"Half a mo'! What's that? Looks like a regular haystack," grunted Stuart, as he dropped from the train and stood in the fairway, one hand held out in front of him, and a ponderous finger pointing into the darkness.
"What's what? Oh, that!—that! Yes, it looks like a haystack," admitted Jules, following the direction of his indicating finger.
"On wheels! A hay-load on a truck," suggested Henri, peering into the gloom, and seeing the ghostly outline of twenty or more trucks which stood upon the rails in a siding quite close to them. "A truck of hay, Stuart—hay!"
"Or straw," growled the huge Englishman. "Well, what of it? What's it matter to us if it's straw or hay, or any sort of thing? What's anything matter, so long as it don't help us?"
He was in quite an irritable mood, and his voice sounded as though he were ready to quarrel with anyone on the smallest pretext. It was therefore with an exclamation of impatience that he realized that Henri, with quick impulsiveness, had gripped him by the arm and was shaking him eagerly.
"What's—what's up then?" he demanded peevishly; and then, looking in the direction in which the Frenchman was now pointing, grumbled loudly: "Still on about that hay or straw? You're wasting time, Henri."
"Idiot!" the impulsive Frenchman told him. "Haven't you heard of Germans hiding up in a hayrick—hiding as spies? It's a chance; let's take it. Get your knife ready."
When they had crossed the tracks and reached the line of trucks it was indeed to find that an opportunity for further escape was right before them. For here were half a dozen trucks stacked high with hay, and each covered with a tarpaulin. To cast off one end of the tarpaulin, to burrow a hole in the hay, to tread their way into the stacks, and to hack a space sufficient to accommodate their bodies was no great difficulty, and though, in the midst of their work, the train started, it made the job all the easier; for then, throwing discretion to the wind, they tossed what hay was superabundant overboard, and, having by that means obtained a cosy little nook in one of the stacks, put the tarpaulin back into position, and, sleepy now after their labours, and content that they were securely hidden, fell fast asleep, careless of the direction in which they might be travelling. And two days later, having in the meanwhile been lucky enough to obtain some food and water at a siding into which the trucks were shunted, they heard the brakes grind, and felt the train come to a gradual standstill.
"We shall have to get clear of this," said Henri. "Lucky it's night-time again. I wonder where we are?"
"Still in Germany, I suppose," said Stuart, as he peered from underneath the tarpaulin.
"No; Belgium," declared Jules of a sudden. "Look over there—it's—it's Louvain."
There, painted above the station building near which the trucks were halted, was the word, in large letters—Louvain.
"Louvain!" said Stuart, a bitter note in his voice; "where those brutes butchered the Belgians; where they burned the town and the library, and murdered women and children. Louvain! Just fancy! Still, it's Belgium, and that's nearer to England."
"And to France!" whispered Henri, a note of excitement in his voice—"and to France, Stuart! Let's get out and see what will happen."
Dropping from the truck, they presently found themselves in the streets of Louvain, with ruined and broken remnants of houses on either side of them, with a cowed population stepping sadly through the deserted streets, and with packs of arrogant German soldiers patrolling the town. In happier days both Jules and Henri had been at this place, had admired this Belgian city of learning, had known some of its professors—now dead or scattered, many of them having found a home in England—and had never imagined in those days that such a dreadful change could have been brought about in this once famous city of learning. Yet what changes had been wrought by the war which the Kaiser and his people had sought, and which had now deluged Europe!
What a tale of treachery and suffering; what a tale of furious fighting, of gallant deeds, of death, of victory, of wounds, had been wrought by those months of war which had elapsed since that eventful day when Henri and Jules discovered themselves in Berlin, the centre of a hissing, furious crowd, and were hurried to that camp of misery at Ruhleben! He who ventures to give a full narrative of the deeds done during those months, of the varying fortunes of the combatants, of the warfare waged by land and sea and in the air, would needs have a task far, far beyond him, seeing that every day has been so full of incidents of surpassing importance to the world that a mere summary of them would be an undertaking. Yet to realize the situation, as it was at the moment when Henri and his two friends clambered from the truck in which they had escaped from the heart of Germany, and dropped to the ground in the heart of Louvain; to understand the changes which had occurred during those weary months of waiting at Ruhleben, it becomes a matter of necessity at this stage to glance, if only briefly, at the major events which had happened.
