Chapter VIII: In the Rear of the Fourth Army

Early on September 28th I proceeded to the Hôtel Croix d’Or and a moment later I was once more on the way towards the front with General von Seckendorff and his Adjutant. Our way lay in a south-south-westerly direction and followed roughly the Ardenne Canal, which we crossed two or three times. Our first goal was the town of Vouziers. Railway communication exists up to this point, but numerous transport columns, nevertheless, make use of the paved high road. A road on the lines of communication is always animated. The roads in the rear of the 4th Army resemble in all respects those I had seen before in the rear of the 5th. In fact, it was only the setting of the picture that seemed different. We passed a number of inviting-looking bivouacs, in some of which smoke was still curling from the cooking trench, by the fire of which the men of the transport columns were preparing their breakfast. In the avenue of chestnut and maple trees lining the road, which were already turning yellow, marching troops and transport columns of all kinds, supply and ammunition wagons, motor-ambulances and long rows of old-fashioned yellow mail-vans, filled with field-post mails intended for Germany, via Treves--where the first sorting takes place--succeed each other in motley procession. The indispensable “Field Gendarmes” (Military Police Patrols) in their green uniforms, with helmets and bright badges, ride backwards and forwards on their road sections to see that all is in order. There lies a horse which has broken down, worn out! A merciful bullet has just put an end to his suffering, and he is being dragged aside; a stream of blood is trickling from his nostrils, staining the road-dust red.

It is a very pretty landscape that unrolls its undulating outlines on either side of the colonnade of ancient trees. Fields and meadows, pastures, groves and orchards--all slashed in different directions by the dark shaded lines of the roads. Now and then one sees cattle browsing peacefully--sheep among the goats. And the peasants who have returned to their land are busying themselves in their yards and fields. We pass through several villages, among others Tannay and Le Chesne on the Ardenne Canal. This country is full of memories. One can without much effort imagine oneself back in the last days of August, 1870, when Marshal MacMahon’s army marched in long columns along these very roads--towards Beaumont and Sedan. There, close by, in the wood to the south-west, and south of Le Chesne, the first German cavalry pickets were peering out, on August 29th, on the road to the north. These were horsemen, no doubt, who less than a fortnight previously had gained glory on the blood-drenched fields of Vionville and Mars-la-Tour.--Hark! The bugles are sounding at the head of von Bredow’s brigade!--The stranger from the land of Charles XII. feels a twinge in his heart, as his fancy calls up kindred memories of past ages. From remote regions far, far away, other sounds, yet strangely similar, seem to ring in his ears--an echo from the days of long ago, when his people were fighting for the Germanic cause in the east.--Around him is seething the vital energy of the German army, of the German people. He feels something he has felt before. He now comprehends the true significance of the words in which the poor Swedish petty officer Wessling replied to the Generals of Tsar Peter, who asked him how the Swedes could fight so valiantly, two against a hundred: “We were bound to do so for the sake of our most gracious king and the oath we have sworn.” This spirit shines from the eyes of every German soldier.--At length we arrive in Vouziers on the western bank of the Aisne.

We do not stop long. The General only remains long enough to hear the reports of a couple of officers of the Intermediate Base Command there, as to what has occurred since yesterday. When he has gathered that all is in the best order he gives the word to drive on, and we soon continue southward on the high road to Séchault and Cernay--the road taken by the 11th Army Corps to Sedan in 1870. At Cernay we are twenty kilometres west of Varennes. But between these two localities lies the Argonne, where obstinate fighting is still proceeding. From Cernay issues, to the west, the great highway to Rheims. On the first sixteen kilometres of this road, or right up to the village of Somme Py, I was afforded the opportunity of visiting some highly interesting spots. At the end of September this was the most advanced road to the south then held by the Germans in this region.

The first village west of Cernay is Rouvroy. We did not intend to drive any further this day. We made a short stop to take our plain, soldier-like early meal--long narrow slices of army bread with butter and ham, and a glass of claret.

