friday, we left the car under repair at a garage in Potsdam and went by train to Johannisthal through Berlin. We saw the directors of two leading German aeronautical firms—the Albatross and the L.V.G.—only to find that in neither case could they undertake any work of the nature we desired, as they were far too busy supplying aircraft to the German and Austrian Governments. They would, they said, require at least six months in which to complete any order. We, on the other hand, had only six weeks to spare. The Albatross Company asked us to call again on the following day in order that we might again meet the board of directors. As nothing more could be done during the day we paid a mark apiece and went into the public part of the aerodrome. No military guard was to be seen save over the great Zeppelin shed, which was empty, its usual tenant having flown to Posen the day before.

While we waited we saw eleven Albatross biplanes leave for Austria by air, piloted by Austrian officers, each accompanied by a mechanic. The presence of very obvious organisation and the entire absence of any excitement or confusion impressed us both. Clearly German aeronautics had left the purely experimental stage, and the aeroplane had become as much a part of military life as had the motor-car years before. The method of construction and the degree of finish of each machine showed the existence of a settled industry. While until the beginning of the war the average English aeroplane had the appearance of being the only one of its type, a step in a series of experiments, the German aeroplane of the time was as finished and complete as if it were one of a batch of a thousand. All that was practically possible at that date was to be found on these German machines which were so soon to test their prowess against the English.

During dinner at Potsdam the head waiter stood in the middle of the room and recited, amidst general enthusiasm, the speech the Kaiser had delivered from the balcony of his palace in Berlin during the afternoon. True patriotism was shown. The day had come and the training and hopes of a century were to be put to the test at last.

After dinner we walked through the crowded streets and watched the excited people snatch the single news sheets from the newsboys as they passed along. Great masses of enthusiastic youth rushed along the streets singing national songs, of which ‘Deutschland über Alles’ was the most popular. The beautiful strains of the Austrian National Anthem were often heard. Every officer who appeared from any direction was cheered loudly, and even the police were not unpopular on this night of nights. We, though we were obvious foreigners and quite possible Englishmen, were not molested in any way. Long after we had gone to bed the noise continued without intermission, until even Keating lost some of his joyous enthusiasm for war in his greater and more immediate desire for sleep.

Shortly before noon on Saturday, August 1, we again went to Johannisthal, this time by car. We arrived at the aerodrome at about half-past one o’clock and decided that, as our interview with the directors of the Albatross Company was sure to be short, we would have lunch on the way back to Berlin. It was a foolish decision, as after events will show. We found sentries at every entrance to the ground. By the small door leading into the garden in front of the Albatross offices stood a German soldier in the service dress of a regiment of the line. As we passed in he said something long in German and seemed to wish to prevent our entry. Keating smiled, which is not usual when one deals with German soldiers on duty, and the sentry was too surprised to stop us. Once inside we were met by the works manager, a Herr Huttney, who had learnt English in the United States of America when acquiring merit in his early youth. He took us before several of the directors of the company and we again talked of the purchase of an aeroplane. There was an atmosphere of restraint and suspicion which, in the light of later knowledge, was not unnatural. Now we were told that no machine at all could be sold to us for many months, as the army required them all; ‘even,’ they said, ‘Austria will not be allowed to purchase more.’ Keating offered to buy an Albatross which we knew to be in England. In reply we were shown a telegram from London saying that aeroplane had just been commandeered by the Admiralty! This incident was the first to bring home to us the possibility of Great Britain joining in the new war. There was an unwieldiness about the conversation that showed us they did not desire to do business with us, and so after farewells we were conducted outside the boundaries of the grounds by the works’ manager. Here to our amazement, and at the time amusement, we found two soldiers, fully armed and rationed, standing by the car. When I tried to start the engine, I was pressed back gently by rifle and bayonet. Herr Huttney asked for reasons and was told, or so he said, that an officer had been sent for and until his arrival we could not leave. So, resignedly and hungrily, for it was by now four o’clock and we had had no lunch, we sat in the car with Herr Huttney as company. He, too, was not permitted to leave, if his own statement was to be believed. For nearly two hours we sat here waiting for the officer who did not come. At six o’clock we were moved, under instructions from an N.C.O., to an open-air guard-room by the Zeppelin shed and just inside the aerodrome fence. Here our wait continued, relieved a little by some lager beer and leberwurst sandwiches, brought by the kindness of one of our guard. At dusk we were taken by two policemen in plain clothes before the officer commanding the aerodrome, who had an extemporised orderly room in the smaller dirigible shed. With him were several subalterns of infantry and of the flying section of the service. None of the officers in the room admitted to any knowledge of English or French, and so Herr Huttney, who was still in semi-arrest with us, had perforce to translate all that was said on either side. A little later, while Keating was being cross-examined, I asked, quite without malice, the officer nearest me whether he knew London. Before he had had time to remember whether he knew English or not he had answered clearly that Piccadilly Circus he did not know but London it was so dull! After this slip he made no further secret of his knowledge of English and talked freely.