We have said already that, at the moment when Germany had thrown down the gauntlet to France and Russia, Belgium was at peace with the world, and Britain also. And the tale does not need to be repeated of how Germany, one of the Powers which had sworn to preserve the sanctity of Belgium, which had, indeed, signed a declaration to that effect and sealed it in the sight of others, now tore up that sacred treaty, and hurled her legions into Belgium. No need even to do more than remind the reader of how Belgian troops held up the advance of these treacherous foes, smote them severely, caused them terrible losses, and then, overwhelmed by numbers, were swept back, leaving the citizens in the hands of ruthless men, who murdered and butchered them, who perpetrated unmentionable horrors in the fair cities of King Albert, and burned thousands of houses and public buildings to the ground. Everyone must know, too, how that vile act of the Kaiser brought Great Britain into the conflict; how a British Expeditionary Force sailed promptly for France, and arrived in the neighbourhood of Mons only just in time to take its place beside the French armies then at death's grips with the main forces of the Kaiser's armies, who, having burst their way through Belgium, now invaded France. That historic retreat towards Paris, and the swaggering triumphal march of the Germans, were followed by a striking blow against the Teutons, who were driven back across the Marne, hurled out of central and northern France, till but a strip of the country remained to them.
Meanwhile thousands of British soldiers were flocking in, shoulder to shoulder, ready for the fray; while French forces were being mobilized. A line—thin enough in all conscience, desperately thin—was stretched from the eastern frontier of France across its northern provinces, to the very tip of Belgium at Ypres, and so across it to the sea. This line of men who burrowed their way in trenches—a force of less than one man to the yard—was yet a force of heroes. Unprepared though they were, unsupported, without a doubt because there were as yet no new armies to support them, without reliefs for the very same reason, and therefore dependent entirely upon themselves, they stemmed the German tide. Hopelessly outnumbered, they yet held their ground, and, though deluged by shells and faced by an enemy superbly equipped and prepared with the latest machinery of war, held him back, causing enormous losses in his ranks, and barring his way onward. The tale of the First Battle of Ypres is a tale of splendour, of heroic British action—the tale of how those few divisions—war-worn, hardened divisions by now—barred the road to Calais, and smashed the power of the Prussian Guards, troops hitherto considered invincible.
There is no need to recall those other battles, the almost daily exchange of shots along the trench-line, though for the information of our readers it may be just as well to enumerate some of the more important. From the sea, in the neighbourhood of Nieuport, the line of trenches ran in a southerly direction across the flats of Belgium and Flanders in front of Ypres, and down towards Arras. Thence, curling towards the east, and skirting the River Aisne and the famous city of Reims—where the vandals who had destroyed Louvain and many another city had long since wrecked the Cathedral, famous throughout the world—their line swept on over hill and dale, and hollow and furrow, across chalky plains and wooded heights and forest country to Verdun—that famous city which for centuries has been a stronghold. An ancient city, girdled at the outbreak of this gigantic war by a ring of fortresses of modern construction, in which a complete battery of guns was mounted; forts, let it be added, strategically placed, which could sweep the country in all directions. Then, turning sharply round Verdun, the line cut its way through muddy plains, through heights once more, through miles of country, till it reached the Swiss frontier. All along that line, fighting continued, here bursting out into a violent conflict, simmering down elsewhere, and at times subsiding altogether. Yet never were the trenches without a sinister line of crouching men, whether British, Belgian, or French, and ever was there another sinister, remorseless gang holding the German trenches opposite.
