For us in England it is hard to realise the feeling of sickening anxiety with which, on October 7, these defenceless ladies witnessed the arrival in Ypres of the devastators of Belgium. On this occasion, apart from a certain amount of looting, the Germans behaved “pretty civilly,” and the Abbey had nothing to complain of but want of bread.
Another French account of the invaders in Northern France is given by Gabriele and Margerita Yerta, “Six Women and the Invasion.” Their experiences were variable. “It is clear,” writes a reviewer in the Nation, “that Herr Major, and ‘Barlu,’ and ‘Crafleux’ and the two ‘model Prussians,’ who replenished the house with coal and provisions, and offered the ladies game they had shot, only sinned by their over-gallantry. But things changed for the worse with the coming of a hundred Death’s Head Hussars and Lieutenant von Bernhausen.... Nothing very outrageous is recorded, but there was dragooning, inquisition, drunkenness. Bernhausen’s reign lasted two months.” As to outrages on women, Madame Yerta writes: “To be sure there were rapes, but, thanks be to God, these were few, and they took place at the beginning of the invasion.... I must confess that many a woman was the victim of her own imprudence.” The book is, naturally, fiercely anti-German, its facts are, however, those of any war story.
Again, “On the whole the Germans behaved well at St. Quentin. Their rule was stern but just, and although the civil population had been put on rations of black bread, they got enough, and it was not, after all, so bad.” This testimony is the more noteworthy because, “as one of the most important bases of the German Army in France the town was continually filled with troops of every regiment, who stayed a little while and then passed on.” (Philip Gibbs, “The Soul of the War,” p. 152.) It is a little startling to read some more that Mr. Gibbs has to say. French-women were ready to sell themselves to German soldiers, and “such outrageous scenes took place that the German order to close some of the cafés was hailed as a boon by the decent citizens, who saw the women expelled by order of the German commandant with enormous thankfulness.” I am not so surprised at this now as when I first read it. An English soldier has since told me that the “silliness” (as he called it) of women for soldiers leads them, in more cases than he could have imagined, to bestow themselves on either friend or enemy. Women with child had said to him quite proudly that it was by a German soldier!
From a private letter: “One of the party is a French officer who tells the tale. After the Marne retreat he was crossing over the territory evacuated by the Germans, and made inquiry of the villagers who had housed the enemy, how they had been treated, what barbarities had been committed, and so forth. The villagers were surprised. The Germans had behaved like gentlemen, had paid for what they used, and had treated them with perfect courtesy. What, no looting? On the contrary, the German officer had a soldier shot for a very small act of pillage.... ‘We’re soldiers, not robbers,’ he said.” I cannot vouch for this story, but it gives just the same impression as the account given by Dr. Scarlett-Synge (see pp. 149ff). It is also remarkably similar to experiences recounted by C. A. Winn (Baron Headley) who was with the Prussians in 1870. (“What I saw of the War,” p. 44.) When he himself had taken some vegetables from a garden, he was told by his officer friends that any sort of pillage was the “greatest offence a friend of the Prussians could be guilty of.” And Mr. Winn speaks of “the many instances of the remarkable efforts of the authorities of the Prussian army to prevent plunders by their soldiers.” It must be remembered that deliberate destruction for military reasons, or as punishment (carried out by all armies) is very different from theft. I do not for a moment suppose that this standard is always reached by the German armies. That it has often been aimed at is something to remember.
I may add here a rather interesting quotation from Colonel F. N. Maude’s book, “War and the World’s Life.” On page 11 he writes: “I do not suggest that life in the Prussian army has at any time been ideal, but I do assert, from personal knowledge, that relatively to their respective stages of civilisation the treatment of the Prussian soldier, since 1815, has at all times been fairer and more humane than in any other army. The fact is proved by the very high standard of discipline maintained, together with the extraordinary absence of military crime which has so long distinguished it.”
I am reminded, too, of one of the first experiences of a friend of mine in France. He reached a village through which the Uhlans had passed. Had the inhabitants any complaints of their behaviour? None whatever.[62] Their only indignation was directed against some English soldiers who (if their story be correct) had behaved abominably. It was a curious shock of reality for my friend. He realised that sometimes the enemy might behave well, and sometimes bad stories of English soldiers might be circulated (even amongst Allies). I am quite sure that no soldiers in the world would, in general, have more natural humanity than the British, and perhaps none would have as much. I contend only against the belief that one side is impeccable, and the other hopelessly barbarian.