The commandant, after asking our business and being told the truth, was clearly sceptical. Finally, as he could get nothing from us but what was true, he handed us over to the care of the two policemen. We were ordered to proceed to the Central Police Office in Berlin, and into our car, designed by the makers as a three-seater, we crowded Herr Huttney, the two policemen, and ourselves. Keating drove, and an hour later we found ourselves in a long dismal corridor three storeys up in Berlin’s Scotland Yard. I was in the last stage of depression, as Herr Huttney had just told us that he feared we should not get less than five years’ detention as potential spies. In addition we were hungry and cold. After a short wait we were taken before a civilian official who, with the utmost courtesy, cross-examined us. We were searched and all our belongings from my German word-books to the remnants of a sandwich were laid solemnly on the table. Some tiny films I had were developed rapidly somewhere in the building. After an anxious examination, lasting perhaps half an hour and which was conducted in a language of which we did not know a word, we were released with the advice to leave Berlin with as little delay as possible. As we left the room the senior official said that he hoped our respective countries would remain friendly for the salvation of the entire world.

We stayed the night at a quiet hotel in a street parallel to the Unter den Linden and persuaded Herr Huttney to dine with us. He was obviously ill at ease and left us as soon as could be done with courtesy. Even our experience of the afternoon had not brought home to us any real understanding of the true situation. We still thought that we had been arrested as a matter of German habit, and that all would be well in a week or so when the dangers of war had again passed by. Our German guest was clearly, though we did not know it at the time, unwilling to be seen in public with us. He left, and weeks later we heard as a matter of rumour that he had met his death at the hands of the authorities under suspicion of giving assistance to enemy spies! It may not be so or we may not have been the spies in question. One hopes not.

At the Embassy we managed to borrow some money from the military attaché and were given a passport on which, unfortunately, both our names were entered. We were told that if we wished for freedom we had better endeavour to leave Germany at once. When we said we intended to motor to the Dutch frontier some doubt was shown as to whether we should be permitted to travel far. Nobody doubted for a moment what the end would be. War must come and England would be in it.

At eleven o’clock we went to a garage and filled the car with everything necessary for a non-stop journey to Holland, as we realised that a stoppage on the road would probably become permanent. The chief trouble was petrol, as an order restricting the sale was expected at any moment. Consequently, while Keating talked to the old caretaker by means of my phrase-book, I collected petrol cans and put them under the dickey seat. Then, in order that the car might not be seized, we drove away from the garage and left the car outside the hotel for the rest of the night. Everybody, including the police, was so excited that no complaint was made.

This settled, we went into a large restaurant organised on American lines, where one paid a fixed sum on entering and then helped oneself to any of dozens of different small dishes arranged on stands. This place was thronged with people, who, with Teutonic thoroughness, did not permit their excitement of the moment to interfere with their meals. At first we were shy of speech, fearing our English tongue would cause trouble. After a space we began to talk and then, to our amazement, a man at the same table asked if we were English and, hearing the truth, promptly became embarrassingly pleasant and insisted on drinking our national health in dark lager. Others to whom we spoke also showed signs of pleasure and for a moment or two we were popular. Then for the first time we learnt how keen the German people were at that time on an effective naval and military alliance with England. From day to day on our way to the coast we were to find this the general feeling.

We left the hotel at five on the morning of Sunday, August 2, and drove out of Berlin by the Unter den Linden. The weather was perfect, and with consequent optimism we hoped to reach Holland before nightfall. No stop was to be made until the Dutch frontier had been passed.

In Potsdam, as we passed through, all was calm. Patriotism is very tiring. The streets were deserted and we drove through without notice. All went well with us. The sun was shining and the road, at this stage of the journey, was good. The next forty kilometres passed at the rate of one a minute and before seven o’clock we were in Brandenburg. Here ill-fortune again caught us up. As we crossed the bridge over the Havel a tyre burst. We had no spare inner tube and so Keating went to a garage near by in order to get replacements. His speech revealed him a foreigner, the news spread rapidly and by the time he returned to the car a large crowd had assembled round us. At first we thought their interest to be mere curiosity, but we soon saw that it was underlain by suspicion. To avoid them, and in order to change tyres quickly, we drove the car into a narrow courtyard near by and began work. The crowd increased and showed signs of following us into the yard. At this point we closed the yard gates, which were of iron scroll work covered with plate glass through which our movements could be watched.