Round about the city of Reims there had raged at times most furious fighting. In the Vosges, French riflemen and Germans contended for the mastery without cessation; while in the Woevre, before St. Mihiel, at Arras, in a thousand places, were desperate conflicts, in which the line swayed, trenches were captured and recaptured, men died, and the Kaiser's troops frantically struggled to break their way through the cordon stretched before them. Along the British line the battle of Neuve Chapelle gave opportunity to many a young soldier, and proved to the Germans that British and Indians could fight heroically together. Then the Second Battle of Ypres took place, a conflict more furious than any that had gone before it, in which, making their preparations secretly, throwing to the winds all thoughts of humanity, acting in that ruthless, treacherous manner which one now associates as a natural course with the Germans, the Kaiser and his staff deluged the French and British lines—where they joined—with asphyxiating gas, which choked hundreds. And yet, in spite of this diabolical manoeuvre, in spite of the unpreparedness of the French and British, and though the Algerian troops of the French, scared by the gas as by the mutterings of a wizard, gave way and fell back, leaving a gap in the line, yet the enemy failed to gain their object. For the 1st Canadian Division flung itself across the gap and held on like heroes, fought with desperate bravery indeed, and wrought for the people of the British Empire, and for their brothers and sisters in Canada, a tale which, so long as the British nation exists, will never be forgotten—never beaten.
There is little to add to this tale of warfare on the Western Front. Failing in her shock tactics, and in spite of the treacherous use of gas, and occupied for the moment in strenuous and successful efforts to drive back the Russian hosts which had marched across Poland into Galicia, and even into eastern Prussia, Germany abstained from further efforts on the Western Front, hoping, no doubt, to carry out, even at the eleventh hour, the plan so carefully formulated before the war commenced, upon which her future greatness was to be established. It has ever been the maxim of a great commander to divide his enemies, to split them into two parts, and drive them asunder; and, having placed them in that position, to hold the one firmly with as small a garrison as possible, and then, taking every man he could spare, to fling himself upon the other force and annihilate it. It is a common-sense procedure, for then there is opportunity to gather one's force together again, to take a second breath, and to repeat with the other half of the enemy force the same manoeuvre. The Germans are no wiser, no swifter, no better, indeed, than are our own or the French peoples. If they are superior in any sort of way it is certainly only in their craft and cunning, in their methodical and painstaking attention to detail, and in their ruthless disregard of all laws and customs when considering their own future. Thus, seeing that Russia and France are so widely separated, there was nothing extraordinarily deep in the plans of the Kaiser's Staff when it was proposed to crush France in the first few weeks of the war, to trample out her spirit, and then, having secured her in their toils, to race back to Russia, and, counting on the fact that she would still be in a state of hopeless confusion, to deal her such blows as would stun her. Yet, with all their cunning, with all their preparation, the Germans' plans had miscarried from the moment of their invasion of Belgium—which had seemed to promise such rewards that it was worth even the risk it foreshadowed of bringing Britain into the conflict. For the Belgians had thrown out the Kaiser's plans, had delayed the onrush of the Germans, had given France time to get her men together, and had allowed Britain to send a force to aid them. The blow failed; France, reeling under it, struggling beneath it, indeed, held her ground, recovered her strength, even advanced, and now, with Britain to aid her, formed a barrier to further progress. Not the heaviest blows, no amount of asphyxiating gas availed, even the hordes flung upon that line dashed themselves to pieces. It stood strong as ever, while Russia was rising in her strength and threatening Austria.
But the Tsar's forces were known to be short of arms and ammunition—facts reported by the German spies in Russia. Here was another chance. Why not reverse the proceeding, take advantage of Russia's shortage of ammunition, and smash her before she grew stronger, thus ridding Germany of a powerful enemy? Then, having in the meanwhile held the Western line with as thin a garrison as possible, and planted machine-guns at short intervals along it, the Teuton hosts could be gathered together, even the maimed put in amongst them, and a mighty force thrown again upon the Western line which should certainly crush it. That manoeuvre, so diligently thought out by the German Staff, was put into execution promptly; and, with massed guns, with a host of men, the Russian armies were assailed, and, thanks to their shortage of guns and ammunition, were driven backward, were forced to cross Poland, until they reached a line stretching from the Gulf of Riga to the Pinsk marshes, and so southward.
It was indeed an amazing advance on the part of Germany and Austria, and a great success; yet, at the same time, a great failure, seeing that it failed of achieving its one and only object, which was the crushing of the Tsar's forces. Not once had the Russian line been broken, not once had it been demoralized even; it was there, still in front of the Germans and Austrians, undismayed, gathering strength daily, gathering guns and munitions, and all that it had suffered was loss of territory, and of numbers easily made good from the heart of Russia.