Here are a few extracts from the International Review, a periodical published at Zürich, and with co-operators in Russia, Denmark, Germany, Austria, Italy, America, Great Britain. “The yearning of human beings towards mutual understanding needs to-day a new organ for its expression.” Hence this review—a review naturally pronounced pro-German by our Junker Press, since it presents, amongst other things, moderate statements of the German standpoint. The only internationalism which this Press can recognise is one that is exclusively English. So exactly, mutatis mutandis, do German and English chauvinism coincide. The extracts which follow are taken from the first number of the review. “Under the title, ‘German-French Chivalry,’ the Volksstimme, of Frankfurt a.M. (June 19, 1915), describes the dedication of a memorial to three thousand dead at Sedan on June 12. The leaders of the German army were present, and the French authorities officially shared in the proceedings. The short inscriptions on the simple monuments are in both French and German. They refer alike to the seventeen hundred French and the thirteen hundred Germans who fell on August 27 during the battle on the heights of Noyers.”
From L’Action Française, Paris (June 12, 1915), is cited a description of the poignancy of war, of which the following is a translation:
There had been a fierce fight in front of a fortress. Many dead lay on the ground, and a few wounded who were dying. In the night we heard weak cries, ‘Kamerad, Kamerad!’ We answered, thinking it was a German who wished to give himself up. The cries were repeated. We thought of treachery, and each took his stand in readiness. Suddenly, there came in pure French: ‘Camerades Français!’ ‘What is it?’ ‘A wounded man lies near you.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes, in front of the trench.’ ‘We have just made a round, and found only dead.’ ‘Yes, but there is a wounded man there who is calling. Can you not look for him?’ ‘No.’ And then in the silence we hear again, ‘Kamerad, Kamerad!’ The German officer speaks again, very politely: ‘French comrades, may we go to look for the wounded man?’ An inflexible ‘No’ is the answer. Is not some trick concealed under his apparent humanity and his persistence? ‘Well, then,’ calls the German again, ‘go yourself and look; we shall not shoot.’ Can we trust a German’s word, after all that they have done? But there is no long delay. A man from Lille springs forward: ‘All right, I will go to fetch him,’ he says. ‘I will go with him,’ I say to the Lieutenant. The leader of my squadron brings some others. The wounded man calls: ‘Kamerad! Do not kill me!’ We reassure him as to our intentions, and as he has a shattered hip we carry him to our lines, and on the way in spite of his suffering, he keeps on repeating with every kind of modulation, ‘Good comrade.’ He was a young man, scarcely eighteen years old, of the 205th Infantry.
I call to the enemy trenches: ‘We have brought in one wounded man, are there any others there?’ ‘Yes. 20 metres further to the right.’ We look round. ‘There are none there, only dead.’ ‘Wait, we will give you some light.’ A few words in German which we cannot understand. Will they simply shoot us down? Suddenly two splendid rockets go up: we can see as if it were midday. We are half a dozen marines and are standing twenty metres from the German trenches. On the other side of the wire entanglements an officer and men, behind the breastwork pointed helmets and caps. All remains quiet. We look round carefully. ‘Nothing. There are only corpses here. We are going back, you go back, too.’ ‘Merci, camerades français!’ calls the officer, and his men repeat the greeting of their superior. As soon as we are behind our breastwork our Lieutenant gives a command loud enough to be heard at sixty metres. ‘In the air—Fire!’ From over there once more, ‘Thank you, comrades,’ as answer to our salvo, and all falls back once more into the silence of the night; the work of death can go on again. But for this one night not a shot was heard around us.
How much sanity is there in a world that sets such men to kill each other, and eggs them on to hate?
In Germany (as already mentioned in Chap. IV.) is a ‘Committee for advice and help to natives and foreigners in State and international affairs.’ It deals with those of all nationalities, and one branch of it corresponds in many ways to the similar Emergency Committee in England for assistance of Germans, Austrians and Hungarians in distress.