The mob still increased and its attitude was threatening. A man whose house abutted on the yard, anxious as to the safety of his property, sent for the police. Shortly afterwards a sergeant arrived who, luckily, spoke English according to American practice. He had, he told us immediately on arrival, been in San Francisco during the earthquake, hence his knowledge of our language. From him we learnt that the crowd in the road believed us to be Russian spies and were taking measures to prevent our escape. At our request he sent for an officer, to whom we explained our position. Though the latter showed no signs of enthusiasm he believed our statement after examining our passport and driving licence. He then left, telling his sergeant to see us out of the town as soon as we were ready. After the police interview the crowd melted away and we suffered no further inconvenience.

By this time we were hungry and asked our friend the sergeant if he could buy us food. A boy was sent for sausage sandwiches and beer. We drank with the sergeant to the health of Great Britain and Germany and to the confusion of the rest of the world. It is easy to admire a nation when one is at its mercy. It is easier still when one realises the magnificent patriotism and unity of purpose of that same nation. When, the tyre fitted, it was time to leave, we endeavoured to pay the small boy for the food he had brought, only to be stopped by the sergeant, who said we were his guests and that he would not like us to leave with a bad opinion of his country! Firm friends, we left that sergeant with deep regret, as by now we knew our passage through the country was not to be pleasant.

At Magdeburg we were stopped by the Customs after crossing the bridge over the Elbe. We were made in full glare of the public eye to demonstrate the innocence and inadequacy of our wardrobe. Here, too, the roll of celluloid bought at Osnabruck came under suspicion. The police argued that it could have no possible use on the car and that it must be part of a photographic apparatus, the rest of which we were wilfully concealing. After Keating’s wonderful use of my incomprehensible phrase-book and many vivid gesticulations from myself, the police pretended they understood and reluctantly let us travel onwards.

From this place onwards our trouble intensified. So long as we continued to move and showed no hesitation all was well, but no sooner did we stop to examine a signpost at cross roads than we would be surrounded by an excited mob of men and women armed to the teeth with muskets that appeared to date from Waterloo and with spades, picks, and pitchforks of a later date but of no less sanguinary appearance. It was nervous work endeavouring to explain ourselves to the local interpreter, probably the parish priest, while any moment the varied contents of any of these guns might shatter such brains as worry had left us.

From Hanover onwards we were stopped at practically every village by patrols of the type described above. That these posts were installed officially was obvious from the attempt at a uniform worn by most of these men. At each place our papers were examined laboriously by the padre or the leading shopkeeper, in each case without much enlightenment, for in accordance with British insularity our passport was entirely in English.

From these causes our average speed dropped to eight miles an hour, and our nerves began to show signs of weariness. One never knew from one moment to another when we might be detained and possibly killed in a fit of misplaced enthusiasm. We had heard, how I cannot say, that no motoring was permitted after dark. Consequently, as when darkness fell we had reached Minden, we decided to stay the night at the Hotel Stadt London. This for the second time and under such different conditions. On this day there was doubt whether we should reach home again for years or, if an easy accident came, perhaps never. The hotel was crowded with officers, this time mostly in service kit. The dining-room rang with excited talk as to the future and all were flushed with thoughts of the days to come.

As we dined we sent for a police officer, in order that by reporting ourselves in time we should avoid delay in leaving on the following morning. An officer arrived so speedily that we could not fail to realise that he had been in waiting. We asked if we might leave at dawn. He said courteously that as the Military Commandant wished to see us at eight o’clock next day it would not be possible for us to get away before breakfast. With courtesy he refused to drink with us and with courtesy he bowed himself out. He was so pleasant that we felt that our affairs had become more serious during the day.

Shortly after two o’clock I was awakened by the sound of marching and the rumbling of wagons. From that hour onwards until dawn battalion after battalion passed on its way to entrain for some battle front as yet unrevealed to us. Shortly after dawn troops ceased to pass for some hours and we were able to sleep again. During the wakeful period we each discovered, as we found on comparing notes next day, that a sentry was on duty in the corridor outside our rooms.

The next morning we reported to the Commandant at his office, taking the car with us in case we got immediate leave to proceed. When we arrived we found the Commandant engaged and we had to wait in an outer room with a schoolmaster who had been brought in to act as our interpreter. While we sat here admiring a large engraving of the picture of the German troops greeting Admiral Seymour’s seamen in China (1900) hung on the wall over the door to the Commandant’s room, an old man was brought in by two policemen. He was crying bitterly in the hopeless, dreary manner of the aged. His sobs were painful to hear and we asked our interpreter who he might be and if we could do anything to assist him. The answer was ‘No, as he is a Russian spy who is charged with being concerned in an attempt to dynamite the railway bridge over the river. He will, it is undoubted, be shot!’ The charge may or may not have been true, but that afternoon the old man was shot after a summary trial. It made Keating and myself less optimistic as to our chances.