The General had with him an extra car, filled with bottles of wine, which he distributed among the soldiers. There was no need to be sparing with wine in these regions, where even the peasants have their cellars well stocked. But nothing is taken away off-hand. All will be made good to the owners after the war. The terms of peace will contain a provision to the effect that the defeated side shall pay the amount of every receipt or voucher (_bon_) representing the value of the things requisitioned during the military occupation. The individual is not to suffer direct, but only as a participant in the misfortune which falls on the country as a whole. It is the duty of the State to make good the people’s personal losses when the State is incapable of protecting the property of the individual against the enemy. And if the invading power is defeated in the war, its just punishment is that it must make good the losses of the sufferers.

Perhaps someone may object that it is improper to let the soldiers drink wine--seeing that, in the east, the Russians have made the experiment of introducing total prohibition, and are satisfied with the result. No doubt this demonstration of moral strength, _per se_, deserves admiration, though it does not appear to have been fully carried through at home. Nevertheless I think that a draught of red or white wine, now and then, cannot but be beneficial to the soldier if it is distributed at the right time and in the right place, after strenuous exertions. To preach total abstinence is easy enough for those who are not called upon to lie freezing all night in cold, wet trenches where it is not permitted to light the smallest fire.

At Rouvroy we left our cars and proceeded on foot up gently ascending ground, along fields and ditches, through hedges and brushwood. Here the ground was much pitted by shell fire and no one could tell when the rain of shells might recommence. Numerous projectiles were lying scattered about and I took with me a so-called _Ausbläser_, i.e. a shell “burnt out” without bursting.

Higher up the slope we came across some reserves waiting to be called upon to relieve their comrades in the trenches. They lay concealed in a wood, with small bodies advanced to the very edge of the wood, which was protected by all sorts of entrenchments, with semi-subterranean “dug-outs” at the back--excavations covered with branches, twigs and green boughs, and serving not only as shelters for the men but also to screen them from aviators. As is natural, these bodies of reserves always locate themselves on the northern side of the points of vantage which they occupy. They must be concealed out of sight of the French lines. But in this war reconnoitring by aviators has also to be reckoned with. They are therefore compelled, even when on the far side of such cover, such as villages, woodlands and groves, to “dig themselves in” or at least hide as best they can from the buzzing war-hawks which every now and then come spying from the clouds for prey. Hence the most important thing of all is good screening or masking of the position. Exceedingly great care is bestowed on this point. Not the smallest detail is overlooked. The admissibility of lighting fires in these caves depends on the completeness of this masking.

At a spot near the fringe of the wood, a field ambulance was stationed, well screened by some dark pines. It was accompanied by a spare horse, which might be useful in case the pair of horses forming the ordinary team should be shot down. Another vehicle belonging to the medical service corps was fitted with a greyish-yellow folding hood. Grey loin-cloths had been thrown over the horses to approximate their colour as nearly as possible to that of the ground--all as precaution against observation by aviators.

In a small shelter-hut near by, four surgeons who were in charge of the two medical wagons had taken up their quarters. They had just finished their luncheon, which had been fetched from the nearest kitchen wagon; I also took the liberty of sampling the food, which seemed as nutritious as it was palatable.

Up on the hill, which afforded a view of the French positions, we found several officers. Close by, under cover of an enormous haystack, was a group of men of various units--presumably orderlies and despatch riders who had followed their respective superior officers so as to be at hand whenever wanted. All these men seemed to enjoy the opportunity of getting to know more than their comrades. They did not pay heed to the greater danger of their position. Reminders of death were not far to seek. Near by, two soldiers had been buried in the shade of a small copse. Fresh wreaths were hanging on the arms of the cross, suggesting that the brave men resting beneath had but recently fallen victims to the French fire. The solitary, insignificant little mounds were adorned with the helmets of the fallen men.

On our return trip, for which we chose a more easterly route, _via_ the villages of Condé, Autry and Grandpré, we passed four companies of Landsturm, headed by a spirited band. It is an unusual thing to hear band music so near the front, where all has to be as silent as possible and where usually the only music is that of guns and rifles. The general drove past the whole detachment and stopped ahead of it by the side of the road. He then alighted, and we followed his example. The whole detachment now marched past. When the first company came up, he called out: “Good morning, first company,” greeting the others in the same way and receiving their salute. It was a fine and impressive sight to behold these sturdy men, among whom more than one was nearing the age of fifty.