What, however, is most striking is the number of cases of individual kindness shown by Germans to “alien enemies.” The minds of many might be cleared on this subject if they would read a charming and unpretentious little book, “An English Girl’s Adventures in Hostile Germany,” by Mary Littlefair, published by John Long, Ltd. The authoress saw and heard absurd Press charges on the other side, and something, too, of the irrational hatred of war-time, but the little book is a record of almost nothing but kindness, and gives fresh hope to those who had begun to despair of human nature.[63] Here are two cases of singular beauty from Nauheim. A postman “happened to know of a poor English lady whose funds had come to an end, and who had in consequence offered to wash up the crockery at her pension in return for her board and lodging, and he told her one morning that he had forty pounds saved up which she should have, and welcome, if she was in need.” The case of the bath-chair woman was not less touching and generous, for she and her husband, a crossing-sweeper, also put their savings at the disposal of an invalid lady his wife used to wheel out every day, telling her that, though their cottage was only small, they did possess a tiny spare room, and they would be so glad if she would come to them as their honoured guest, supposing—as at present seemed likely—the English would have to spend the winter in Nauheim; they would indeed do their best to make her happy and comfortable.[64]
On more than one occasion in the railway trains the “enemy” character of Miss Littlefair and those who were with her was revealed, but no unkindness was shown. The last occasion was in October, 1914. “‘Shall you have to travel farther, or does your journey end in Munich,’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘we hope to go on to Switzerland to-morrow.’ ‘O, how delightful! You are lucky. It is such a beautiful country. Tell me, are you foreigners by any chance—American, or perhaps English?’ she queried. ‘English,’ I replied. The truth was out, and I looked to see a change of feeling reflected in her pleasant, winsome face; but her expression remained as kind and as interested as before, and her manner as cordial, so I told her more about ourselves, as there was no longer any need of reserve, and she had told me so much of their affairs.” There was, of course, the usual patriotic bias, but it was expressed with real good feeling. “‘Of course, we don’t hold the English people personally responsible for the war,’ she said, ‘but we think that England[65] has behaved very shabbily. It is very grieving, though, that the two countries should be at war.’ She had two or three English friends, and told me about them till our arrival in Munich, where our confidences were necessarily cut short, and we took an affectionate leave of one another.” (p. 123.)
The following incident also shows simple folk made clear-sighted by kindness of heart: “On another occasion Christine and one of the ladies in our hotel went into a shop to buy some beautiful lace which was being sold at half-price. ‘We have to sell it cheaply because of the war,’ explained the assistant: ‘ach! it is terrible! We never wanted this war, and I am sure you did not either. You and I are not enemies, it is ridiculous. Let us shake hands to show we are friends. Yes!’ And they did.”[66] Good! That handshake, let us hope, will outweigh many a hysterical outburst on both sides.
An English schoolmaster was, with his wife and family, in Germany at the outbreak of war. He testifies to the quite wonderful kindness he received. Almost daily he was taken by his hosts to other houses, and at the Kaffeeklatsch which ensued there was never anything but a finely chivalrous courtesy. So grateful did the schoolmaster feel that (just as with Germans befriended here) he felt he must make some sort of return to the “enemy.” He explained the situation, and obtained permission to take two interned enemy nationals into his house. They in their turn felt that movement of gratitude which the preachers of hate refuse to believe in. They wanted to make some return to the schoolmaster, for schoolmasters are usually poor men. “If you do that,” he said, “I shall feel I am doing nothing.” There was a dispute of kindness, and in the end a modus vivendi of gratitude was arrived at. How strange the methods of force seem by comparison. The two men are now interned once more—surely a sorry end to a story of such fine humanity.
From Mrs. K. Warmington: “There are two little instances that stand out in my mind very clearly, and I think speak for themselves. The first relates to an English lady, her husband, and her son, with whom I made acquaintance at the English Consul’s office. Later on I met the same lady at the American Consul’s office; she was in deep distress, as her husband and son had been arrested and put into prison. Through the influence of an American that we met at an hotel, we got a permit to go and see a military commandant at the barracks to see if anything could be done for them. When we arrived, he treated us most courteously, and listened patiently to what we had to say. He rang a doctor up on the telephone, and, as far as we could make out, told the doctor to examine these men, and to pronounce them ill. He then turned to us, and told us to return in the afternoon, when he would fetch them in his own motor-car, which he did. He also gave us a paper asking the civil authorities to do all they could to aid us to get away, shook hands, and wished us a safe journey.
“The other instance relates more to myself. We were at Nüremberg, Bavaria. We had permission to leave for Lindau, on the borders of Lake Constance, on our way to Romanshorn in Switzerland. The journey was a rather expensive one for me, as I had very little money, little more indeed than a cheque, which was valueless. A young German, who was shortly going into the Navy, whom I had known only about a month, hearing of my case came to me, and gave me £9 in English gold to enable me to travel more comfortably.
“My father was German, my mother English, and my husband English. I was in Germany in 1914 from July 26 to August 26. As my son was of military age, and I did not want him interned, I got what influence I could to get him away. He was finally released at the end of August, and we were allowed to go on to Switzerland.”