After a short wait we were brought before the Commandant, who listened to our story with courtesy and with obvious trust. We said nothing about the reason of our visit. The Commandant was disposed to believe that we were not spies, and would, I think, have let us go on our way had not another officer in the room interfered. He asked us rather roughly why at such a disturbed time we came to Germany. Keating then explained that we wished to buy an aeroplane. This revelation altered everything, and the Commandant, after talking earnestly for some minutes with his brother officer, told us, none too willingly, we thought, to return to our hotel and not to leave it until permission was given. In the meantime he would wire to the British Embassy for confirmation of our story. We now gave up hope, for we knew it was extremely unlikely that the Embassy would ever receive the wire.

We walked sadly back to the hotel, leaving the car in the charge of the police officials. Regretfully we thought of all the beautiful wars breaking out in every direction in which it was now unlikely we would be able to take part. War is inspiring and attractive to all who have not fought.

At the hotel we sat moodily by a large window looking into the street and drank lager beer while we watched battalion after battalion pass on their way to entrain for the front. Three days before these men had either been on reserve in civil occupations or had been wearing the picturesque uniforms of peace. Very few of them had then known what the service dress was like and none had worn it. Now, in strict accordance with the plans of forty years, each man in the great striking force was fully equipped for the greatest campaign in history.

One point struck us unfavourably, and this was the painful newness of the boots of yellow undressed leather worn by all. Later, we discovered that this too was a sign of forethought. Each man had in his kit the boots worn and made comfortable by him in times of peace, and the new boots were being worn in these first days that they might be in some manner broken in before action was joined. Had the troops worn their old boots they would, when footsore, have had no means of getting relief other than taking the boots off and resting their feet. On the other hand, wearing the new boots first, weariness was greatly reduced by changing into the older boots. Such a matter as this, small in itself, may mean the difference between defeat and victory.

Shortly before lunch a Lieutenant Kellerman of a reserve unit of Garrison Artillery called to see us. He said that he had been told that two Englishmen were detained in the town, and that as he admired the English and spoke our language fluently he had come to see what assistance he might be able to render. We were glad to see him. It relieved the monotony, and also he would be able to translate the mystic newspapers to us. But that was not his mission. He talked of England and of America. All good Germans seem to have travelled in America either North or South! It was some little time before we realised that most of his questions were asked with other reasons than that of benevolence. He said that a diary of our travels would be interesting in years to come. Surely we had kept one? And photographs, too, what pleasure they would give to our friends in England when we reached home! But as our visitor would neither drink nor smoke—what honest German does not drink and smoke?—with us we did not care to answer his questions quite as simply as he would have wished. After a space he left us and returned no more. He may have meant well, but in the light of after events it is more probable that he was intended to trap us into some unconsciously guilty admission.

At lunch time the Commandant appeared. He told us that no reply had come from Berlin and that he feared we should find it difficult to get away. His pleasant face showed that he really felt sorry and that it was not pretence. At his request we lunched with him, though the conversation was of necessity spasmodic, since neither party spoke the other’s tongue. Yet it was a kindly thought, which counts for much at times of tension. He, in common with most officers of the garrison, lunched daily at the Hotel Stadt London, and our presence at his table went far to make our position more comfortable. The glances of suspicion from other officers in the room died away, and we felt less like escaped convicts than we had during the morning.

Through the kindly offices of a neighbour who spoke English the Commandant asked if we thought England would take part in the war. We said that we did not think our country would interfere, as at that time we imagined the opening war to concern France, Russia, and Germany alone. The Commandant gravely said that he was not optimistic, for he did not think that England would stand by inactive. War would be bad for both countries. He implied that Germany had for many years desired an alliance with England. United the two nations could sweep the world. This was the view taken by many to whom we spoke during the journey and illustrates in some degree the aims of Modern Germany. The picture of an uncivilised world waiting for enlightenment by the Apostles of Culture in the form of German Army Corps is pathetic to us, but it is, or was, doubtless very vivid to sincere German officers.

At four o’clock we were sent for by the Commandant, who said that no news had arrived from Berlin, but that on his own responsibility he would allow us to leave the town. He signed a statement saying that we had been examined and were permitted to proceed, as we thought this might help us on our way. As he shook hands he said, as our interpreter explained, ‘Travel, travel, always travel until the frontier is passed!’

Exasperated by the numerous delays, and apprehensive that our stay in Germany might attain some manner of permanency if further hesitation marked our path, we drove with great speed when on the open road. But rapid progress was not continuous. Two days before we had found progress slow owing to civilian patrols in villages and at cross-roads, but now the vigilance of the German people seemed to have doubled. It was necessary to slow down some distance from these posts, if one desired to avoid over-zealous shots. Five miles was perhaps the longest stage over which our journey was uninterrupted.