And what a march-past! It moved me strangely. It vividly recalled to my recollection a troop of old Swedish territorials, whom I saw many, many years ago. They were of a similar stock, faithful in life, faithful in death--without reproach. Their dark-blue uniforms stood out in vivid contrast to the rusty foliage of the trees. There was nothing lacking in the equipment of this Landsturm battalion. It was a fine sight, too, to see the General, with his look of determination blended with kindness, his white moustache and his steel-grey hair. Erect and tall he stood, in his grey cloak, with his hands behind his back. There had been no need for him to alight and salute them, but it pleased his martial soul to look at these men, who had left hearth and home, wife and children, to bleed and die, but determined also to fight and conquer for their country. “We are comrades,” he thought, no doubt, as the last man filed past, and the sound of the music died away in the distance. And so we ran past the Landsturm battalion a second time, and listened once more to the inspiriting strains of the parade march.

On our return to Vouziers the General handed me over to the care of Cavalry Captain von Behr, a brother of the Chamberlain. He was a merry and lively gentleman, and when the General asked him to show me every attention, he promised that I should want for nothing. And he kept his word, for during the period of fully a week which I spent with him and his comrades, I had occasion to see and learn much, and to make the acquaintance of many notable and estimable men. Von Behr had retired from the army long ago, but on the outbreak of the war he had re-entered the service in a cuirassier regiment and was now in command of a reserve squadron. His troop was now quartered in the barracks of the 3rd French Cuirassier Regiment. As the day was not yet spent he immediately proposed--like a true cavalryman--a visit to a riding-school which had been fitted up as stables and barracks. There we found the horses well-groomed and well-shod, in their stalls along the walls, while the men had arranged their beds on a litter of unthreshed wheat. The oat sacks were lying piled in large stacks. The bridles, saddles, arms and accoutrements were suspended on brackets and pillars. The interior of this stable, and of another immediately adjoining it, presented an aspect of military order, discipline and precision, which ensured that in case of need the squadron could be in the saddle, fully equipped, in a few minutes.

A third building in the same grounds had been assigned to the French prisoners and their German guard. Thus the strangers were neither better nor worse provided for than the cuirassiers. They had arranged their beds in the best possible way along one of the walls. Armed with sketch-book and pen, I paid several visits to them during the following days.

Lastly we also looked in at the barracks, now fitted up as a clearing hospital. We had the best imaginable cicerone, the head surgeon himself, Dr. Zinsser of Cologne. He was famous as a physician and surgeon. As a man he was charming and fascinating. It was always a great pleasure to me to meet him and hear him talk of the experience he had already gained during the war, and which had induced him to introduce many alterations and improvements in the hospital arrangements.

We made a hurried round through some of the hospital wards, where nurses and Catholic friars were passing softly from bed to bed, silent as ghosts. Not all the beds were occupied, but five hundred wounded were expected at night, of whom, however, many would be moved on next day. Here we saw some French prisoners carrying wounded Germans on stretchers to the railway station for further transport--a strange sight! Among the German patients I noticed the same spirit that animates, with infectious ardour, the whole of this wonderful and firmly knit army--no homesickness, only an irresistible desire to get back to the front. If one ever came across a soldier who said that he wished himself back home, it was sure to be one of the badly wounded, prostrate on a sick-bed and at best doomed to be a cripple for life. We saw an instance of this in the operating theatre of the hospital. A man had his leg so badly shattered by a shell, that he had to undergo amputation. The bandages were skilfully and quickly put round the stump of the leg, and the man came to. But he had forgotten where he was, and it appeared from his confused talk that he was still imagining himself to be lying in the trenches.

One ward contained patients who had recently undergone operations; another was occupied by men who had been wounded in the head. In the case of one, the bullet still remained lodged in the skull. It was horrible to see him lying there staring intently at one spot, and making restless but futile efforts to raise himself. One of those next to him had been rendered blind by a shot, and a third had lost his memory; he readily answered questions relating to the present, but was quite oblivious of all concerning the past.