In the course of 1915 an English born woman returned to her husband in Munich. Her sister wrote to me of the extreme kindness with which this lady was received by her German friends. Many English wives of interned men have gone to Germany to their husband’s families, and one hears the same account of extreme kindness. In Offenbach alone there are twenty English wives with forty English born children. Special classes have been opened for them. After all, there are some German methods which are worthy of imitation. There seems at times a danger of our imitating what is worst in our enemies, partly as a result of a desire to ignore what is better.
The letter which follows appeared in the Times of September 2, 1914:
Sir,—Various rumours are finding their way into the German papers respecting the harsh treatment which certain Germans are said to have received in England. We British subjects who are being kindly and hospitably treated by Germans earnestly hope that these reports are, at any rate, much exaggerated.
It is well that the British public should understand the position of their fellow countrymen here. At the outbreak of the war British subjects in out-of-the-way places were given safe conducts to suitable centres, such as Baden-Baden, and there allowed to choose places of abode according to their tastes and means. Such restrictions as are put upon their movements are in their own interests. The authorities have exhorted the inhabitants publicly as well as by house to house visitations to treat foreigners with respect and courtesy, taking pride in thus proving their claim to a truly high standard of civilisation, and the people have responded nobly to this appeal. Not only have hotel and pension-keepers done everything in their power to accommodate their visitors, at the most reduced prices, giving credit in many instances, but several cases have come to our notice in which Germans have housed and fed English women and children, who were perfect strangers to them, out of pure humanity and good feeling.
You, sir, can imagine how galling it must be to these people when they read in their papers of the very different treatment alleged to have been shown to Germans in England, and how painful and humiliating a position is thereby created for us here. England has hitherto enjoyed such a high reputation for chivalry and hospitality that tales to the contrary cause Germans a half incredulous shock. It it not too late for England to prove that she is living up to her old standard and that she refuses to be outdone in magnanimity towards the stranger within her gates....
(A paragraph follows as to the means by which money can be sent to Britons via neutral countries.)
(Signed) Dorothy Acton (Lady).
F. Bullock-Webster, M.A., Oxon, Resident Chaplain of Baden-Baden.
Wm. Macintosh, Dr. Ph., Resident English Chaplain, Freiburg, i.B.
Baden-Baden,
August 20, 1914.
Some account may be given of a party of 190 Englishwomen and 14 children who landed at Queenborough on September 22, 1914. (Times, September 23, 1914.) “... With one accord they spoke in terms of praise, both of their treatment in Germany and of the kindness shown to them on the journey.... ‘We have received kindness everywhere,’ said one of a party from Dantzig. ‘The Germans have been absolutely stunning to us.... I have not heard of one English person being molested anywhere in Germany.’” The Englishwomen did noble work on their part, especially for the fugitives from East Prussia. “One Sunday we fed and clothed 290 who had come in without a rag to their backs.”
“I was arrested in Berlin as a Russian spy, because a bomb had been found in the house next to mine, and because a woman in the street said that she had seen me putting bombs in my hat-box, and that she had seen me with a Russian. I did, as a matter of fact, know a Russian student, but he was not the man she meant. I was taken to the police station and searched twice in the same day. They kept me in prison for two days and nights, giving me very bad food, and then they released me because they had no real evidence against me. When I came out, strangely enough it was German people who gave me hospitality until I was able to leave Berlin.”
Again, “The German women are crazy over our Scottish troops and their kilts. Some of them used to go out and give the prisoners cigarettes, chocolates and flowers, but that has been forbidden now.”
A party of 178 who landed at Folkestone had varying stories to tell. “Nothing could possibly be better than the treatment we have received,” said one, “everybody—official, police and public—treated us with the greatest kindness and the utmost courtesy.” “The Germans are brutes, absolute brutes,” said another. Probably a third, who described both statements as exaggerations, came nearer the average truth. One of this same party described the kilts referred to above as causing matronly indignation in Berlin.[67]
In the Times of September 24, 1914, appeared a letter on the subject of English exiles in Berlin:
I have read with interest and approval the statements of Englishwomen who have returned from Germany, as reported in the Times to-day, with regard to the conduct of the German people. As one of the party which arrived at Queensborough by the special boat, I wish publicly to express my warm appreciation not only of the considerate treatment which the people of Berlin showed towards English people there, but particularly to the splendid services rendered to us by the American Embassy, which made all the arrangements for our return, and by the Consular and municipal authorities in Holland, who supplied us with food during our journey through that country.
May I add that I went about in Berlin as freely as I can now in London, and that at no time since the outbreak of the war have I seen a single British subject molested.
(Signed) L. Tyrwhitt Drake.