In some villages the people were pleasant and believed our statements, in others we were received with suspicion that even our signed note from the Commandant at Minden did not entirely allay.

But nothing worse than mental discomfort came to us until we reached Oldendorf, a large village some thirty-five kilometres from Osnabruck. The road was barricaded half a mile short of the first houses, and we were held up at this point until the ‘Hauptmann’ arrived to inspect us. While we waited a tall thin man, wearing over his ordinary clothes a long blue smock, apparently a farm labourer by trade, harangued the crowd feverishly, gesticulating the while with a pitchfork. He did not seem to like us. Keating, whose spirits were still high, laughed at him and made matters worse. The oration had no immediate effect, for when the Hauptmann, a little fat man in a bright blue uniform, had seen us we were permitted to drive on to the village. Here, at the beginning of the main street, we found another barricade and a larger crowd. As we were about to pass the obstruction the man with the pitchfork arrived on a bicycle in a perfect delirium of rage. He accused us of something inexplicable and the crowd at once dragged us from the car. I was made to walk in state with the village policeman, who had just appeared, while Keating drove the car slowly behind us. An English-speaking German came with me and explained that we were to be examined by the Burgomaster at the Town Hall. I had almost reached sanctuary, accompanied by a large and curious crowd, when the fanatic with the pitchfork again tore up on his bicycle and, purple with rage, accused us of, literally, ‘making plans of citadels and photographing the country.’ At once the crowd turned against me. There was an ugly rush, and I was as near experiencing the fate of De Witt as I shall ever be in this life. Before I was more than half-throttled the policeman managed to get me into the Town Hall, where I could in comparative security listen to the howls of the mob outside.

Keating, for some reason—perhaps because he always laughed—escaped the full wrath of the mob, though his passenger spat at him, and was brought in safely.

The Burgomaster was charming and, what mattered far more, was possessed of infinite discernment. He examined our baggage, now falling into ruin, and the car, in public, in a gallant attempt to allay suspicion. Despite this, I firmly believe that the villagers of Oldendorf will believe to their dying day that we were two anarchists of Russian extraction. After an anxious hour we were allowed to drive away. At this village, the day before, two Russians, disguised in women’s clothing, had been dragged from a car and shot on the spot.

We had hoped to reach Osnabruck before dark, but it was actually ten o’clock when we finally arrived at the hotel. At the entrance to the town, which we reached shortly after nine o’clock, we were taken in charge by a military patrol. But the police alone could give us the necessary permission to travel onwards.

So, attended by a N.C.O., we drove to the head police office at Osnabruck. Again we were made to spread our belongings on the floor and explain each scrap of paper. The deadly sheet of celluloid we offered to the police in the hopes of ending the recurrent trouble, but with no effect. Full of suspicion as to its uses though they might be, yet they would not take it.

We were delayed here about twenty minutes before we were given permission to stay at the Kaiserhof Hotel for the night and to leave Osnabruck early on the following morning. As we left the office our car was held up by the passage of several hundred Russian workmen who had been placed under arrest on the outbreak of war and who were now being taken to an internment camp. Dejected and hopeless they moved miserably through a hissing and booing crowd to the prison which was to be their home until peace came again. Such is discipline in Germany that half a dozen policemen sufficed to keep the mob, ever ready to strike, at bay.

At the Kaiserhof Hotel we were greeted with singular charm by the proprietor, who, though a possible future enemy, did not show any suspicion or displeasure. Nay, rather did he go out of his way to make us truly comfortable, he himself superintending the cooking of our belated dinner.

While we ate there sat at a table near by a party of German students, who with much noise sang patriotic verses and cheered lustily the names of national heroes while they steadily drank tankard after tankard of beer. After a space they began to take interest in us. Glancing from time to time at our table they talked excitedly of ‘Englanders’ and, from the few words we could understand, of our navy. I was very tired, and under the impression that they desired to pick a quarrel, I went to bed to escape trouble. Keating, on the other hand, scenting an immediate if a minor war, refused to move and did not reach his room until the early hours of the morning. It appears that far from desiring to annoy us they wished us to join them. This Keating did and a short conversation in French followed. The use of this language was quickly banned as unpatriotic and a curious but wonderful version of English was substituted. They were under the impression that England was about to become Germany’s ally. Thus combined the two nations were to dominate the world in the manner indicated to us by several others during our travels. These views, so soon to fade, served to create a temporary friendship between Keating and the students, which ended shortly before three in the morning with the joint humming of ‘God Save the King,’ because, as they said, ‘without words it is the National Anthem of both the related countries.’ It was a happy evening, in that it formed so great a contrast to other nights of the same week.