The wounded officers had a ward to themselves, and seemed pleased to have an opportunity to chat awhile. “What news from the front--any fresh victories?” was the invariable question. The most singular case here was that of a Captain who had been shot right through the neck, the bullet having entered on the right and issued on the left side, without causing serious injury to the arteries, trachea, pharynx, or cervical vertebræ. The Captain sat up in his bed, his whole head swathed in bandages. He followed our conversation attentively, but did not, and could not, utter a word himself. Professor Zinsser said that it would certainly take him half an hour if he tried to pass a probe in the same way through a human neck without inflicting injury. But this bullet had found its way through in the minutest fraction of a second.

Some distance apart from the rest lay the patients suffering from tetanus. It is only in rare cases that their lives can be saved. One-half of those who died in hospital had succumbed to tetanus. It is a terrible affliction. A surgeon who had been at the front in Alsace and whom I met on a subsequent occasion, thought he had noticed that this disease first appeared when they had crossed the French frontier. It is generated by the so-called tetanus bacillus, a bacillar microbe to be found in the soil, chiefly mould. If such infected earth comes into contact with a wound, say through a ricochet bullet, the latter may carry the bacilli with it and by their poisonous secretions induce this form of muscular catalepsy. We saw a few tetanus patients, and the professor talked to them. A young German had tetanus in the muscles of the mouth, and his face became distorted as he attempted almost inaudibly to speak. I was told that his life might possibly be saved.

About the middle of September Professor Zinsser and his colleagues had had a trying time at the hospital. It was at the time when, for strategical reasons, the army retired from the Marne to the Aisne. The badly wounded men who could not bear hasty removal involving discomfort, had to be left in the care of surgeons, who thus voluntarily went into captivity--surely one of the greatest sacrifices that could be made in war.

The rest, who could bear being removed, were conveyed in large numbers to these barracks, the floors of which had been covered with straw. Professor Zinsser arrived there late one night, in darkness and pouring rain, and at once proceeded to the improvised hospital. No lights were to be had. But wagon after wagon brought fresh wounded--would the stream never end? They were crammed in anywhere, anyhow, in terrible confusion. Some died during the night. Others grew worse. All were soaked with rain, their bandages were torn to shreds and undone. There they lay, fifteen hundred, light and grave cases, pell-mell. Here and there, among the living, lay a body growing cold in death. A terrible smell pervaded the atmosphere. Of course, none of the patients were able to go outside. Their strength was utterly gone. It was a pitch-dark night--the rain was pelting down! But the professor was powerless to relieve their distress; he had no alternative but to wait till the morning.

In the morning five doctors and twenty men of the Army Medical Corps arrived. A dreadful sight met their eyes in these overcrowded rooms, foul with the stench of purulent wounds and excrements. But they set to work at once and soon received assistance from a field hospital. They were then thirty all told. They worked day and night. But new hosts of wounded kept on arriving. It seemed utterly hopeless! The wounded stretched out their hands to the surgeon as soon as they caught sight of him and cried: “Help us! Help us!” Extra motor-cars were procured to carry away those who could bear removal. Many of the wounded even crept down to the bottom of the steps to find a place in some ambulance wagon--to get away from this inferno. But in the end, the superhuman energy of the medical staff triumphed. A kitchen was fitted up, cattle were slaughtered and meat-broth was made. Soldiers who had been starving for days could at last stay their hunger. All dressings were changed--those of the graver cases first, the others afterwards. In a few days the medical staff were masters of the situation. But if such is the state of things on the lines of communication of an army which has only fallen back momentarily for some distance, what must happen after a crushing defeat? Of one thing I am certain, none but an army permeated with boundless confidence in its leaders and its chief command, can stand the strain of such phases of war without going to pieces.

In the foregoing I have often stopped to speak of the wounded and shall do so again. It might therefore be opportune to give a brief outline of the system and the organisation which prevails in the hospital service in the field. All is arranged beforehand so as to be ready when war breaks out.