Ladies’ Imperial Club,
September 23.
Here also is a fact that should give us pause. In a prisoner camp at Frankfurt a-Oder is a large building erected as a place of entertainment and general meeting hall. It is used by Russian prisoners, and a considerable contribution towards its erection was collected by house-to-house visitation in Frankfurt. To appreciate this fact at its true significance we must remember that Germany suffered from direct invasion by Russia immediately on the outbreak of the war, and that all the stories of atrocities and devastation that we heard of Belgium were also told of East Prussia.
“An old friend of our family,” a correspondent writes, “has been residing in Bavaria over forty years. He is an artist, and married a Bavarian lady. His eldest son is a doctor in London, and two of his daughters are married in London, but the father has no difficulty in getting permits to paint in the Austrian and German mountains, and still finds a sale for his pictures in Germany.”
Forty years is, I know, a long time, but not by any means always sufficient to prevent persecution in the present war. On my writing table is a little ivory elephant. It was carved by a German who had been forty years in the service of one British firm. He was dismissed (a man over seventy) because of the war. This is not a unique case. “N.S., clock-maker, who had been here thirty-nine years, and P.W., baker, fifty years. (He had two sons at the front, and ‘the longer he thought the more the number of his English grandchildren grew.’)” (See the Third Report of the Emergency Committee for these and other cases).
I do not in the least wish to suggest that there has been little kindness on this side and much on the other. I am simply trying to restore the balance. So far (as is usual in war-time) the game of hatred has been played with loaded dice. Let us welcome kindness everywhere. Here, then, is a different kind of story from one of the Friends’ reports:
A young man, smart and erect three months ago when he was in employment, intelligent, speaks and writes four languages, with excellent references, now but a sad wreck, wants to go to South Africa, where he has friends, but, alas! the permit is refused—has written abroad to his father, who is in a good position, for money, but it takes so long to get a reply. His English landlady, though poor, “has been so kind,” he had his last dinner three days ago from her. We give temporary help, but if this money does not come before January 1 he will have to go into camp. Quite willing to do so, “but can we not give his poor landlady something?”
The kind landladies and other kind hearts exist, thank God, on both sides.[68] To enquire on which side there are most would (even if we could do so without bias) probably be profitless. The important point is that the kind hearts on the other side are there, and that a brotherhood of blessing will help the world more than a brotherhood of revenge—if, indeed, this last could be any brotherhood at all.
Miss G. H. writes: “I am particularly anxious to do something for interned Germans. For four months of the war I was in Germany with my mother, sister, nephew and niece, and we were all most kindly treated and helped in every possible way both by friends, by my lawyer, my banker and the neighbouring peasants. Also by all the guards and waiters along our journey on November 21. Friends, peasants, and my lawyer are still looking after my property in Germany, and I have left everything in the hands of a neighbouring peasant, who sends me accounts of it. I would like to be able to do some kind acts here in return, and for the furtherance of better relationships later on.” Yet it can never be pleasant to be in an “enemy” country. Miss H. writes further: “In spite of having such unspeakable sympathy, really understanding sympathy, shown me by not only friends, but the common people—though I hardly like using this term, as no one with so much fellow feeling could really be termed common—in spite of this kindness, I know so well how one can suffer. Over there we are looked upon in the same way that Germans are looked upon here, as quite outside the pale of common morality. Fully realising what this must mean for me, these kindly Germans would go off into a day dream of wonderment as to how they might feel in a similar plight, and one ended up with the reflection, ‘Ja, es ist halt jetzt die Zeit der Märtyrer’ (it is indeed the time of the martyrs once more).” Surely there is something strangely poignant about the convinced and steadfast martyrdom and self-sacrifice of both sides. Surely the peoples who can thus offer themselves in destroying each other must both have noble gifts to give together one day in a nobler cause.
The following is from the Nation (Jan. 19, 1918):
A clergyman sends me the following. I think it best to publish the story as it stands:—
“Some years before the outbreak of war there lived in a certain German town, now frequently raided by air squadrons, an old Englishwoman. She was a semi-invalid; difficult and cantankerous. Subject to illusions, she imagined that the good nuns, who received her as an unremunerative paying guest, were in league against her mangy, but beloved dog. Yet both she and her dog continued to receive the half-humorous tolerance of their benefactors.
“Then came the 4th of August, 1914, and Miss X. passed into the mists of war.
“A year later she emerged from the mists.
“A letter came, forwarded through a neutral in Switzerland; but the letter was not from the pen of Miss X. It had been dictated. Briefly, it said: ‘I am bed-ridden and almost blind. I have hardly anything to live upon; and the Germans will not let me go.’