The next morning we left on the last lap of our journey through Germany rather late, slightly after eleven o’clock, owing to the encouraging friendliness of the previous night. This day was August 4 and in honour of its high destiny was one of sunlit splendour. Our innkeeper, in the smallness of his bill and his obvious readiness to give credit until the end of the war in case our money had run short, showed that some Germans are not devoid of the kindlier instincts of humanity. Human nature is the same the world over by whatever title the races may be labelled.

With usual delays from road patrols we passed slowly through Lottë, Westerkappeln, and Höveringhausen. In Ibbenburgen we were held up by a long patriotic procession, chiefly of children dressed brilliantly in white, and carrying banners decorated in some cases with religious symbols and in some with the armorial device of Westphalia. As they walked they sang, with the softness of childhood, songs of the countryside.

It was pleasant when in the midst of our worries to listen to the beat of childish feet and the echo of childish voices between the lines of high narrow houses of this quiet Westphalian village. Curious incidents, unimportant in themselves, remain in one’s memory for all time.

We had intended to drive out of the country through Bentheim, the same route by which we entered. But when the police examined us at Rheine, though they showed no desire to detain us, they told us that we must divert our course through Burgsteinfurt and leave Germany by Gronau, reaching Enschede in Holland. This meant a journey increased by forty miles, a serious matter under the then existing critical conditions.

The first few miles out of Rheine passed by with surprising ease. Then as we passed along a straight stretch of road close to Ochtrup we were stopped by a patrol standing or rather reeling in front of a public-house. These half-dozen men, bored with inaction, had improved the shining hour by drinking beer until all the world seemed changed. They were armed heavily with ancient rifles, each obviously loaded. Our unfortunate belongings were again dragged into view and a hilarious examination followed, the while two of the more drunken men tried to show their belief that we were good fellows by kissing us both with beery enthusiasm. Finally, we were allowed to go amidst their drunken cheers. We had covered about half a mile when several bullets whistled by, despatched by our late friends as a further token of their joyous sporting instincts! None hit us and we passed on into Ochtrup, where the most amazing incident of all befell us. We were taken into the Town Hall and were passed as unsuspicious when, suddenly, the manner of our captors changed from smiles to frowns. A chauffeur had arrived who swore that he recognised us as two suspects who had escaped from custody at Buckedorf, a village some miles on the Berlin side of Minden. Nothing could shake him in his accusation and things looked unutterably black for us. Tempers are hasty when war is the common occupation, and sentences of death at the worst are only ‘regrettable mistakes’ when too much haste has been used. Some open packets of cartridges on the table added nothing to the pleasure of our feelings. A woman, who alone could speak English with any fluency, was brought in to translate and she, too, did little to improve our position. From her attitude one supposes she had met incivility in England during her visit to our country.

Suddenly it struck us that perhaps the man had seen us at Minden, and as we had a pass from that town all would be well if we could convince him of his mistake. To our joy he at once admitted that he was wrong and we were permitted to leave.

On arrival at Gronau we found that the car must remain in Germany, so we drove to the station in order to find out whether trains still ran. Here, to our surprise, we were again arrested by the Customs authorities and were hauled before the Burgomaster and some local councillors. We had as translator a German-American who, unpleasant in his prosperous appearance, suggested we should answer the questions in a way prompted by him. This we refused, as the object of lying did not appear clear to us. It was well, as later it appeared that one at least of those present could speak English with ease.

At this stage in the journey appeared one of those amazing coincidences that occur as one passes through life. As our names were given in the course of the written evidence, an old councillor asked me in English if I came from Lancashire. When I admitted this he said that forty years before he had been working in that county and during that time he had been befriended by a man of my name. It appeared on a further description that this good Samaritan was closely related to me! This fortunate incident had, I am sure, some effect on our position.

In the end the Burgomaster telephoned to the G.O.C. at Munster, putting our case as favourably as possible, and describing us as Americans. Permission was given by this higher authority for our release. A local mill owner who had given us every assistance garaged the car, and undertook to take care of it. Thus did we part in a friendly mood.

An hour later we entered Enschede after a long argument with the Customs officer, who thought us too dirty to be respectable. Next day found us at the Hague, where, in our rags but happy, we dined at the Hôtel des Indes. Here we read the _Times_ and heard of the declaration of war. That night we crossed to Harwich.

* * * * *

_Note._—Keating on arrival in town applied for and was given a commission in the Royal Flying Corps. Later he transferred to the Irish Guards. On January 20, 1915, he was killed in France during bombing practice by the premature explosion of a bomb which he was using for demonstration purposes. So ended a life of enthusiasm. The world lost a very gallant gentleman in Harry Sheehy Keating. Yet

At the door of life, at the gate of breath
There are worse things waiting for men than death.

_JAN ISSEL._

In the month of August 1914 Mr. Haseldine of Culme House in South Devon was as clearly persuaded as every other patriotic Briton that we had got to beat the Germans, cost what it might, and what it might chance to cost him individually he well knew, his only son being an officer in the Guards. So he was scarcely disposed to sympathise with a man who, having no less than four sons, made it a great grievance that the youngest of them was threatening to enlist.