Of course the hospital service assumes a different aspect according to the distance from the actual fighting line. At the front they have Medical Service Corps and establishments to meet the first needs of the wounded. There we find surgeons with military training. But all these dressing stations and field hospitals are cleared as speedily as possible to make room for fresh wounded. They pass their patients on, step by step, along the lines of communication, on which their further care, or transport to the home base, is provided for. Here most of the medical staff are not on the normal war establishment, but civilian medical men liable to military service or who have volunteered--though appointed already in peace time for certain duties.

Each field force has its medical service staff whose task is to look after its well-being, to supervise its hygiene, to watch over the daily food supplies, to analyse the drinking water, etc. It is therefore the first duty of the Army Medical Staff to regulate the general hygienic care so as to prevent such epidemics as might otherwise easily spread. Men who have fallen sick among the troops are cared for in “local sick-rooms” until they can be handed over to the care of the Army Medical Service.

At the fighting line the army surgeons establish regimental dressing stations. Some surgeons accompany the bearer patrols on to the battlefield, but without, save in exceptional cases, entering the actual fire zone.

Each infantry division has at least one medical service company. The latter establishes, in a suitable spot at the rear of the troops, one or more principal dressing stations, sending its ambulance wagons to an advanced halting-place, so as to get the dangerously wounded as quickly as possible back to the rear. Each medical service company comprises nine surgeons and a large number of bearers, sick attendants, apothecaries, etc. The company, further, has eight two-horsed ambulance wagons, two medical-store wagons, equipped with medicaments, stretchers and dressing materials, two baggage wagons and one food-supply wagon.

For each Army Corps there are twelve field hospitals. These are established in suitable towns, villages and mansions, behind the front. They have to be located in sheltered situations where they may remain even if the fighting line advances. The field hospitals receive the patients from the auxiliary and principal dressing stations, with the exception of such as are sent to a “collecting station for slightly wounded,” to proceed thence direct to the nearest line of communication depot.

The field hospital has its own regulation medical wagons and carries with it a complete hospital equipment, such as mattresses, or empty covers to be filled with straw, pillows, blankets and sheets, shirts and other necessary clothing for the patients, china vessels for the convenience of the wounded, and many other things. The first surgical operations are carried out in the field hospital building unless, in quite exceptional cases, these have to be performed at once in the open, for instance, to staunch the flow of blood from gaping wounds. The field hospital staff is military throughout. No nursing sisters, nor, generally speaking, any volunteer nurses are to be found here.

The head of the medical service organisation of the Army Corps is the “Chief Medical Officer” of the Army Corps. He is assisted by a consulting surgeon who in civil life is generally a University professor or lecturer and who also inspects the field hospitals.

We will now proceed to the zone of the lines of communication. The field hospital is replaced after a time--as soon as possible when the field operations advance--by a clearing hospital section. This consists solely of a staff--medical men, military nursing attendants and volunteer assistants. Each Army Corps has one such section of nineteen surgeons and a corresponding number of subordinates.

The field hospital is thus converted, on the advance of the troops, into a clearing hospital, or, in other words, when the field hospital with its matériel thus set free or replaced, follows the troops forward, its place is taken by the clearing hospital, which retains all that its predecessor has left behind. When, as at the time of my visit, the advance is slow, no change takes place and the clearing hospital staff has _comparatively_ little to do.