“Certain details were added which clearly established identity to the recipient of the letter. There followed, on the same sheet of paper, and in the same handwriting, a postscript: ‘Sir, I have taken this poor Englishwoman into my house. How can she live on 10 marks a month?
Yours, Fräulein ...’
“Intervened the British Foreign Office and the American Embassy. Then came another letter: ‘Sir, your efforts have not been in vain....
Fräulein ...’
“But that is not the end of this incident of war. ‘Hate.’ had still its ‘uses.’
“‘Sir. I thank you for your good letter and your very kind question. All is paid, hospital and funeral. There were 30 marks left to have the grave a little arranged.
Fräulein ...’”
My correspondent adds the following comment: “I was an enemy, and ye took me in.”
In Vienna newspapers there were in 1915 many advertisements in which French, English, and Russian natives offer their services as teachers, thus:
London Lady (Diploma) gives lessons.—L. Balman, VI Bez. Gumpendorferstrasse 5, Th. 14.
Frenchman and Frenchwoman give instruction in French.—VIII, Lerchengasse 10.
An Irishwoman, brought up in England, gives lessons.—Letters to Miss Morris.
Such advertisements, we learn from the International Review of July, 1915, appear daily in Vienna.
From Die Hilfe, June 22, 1915: “in a weekly concert in Noyon the collaborators were Prof. Rivière, Sergeant Bonhoff, and Director Günzel. The performance of the Frenchman from an organ composition of his own was most effective.” There are, of course, also exhibitions of narrow-mindedness. In Halle the police forbade a performance because one of those who took part was an “enemy alien.” (Vorwärts, June 1, 1915.) On the other hand, when some Italian musicians complained of unjust dismissal, the court awarded them damages of 700 marks. The Volksstimme, of Frankfurt a.M., June 8, 1915, writing of Italy, deprecates any hatred of Italians. As soon as the responsible authorities had decided on war, obedience was the duty of each Italian citizen, just as of each German.[69] This outspoken deference to “responsible authority” is characteristically German, but the doctrine is here applied with great fairness. Some of our militarists apply it less fairly. And, alas, when the Italian Avanti published an article “Against the Blunders of International Hate,” the wisdom of the Censor caused it to be largely blanked out. The Censors seem to have strict orders to keep us hating each other.[70]
And yet—“We picked up scrappily the hint, however, that ‘some of the Germans were all right.’” This from an article in the Times on a homecomer from the front. With unconscious self-revelation the writer adds: “That somehow sounds depressing. One has heard the opposite.” Just so, it is disconcerting and depressing to have it suggested that the enemy is a man very much like ourselves; it injures our feeling of superiority. We “confess” any favourable impression of him as if it were a fault of our own. A correspondent of the Petit Parisien tells of the capture of a German officer of Hussars, near Arras. “I confess,” he says, “that the impression he produced was rather favourable than otherwise.” (Daily Telegraph, June 11, 1915.)
With others the confession is less reluctant.
There’s one spot in Ploegsteert Wood that German shells ought never to reach. It’s a grave with a carefully made wooden cross on it, and the lettering says:
“Here lie two gallant German officers.”
“That’s rather unexpected,” said a civilian who was with us.
“But they were brave,” said the major. “The Germans aren’t always so bad. Five officers from my regiment were missing one time, and we never even expected to find their bodies. But when we drove the Germans back we found a grave on which was marked: ‘Here lie five brave English officers.’ We identified them all, and their bodies were taken back to England.”
We followed another sidewalk and came to a huge mound covered with yellow flowers, which had been planted by the English soldiers. On a neatly made cross at the head of the mound an English soldier had patiently printed the words: “Here lie seventeen German soldiers.”
There wasn’t an English grave in Ploegsteert Wood that was better tended or more heavily beflowered than these mounds of fallen Germans.—Mr. W. G. Shepherd, Special Correspondent of the United Press.
Daily News, June 1, 1915.
If all the episodes of this action were recorded they would make a long as well as a grim narrative revealing the ghastliness, the wild passion, the self-sacrifice, and the cool cunning of such an hour or two of modern war.
Some of the tales of the men would have been incredible except that I heard them from soldiers who told the truth that lives on the lips of men who have seen very close into the face of death.
It is, for instance, difficult to believe—yet true—that amidst all this tumult and terror of noise one German prisoner was taken as he sat very calmly in his dug-out reading a book of religious meditations through gold-rimmed spectacles. Perhaps it was the man—I only guess—in whose pocket-book was found a letter to his wife saying, “The position here is hellish, and death is certain. I only pray that it may come soon.”