‘What do you expect me to say to the lad, Issel?’ he asked of the ruddy, grey-bearded tenant who had come to beg his aid. ‘I can’t tell him he is wrong if he wants to fight for his country.’

‘Aw, ’tidden that, Squire,’ returned Farmer Issel, shaking his head. ‘I don’t b’lieve as Jan feels a call to go an’ fight no more’n what his brothers du; but a’s that quare an’ opinionated us can’t make nothin’ of un. Can’t spare un nayther, with harvest comin’ on an’ all, that’s the trewth.’

It was certainly the truth that labour was scarce and that the moment was ill chosen for withdrawing a pair of strong arms from Bratton Farm. Moreover, those were the early days of the war, when it had not yet become apparent that England must raise and equip a huge force. Therefore, after some further parley, Mr. Haseldine promised that he would give young John Issel a word or two of sound advice, and, with that end in view, he suggested to his daughter Mildred, a few hours later, that they should make Bratton Farm the object of their customary afternoon ride.

It was beautiful, hot weather, promising well for the approaching harvest, and as Mr. Haseldine jogged through the lanes, on either side of which were broad fields of ripening oats and barley, he remarked to his companion, with a laugh and a sigh, that some people didn’t know when they were well off. Patriotism was right enough, and he would be the last to discourage it; yet before a man decided to plunge into all the trials and miseries of a campaign he ought at least to make sure that his duty did not lie nearer home.

And something of that sort was what the Squire presently said to a slim, dark-eyed young man who, turning round at the sound of the horses’ hoofs, raised his arms from the gate over which he had been leaning and touched his hat. Jan Issel listened respectfully, appeared to be a little troubled, and had no very definite answer to make. What could be gathered was that his mother had been pressing him hard, that he did not want to vex her—nor yet nobody else—but that he reckoned he would have to go all the same. Oh, not until after harvest, for sure; he had given a promise to that effect and would keep it.

‘Quite right, my boy,’ said Mr. Haseldine, gathering up his reins. ‘Think it well over; don’t be in a hurry. You may be wanted at the front by-and-by, and so may your brothers; we don’t any of us know yet what lies before us. But for the present it seems to me that you’re more wanted where you are. Now, Mildred, if you’ll wait here for me, I’ll be with you again in a few minutes. I must just see Issel and tell him about several things that I forgot to mention this morning.’

Thus Miss Haseldine was left in the company of a youth of whose existence she had hitherto been but vaguely aware, but whose handsome face and great sad eyes made appeal to her. She began to question him, and, either because her pretty face and kindly blue eyes made appeal to him or because of some subtle suggestion of sympathy in her voice, he spoke with a good deal more ease and openness than he had shown in replying to her father. It was not only the outbreak of war, he confessed, that had put it into his head to take up soldiering. Many and many a time before had he thought of that way of escape from Bratton—because it was from Bratton that he yearned to escape. No, he hadn’t no trouble, without you could call it trouble to be uneasy in your mind; only he felt as if he must get away.

‘I couldn’t explain it to you, miss; I haven’t no power o’ language. Happen I’m unrasonable, as mother says. Dick and Tom and Bob they don’t ask no better’n to plough an’ sow an’ reap year in, year out; but with me ’tis different. Reckon as I’d go mazed if I was to stop home for always.’

‘I know what is the matter with you,’ said Miss Haseldine, smiling; ‘you’re bored.’

Well, that might be. The word was not included in Jan’s slender vocabulary, but perhaps he was capable of the sensation. Miss Haseldine told him that she was and that a vast number of persons were similarly afflicted. The recognised remedy was work; but, for obvious reasons, that was not applicable to his case. How about reading as a diversion? Did he ever open a book?

This chance shot unexpectedly scored. Jan’s big brown eyes lightened up as he answered that he loved nothing in the world so much as books to read. Unfortunately, he had exhausted the literature of Bratton Farm, which consisted of the Bible, sundry theological works, ‘Pilgrim’s Progress,’ an anthology entitled ‘Pearls from the Poets,’ and a few dilapidated volumes of the _Family Herald_.

Miss Haseldine said she could introduce him to a rather wider circle of writers than that. ‘Come up to the house after dinner this evening and I’ll lend you all the books you care to carry away.’