Clearing hospitals are found wherever the fighting has given occasion for the establishment of a field hospital, and therefore also at considerable distances from the main lines of communication. In the event of hard fighting, clearing hospital sections with temporary equipment establish their hospitals side by side with the field hospital. The task of these hospitals is ultimately to remove by degrees their patients to the Line of Communication (stationary) hospitals, and to places, such as Sedan in the case of the 4th Army, from which a regular railway connection exists with the home country. The transport of the wounded is effected not only on foot and in empty transport wagons, but also by the motor-ambulance vehicles, of the Sick and Wounded Transport Department, among which one sees ordinary omnibuses from Berlin and other towns and motor-lorries bearing the names of well-known factories and business concerns. These may carry up to seven or ten beds. If slightly wounded are in question, one single large motor-vehicle can take up to fifty men, but then they will sit tightly packed and even on the roof. Thus the wounded are conveyed to the principal intermediate base on the lines of communication, from which they proceed by rail or by canal or river to the home base. I have previously discussed the organisation of the hospital service within the zone of the lines of communication. I will only remark here that just as the Principal Medical Officer of the Army Corps has a Consulting Surgeon, so the Principal Medical Officer at the Lines of Communication Hospital has a Consulting Sanitary Officer who is likewise, in peace time, a University professor. The latter has to examine all suspicious cases of infection and to prescribe all necessary measures of precaution to prevent any outbreak of infectious diseases. The Sanitary Officer is provided with a bacteriological laboratory and is expected to investigate carefully every individual case of typhoid fever, dysentery and similar diseases, to ascertain whence the patient has come, to isolate him and to try to eradicate the cause and source of infection. In certain cases he may find that by way of precaution, the establishment of an infectious diseases hospital in the zone of the lines of communication is advisable. Such a hospital has been established, for instance, in Attigny near Vouziers.

Within the zone of the lines of communication to which the clearing hospitals--which are in charge of a “Director”--form the link of transition, there is first of all a Lines of Communication Hospital Supply Depot which replenishes the stores of the hospital units and organisations, both at the front and on the lines of communication, the Lines of Communication Hospital, with which we have already become acquainted, the sections for non-dangerous cases of disease, and for convalescents--from which the patients can frequently be sent back to the front after so short a time that their transport to the home country would be needless--the infectious diseases hospital, the ambulance trains--hospitals on wheels--and any incidental trains for the transport of wounded. I have already acquainted the reader with such hospital organisations at intermediate base stations, where we have seen doctors, nurses and medical service men go from carriage to carriage of the ambulance train to examine the patients and pick out those who cannot bear further transport.

In the home country the arriving wounded are sent to home base hospitals--either ordinary hospitals or private houses which have been fitted up as hospitals during the war. Many, too, are sent direct to their homes. The main governing principle all the way from the front to the home country is: make room, make room, make room! Therefore every effort is made to get rid of the wounded as speedily as possible to make room for new arrivals.

Every first-aid medical wagon is carefully divided into compartments and boxes so that each requisite has its proper place and can be found in an instant. The hospital trains are organised and equipped with equally exemplary care and forethought, everything being planned beforehand in peace time. The iron framework supporting the berth for the wounded is always kept ready, all that is required is to remove from third-class carriages the seats and racks, and screw fast in their place the framework for the berths. It is known beforehand how many mattresses, pillows and blankets are required for each carriage. In the medical and apothecaries’ store wagons all is arranged with such precision as to enable the doctor to find, blindfolded, the tincture of iodine or quinine he requires, or a piece of sticking-plaster, or a safety pin. Everything is arranged on a uniformly fixed system; if a new-comer cannot at once find his way he need only refer to the printed key which applies for all German ambulance trains. The punctilious thoroughness of the Germans has been ridiculed and called pedantry. But it now appears why this pedantry was useful. All goes like clockwork and no one has any need to search or enquire. And the same order, regulated by strict rules laid down in peace time, reigns everywhere; therefore the Germans do not behave like half-dazed dreamers startled out of their slumber, when they are faced with war in earnest. They are well prepared and trained in everything, whether the duties assigned to them are on the lines of communication or at the operating table.

I have been told in German quarters that the French Army surgeons are better equipped than the German, that is to say that in the French Army there are on hand larger supplies of pharmaceutical and surgical stores. It is said that the French field hospitals are more numerous than the German and are not replaced subsequently by the clearing hospital. This last mentioned circumstance is, of course, quite natural and arises from the situation of the war itself. The Germans have been advancing on French soil; their lines of communication have lengthened. The field hospitals had to be shifted forward step by step. They had to be hurriedly replaced by the clearing hospitals. This is the result of the spirit favouring the offensive, which is peculiar to the German Army. Hitherto the French have not more than once had any need of corresponding arrangements. They were compelled from the first to keep on the defensive. Although it is a misfortune for them to have hostile armies on their soil, they have at least the advantage that the railways everywhere reach up to their front, whereby all transport of troops, wounded, supplies and ammunition is simplified and shortened. But this advantage is infinitesimal as compared with the misfortune of not being masters throughout their territory. And it also vanishes as soon as the operations assume such an overwhelming character as was the case in the latter part of August. In the present period of stagnation of the war the conditions are naturally different.