Daily Telegraph, August 16, 1915.
From Belfort in September came the report: “A German aviator this morning flew over Belfort, dropping a wreath on the spot where Pégoud was killed. The following inscription was placed on the wreath: ‘To Pégoud, who dies a hero. (Signed) His Adversary.’”
The following is from the Daily News of October 9, 1915:
The parents of a Lance-Corporal in a Highland regiment who was killed in the recent fighting have received particulars about their son’s death from a German lady in Frankfurt-on-Main.
The lady’s eldest brother was killed last year near Ypres and she knows, she says, how glad they were to receive any details of his death. Another brother, who is an officer in the German army, had written from the front, begging her to inform the dead soldier’s relatives of his fate.
In her letter the lady says: “Although we are enemies, pain and mourning unite us. So thought my brother, too, for he wrote everything about your son he could find out. I am sure my brother and his comrades did all honour to their enemies.”
The next extract is from the Nation of November 13. 1915:
Soldiers are not reluctant to speak well of their foes. The officer son of a friend of mine relates that beyond his line of trenches is a German commemoration of a British advance in the shape of a carefully wrought cross, bearing the inscription: “Sacred to the memory of Lieutenants A—— and B—— of the Staffordshire Regiment, who died like heroes.”
From a private letter: “What impresses one most are the graveyards. All these are beautifully kept, all the graves have been cared for, and no distinction has been drawn between German, English, and French, who lie side by side. ‘Hier ruht ein tapferer Engländer, gefallen im Luftkampf’ (Here lies a brave Englishman, fallen in the air fight), etc., etc.”
The Daily News of March 10, 1919, has the following:
From a staff sergeant in Germany: “Here, in Germany, an English officer with the ’flu was nursed by his landlady, who, when her patient was better, succumbed to its ravages. Her daughter caught it from the mother, and is now lying at death’s door. But merely ‘Huns,’ I suppose.”
The roll of honour in the chapel at New College, Oxford, includes the names of three Germans, and the words of charity: Pro patria—Memento fratres in Christo.
In reprisals of good we may learn something from the new Russia. When the German prisoners were set to work Kerensky said, “Prisoners or not, they shall be paid at the same rate as other men,” and they were. What was the result? Again the movement of gratitude, which is so potent a force, if only we would believe it. The German prisoners presented half their wages to the Russian Red Cross. I have to rely on private information for this.
The thoughts of the others are much like our own—that is the difficult truth we have to learn. It is a truth that is absolutely essential to any peace that is to be more than an armistice of fools.
The war has produced in the public opinion of the nations a state of mind which formerly would not have been regarded as possible in our age of internationalism and intellectuality. National egotism and the effort to assert one’s own national interests by all and every means are dominating so exclusively each belligerent group that it forms for itself a closed circle of ideas, and under its influence conclusions are drawn which are so contradictory that one is almost inclined to think that logic and common sense have been entirely eliminated from the thinking capacity of the warring nations....
We Germans, among the others, are subject to this war-suggestion. We do not wish to say, after the manner of the Pharisees, beating their breasts: “We thank Thee, Lord, that we are not like these publicans.” We know that we, too, are prisoners of our circle of ideas, and must remain so, for we, too, are ruled by our national egotism and by our desire to win the war.—Kölnische Zeitung, as quoted by the Daily News, September 3, 1915.
Ideas imprisoned, narrowed (beschränkt, as the Germans say), become putrescent through lack of free air. It is in this putrescence that the gospel of hate is bred. Here is a German officer’s protest against the infamy of this gospel. It is quoted from the Kölnische Zeitung by Mr. A. G. Gardiner in his book, “The War Lords”:
Perhaps you will be so good as to assist, by the publication of these lines, in freeing our troops from an evil which they feel very strongly. I have on many occasions, when distributing among the men the postal packets, observed among them postcards on which the defeated French, English and Russians were derided in a tasteless fashion. The impression made by these postcards on our men is highly noteworthy. Scarcely anybody is pleased with these postcards; on the contrary, every one expresses his displeasure.
This is quite natural when one considers the position. We know how victories are won. We also know by what tremendous sacrifices they are obtained. We see with our own eyes the unspeakable misery of the battlefield. We rejoice over our victories, but our joy is damped by the recollection of the sad pictures which we observe almost daily.
And our enemies have, in an overwhelming majority of cases, truly not deserved to be derided in such a way. Had they not fought bravely we should not have had to register such losses.