Jan was almost as grateful to the young lady as a starving man would have been for a loaf of bread; yet it was perhaps rather her looks and her voice than her kind offer that compelled his gratitude. Hitherto nobody had understood him—which was the less surprising because he had some difficulty in understanding himself—and he had observed a general disposition to treat him with the indulgence accorded to the mentally deficient. But here at last was a beautiful, beneficent being who not only did not call him a fool but clearly showed, without actually saying so, that she entered into his feelings and shared them. He had often seen her before, in church and elsewhere, but did not remember ever to have heard her speak. After she and her father had ridden away, he dropped his elbows upon the gate once more and for some time thought about her dreamily, with a pleasantly warmed heart, wondering why he had never before noticed her physical beauty. Then he stretched himself and strode off to get the cows in for milking.

Mildred Haseldine, if scarcely beautiful, was as pretty as golden hair, forget-me-not blue eyes, and neat little features could make her. Beneficent she might fairly be called, inasmuch as she was always glad to do a good turn to her neighbours, and this farm lad, with his odd craving for mental nourishment and his rebellion against the monotony of agricultural life, interested her. So as soon as she reached home she laid the library shelves under contribution, selecting ‘Ivanhoe,’ Tennyson’s Poems, Carlyle’s ‘Past and Present’ and Fitchett’s ‘Deeds that Won the Empire,’ as being a sufficiently comprehensive batch to begin with, and handed the volumes to her maid Judith, with instructions that they were to be given to young John Issel, if he should call for them. She observed that Judith blushed; but the circumstance made no impression upon her, Judith’s blushes being frequent and for the most part devoid of cause.

As a matter of fact, Judith Combe had some excuse for exhibiting self-consciousness at the sound of Jan Issel’s name. Not very much, it is true; for in her class of life the fact of ‘walking out’ with a young man on Sunday afternoons is not held to commit either of the walkers to subsequent matrimony, and certainly Jan did not consider himself in any way pledged to Judy Combe, whom he had chosen merely because, like his brothers and everybody else, he had to have a female companion of some sort. He liked the gentle, demure lass, was indifferently aware that she was nice-looking (she was in reality decidedly prettier than Miss Haseldine), and even supposed that he might marry her some day. But that, of course, would only be if he should stay at Bratton, instead of going out into the wide world—a contingency which he never cared to contemplate.

An access of shyness led him to ask for Judith when he went up to the great house that evening; but he was just a trifle disappointed when she joined him, bearing the promised armful of literature, and when he realised that he was not to see his benefactress. Nothing, however, forbade him to talk about her, nor did he say much about anybody or anything else during an interview which took place by starlight in the stable-yard. Judith, who was greatly attached to her mistress, was as laudatory as could be wished, if not particularly informing. Miss Mildred was always doing kind things; so Judith did not think it strange that she should lend books to Jan Issel if he wanted them; though it was perhaps rather strange that he should want them. She timidly intimated as much, but received no answer. It was, of course, impossible to explain to Judy Combe what the printed page meant to one who was consumed with curiosity respecting the world in which we dwell and who had no opportunities of coming into contact with a verbal interpreter. It would likewise have been difficult to bring home to her the motives that such a man might have for adopting the profession of arms; so that subject also was left untouched. For the rest, Jan was eager to say good-night, being still more eager to discover what Miss Mildred thought him capable of appreciating.

Miss Mildred, it may be conjectured, had not given a great deal of thought to the matter; but she bestowed quite as much pleasure upon her _protégé_ as if she had. That night and on several successive nights Jan sat up, devouring the volumes by the light of a single candle long after all the other inmates of the farm were asleep. ‘Ivanhoe,’ which was pretty plain sailing, delighted him, as did also Fitchett’s stirring and admirably related yarns. If he could not always make out what Tennyson was driving at, he loved the rhythm and melody of his verse, just as he loved the sonorous grandeur of certain chapters in Isaiah and Ecclesiastes, the meaning of which was completely hidden from him. In like manner thousands of people derive genuine enjoyment from listening to a symphony, although they are ignorant of the structure of such compositions and cannot really follow them. But, oddly enough, it was with Carlyle that Jan was best pleased. The bygone abuses and social anomalies against which ‘Past and Present’ thunders naturally said nothing to him, nor could he trace much connection between them and the chronicle of Jocelin of Brakelond. It must also be admitted that he skipped a good many pages. What roused him to enthusiasm was not the writer’s theme but his mastery of language and the magnificent, disdainful carelessness with which he displayed it, as though feeling himself big enough to be independent of all rules. Jan Issel, it must be supposed, possessed the literary sense—which indeed, like every other artistic sense, is inborn, not to be acquired. When he went to Culme House to return the books and beg for more, he tried, not over-successfully, to express to Miss Mildred (who received him this time and took him into the library) the intensity of his admiration for a philosopher who is commonly considered to be above the heads of the simple.

‘A girt man, miss,’ he said—‘a powerful man!’

‘Oh, yes,’ agreed Mildred, surprised and amused, ‘he’s—picturesque. Hardly at his best in “Past and Present,” though. I’ll lend you his “French Revolution,” which is much more interesting.’