The German soldiers have a perfect horror of falling into the hands of French doctors--they would rather die. When prisoners and wounded are exchanged some day after the close of the war, impartial critics in the medical world will be able to judge on what side the wounded prisoners have been treated most tenderly and humanely. In more than one respect this war has demonstrated the impotence and futility of all conferences and conventions of Geneva, The Hague, and other places, bearing names which now have an empty and illusory sound.

But we cannot detain any longer the excellent Captain von Behr who has been waiting with angelic patience while we strayed into the subject of hospital organisation. He now takes me by the arm and we enter the little town.

We enter the house in which von Behr, together with Count von Eichstedt, Baron von Tschammer, and a few other officers have taken up their quarters. Soon the supper bell rang, and we afterwards assembled for coffee in the drawing-room on the ground floor. The scene which met my eyes here and which I afterwards saw repeatedly, reminded me vividly of one of Anton von Werner’s war paintings, showing a brightly lighted room and an officer seated at the piano accompanying a singing comrade while the others listen.

Forty-four years have since elapsed, but the picture represented by soldiers billeted in France is still the same. Von Behr sang Schumann, Wagner, and Richard Strauss to von Eichstedt’s accompaniment, and the rest of us sat silent like statues and listened. And while the soft sounds of the music were lulling my senses, my thoughts began to wander and I wondered what kind of man it was who, only a month ago, lived in this house and had so lovingly adorned the walls of his drawing-room with portraits of his wife and children. Then came a day when he had to leave his home in haste, to join the army himself and to carry his family into safety. And now his house has become the home of others.

It is usually considered bad taste to examine too closely another man’s furniture. But the war sweeps away all conventions, and I cannot take my eyes off the objects surrounding me, not on their own account, but because one has a feeling as if the owner and his family were haunting the room and as if one heard their voices in the sharp tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. Their eyes have fallen daily on the expensive bureau between the windows, their feet have trod the carpet, and they have sat at that very writing-table and entrusted their fears and hopes to note-paper and envelope, whilst the chandelier had shed its light upon them until the last night before they departed in hurried flight. Why did this unfortunate war come to disturb their peaceful life? Was it necessary for the welfare of France?

Above the writing-table hangs a war painting by Détaille, and from its shelf stares, gloomy and dark, a bronze bust of Bonaparte--not the Emperor, but the victorious General of the Italian war of 1796. A legendary glamour hovers around this image, whose look seems to be strangely penetrating into every corner of the room. However attentively I listened to the song and music and whatever else might attract my attention, my eyes always travelled back to the bronze figure on the writing-table. If it were alive and could talk! What would the Emperor say to the French? “The Prussians hated me; they had a right to do so as my hand had been heavy upon them. But England was my enemy as she was that of France. And Russia assisted her with forces the strength of which I did not realise until it was too late.”

Who is host and who is guest in this house? I feel that I am the guest of my German friends as far as we are not all guests--I in a double measure--in the Frenchman’s house. For I presume it is, after all, the owner who is the host. Yet, no, war upsets all values. In war everything is settled by force of arms. By right of war, which is the highest instance of appeal, the Germans are at present owners of north-eastern France. And who will insist that Tsingtau is still German, only momentarily occupied by Japanese? No one knows how it will be after the war. But what we do know at present is that in those parts of France which are occupied by the Germans, they are also masters and hosts. Ask the civil population in our little town; they consist, it is true, solely of old people, women and children. They are treated with the greatest consideration and kindness, yet they know who is master here. To have invading troops quartered in one’s place is a terrible thing. And yet they are gentle here; inhabitants as well as property are spared as far as possible, and one sees everywhere, in streets and market-places, German soldiers in friendly intercourse with the natives.