Insipid, therefore, as these postcards are in themselves, their effect here on the battlefields, in face of our dead and wounded, is only calculated to cause disgust. Such postcards are as much out of place on the battlefield as a clown is at a funeral. Perhaps these lines may prove instrumental in decreasing the number of such postcards sent to our troops.
Personally, I believe this to express the soul of the real Germany and the soul of the real England. The soul of any people is the best that is in it.
The following is from a lecture delivered by Prof. H. Gomperz in Vienna, early in 1915:
“Ladies and gentlemen, in our day all sorts of speakers and writers feel called upon to preach to us the doctrine of hate, in prose and even in verse, more especially against one of the countries opposing us. I do them the honour of assuming that even they do not mean that we are to translate this feeling into action; rather, even they do not dream of doing the slightest harm to any individual Englishman in so far as it is not necessary or inevitable for the purposes of victory. What then does this preaching of hatred mean, if indeed it means anything at all, and is not the mere empty clamour of some people anxious to attract attention without rendering useful service? Do they mean us to nurse and cherish the feeling of hate? Truly a strange demand after nearly two thousand years of training in the teaching of the gospel! And besides, whom are we to hate? The individual doing his duty in the service of his country, just as we are? Or the responsible governors of the destinies of that country, and the irresponsible leaders of its public opinion?” Hatred of the individual serving his country and governed by others Prof. Gomperz does not stop to discuss. It can obviously be the product only of what with etymological correctness we may term insanity. The governors and leaders imagined an irreconcilable antagonism. If they were right their case is justified; if they are wrong we must no more hate them than we should hate a patient suffering temporarily from delusion.—International Review, August, 1915.
Magnus Schwantje spoke very plainly at a meeting of the Schopenhauer Society at Düsseldorf in June, 1915. He allows that the state has a right to wage a war of defence, but not to force anyone to serve in the army. Schopenhauer, he tells us, “esteems sympathy with all that lives and suffers more highly than love for the Fatherland.... During a war a noble man desires such an issue as may be most beneficial to the whole world.... With all our readiness to recognise the merit of patriotic self-denial, we, the admirers of Schopenhauer, have to warn our compatriots, especially during a war, of the danger of patriotism degenerating into injustice, or even hatred and malicious joy at the misfortune of other nations.... Not one of the European peoples can be suppressed without heavy loss to the whole world, and not one has the right to force its special character on the others.” (International Review, September, 1915.)
It is the elderly gentlemen on both sides who exude vitriol. It is a pity that they are so much in evidence. But even some of them retain their sanity. The following is from the Cambridge Magazine of May 15, 1915:
Those who, at the beginning of the war, were induced by the Press to wonder whether any elderly German professor had retained his mental equilibrium will now be disposed to wonder whether the proportion of serious cases is after all larger there than here. At any rate the Schopenhauer Society is a very important learned body, and Prof. Deussen, of Kiel, is one of the most distinguished of German scholars. And this is how he writes in the fourth year book of the Schopenhauer Society—apparently in terms of contempt for a loquacious minority (the translation is taken from the April number of the Open Court, and the italics are ours, especially the concluding shot at the Lady Patriot):
“‘Not to my contemporaries,’ says Schopenhauer, ‘not to my countrymen, but to humanity do I commit my work which is now completed, in the confidence that it will not be without value to the race. Science, and more than every other science, philosophy is international.’ ... Foolish, very foolish, therefore is the conduct of certain German professors who have renounced their foreign honours and titles. And what shall we say of a member of our society who demanded that citizens of those states which are at war with us should be excluded from the Schopenhauer Society, and who, when it was pointed out that our foreign members certainly condemned this infamous war as much as we Germans, protested that she could not belong to an association in which Frenchmen, Englishmen and Russians took part, and announced her withdrawal from our society, indeed, even published her brave resolution in the columns of a local paper in her provincial town. We shall not shed any tears for her having gone.”[71]
Romain Rolland bears out the idea that “in all countries the extremest views have been expressed by writers already past middle age.” So it is in Germany, Rolland tells us. Dehmel, the enemy of war, has enlisted at 51; Gerhart Hauptmann, “the poet of brotherly love,” cries out for slaughter. But Fritz von Unruh has, from the battlefield, written “Das Lamm”: “Lamb of God, I have seen Thy look of suffering; lead us back to the heaven of love.” Rudolf Leonhard, who was caught up in the storm, wrote afterwards on the front page of his poems: “These were written during the madness of the first weeks. That madness has spent itself, and only our strength is left. We shall again win control over ourselves and love one another.”