And still the Western line became stronger as the months went by, as Britain called her sons from every corner of the Globe, and as Kitchener's Army grew and grew in numbers. A foretaste of what might be expected was given to Germany when, in September, 1915, the French attacked in the Champagne area, and the British burst their way across the lines at Loos and Hulluch. Harassed by the knowledge that Russia was arming rapidly, and had millions of men to fill the gaps in her ranks, bewildered by the amazing and growing strength of the British, hemmed in by sea on almost every side, and seeing her own strength diminishing, Germany found herself in a situation little short of desperate. She must do something, and that quickly—something to smash these enemies. Already she had brought Turkey into the conflict on her side, and now she burst her way through Serbia with the aid of the treacherous Bulgarians. Yet it profited her nothing. For the real conflict and the real issue lay on the Western Front, where that line stretched through France and Belgium. It was there, and nowhere else, that the coup de grâce would be given to either of the combatants; and, clinging to the old idea as a drowning man clings to a straw—the idea of defeating their enemies in detail—the Kaiser and his Staff once more set to work to prepare a blow which should crush the French offensive and defensive, and break for themselves a way to Paris. Their eyes were fastened on Verdun, that point from which the long French line had pivoted during the great retreat at the commencement of the war, where grizzly cement forts circled the old town, a place famous for its strength, upon which the eyes of the world were likely to be attracted.
We have no space at this moment to tell of the many reasons for choosing Verdun for an attack—for doubtless there were many—yet the mention of one alone will be sufficient. The place was considered impregnable; its forts and guns had given to it a sinister reputation. Let German armies burst their way over the French lines at Verdun, and capture the ancient city and the fortresses, and the world would be impressed. Neutrals, although irritated by German frightfulness and overbearing action, on hearing of Verdun would shiver and cease to obstruct the Teuton. Let Roumania, tottering on the brink of war, but get the tidings, and she would no longer think of joining Britain and her allies. Add to these considerations the strategical value of a break of the French line at any point, with prisoners captured, and a huge wedge thrown into the gap, which would widen out so that the road to the sea would be barred no longer, and one sees sufficient reason for this new German plan which aimed at Verdun.
Even as Henri and Jules and the hefty Stuart tripped their way from the siding in Louvain, to which they had dropped from the truck which had brought them from the heart of Germany, the Kaiser's generals were in council before Verdun. Trains were hurrying troops in that direction, while under shelter of the trees—for the neighbourhood is generously wooded—guns of huge dimensions were already in position, and others more movable were being massed, till hundreds and hundreds were ready to pour shot and shell upon the French defences. In every hollow, in every fold of the ground, under the trees, behind every sort of cover, German hosts were secretly collected, getting ready for that moment, now almost at hand, when the War Lord would launch his legions. In fact, Germany was to attempt on the Western Front, and against the French, precisely what she had attempted against the Russians with some degree of success, but yet without attaining her ambitions. She had aimed to crush Russia once for all, and, as we have said, had pushed the Tsar's legions back towards the heart of Russia. Yet the line of Muscovite soldiers was still unbroken, still undaunted, and still faced the soldiers of Germany and Austria. And on the west, Britain was getting stronger and stronger as the days went by, and becoming a greater menace. Yet, if the French could be smashed at any point, there might yet be time for the Kaiser's troops to defeat the British, when unsupported by their French ally, and afterwards to turn again towards Russia. The enormous prestige to be gained by the capture of Verdun would enhance Germany's chances, and a surprise attack might, and probably would, the Kaiser's General Staff considered, result in a triumph which would change Germany's fortunes.
But a few words with reference to Verdun itself, and we can return to Henri and his friends, now in Louvain. We have said already that the old city of Verdun, perched beside the River Meuse, in a gorgeously wooded country, and with the heights of the river-side lying between it and the enemy, was encircled by forts, which, prior to the war, gave to the city the reputation of impregnability. But the forts of Liége, in Belgium, had borne that selfsame reputation, and yet, when the Kaiser's forces treacherously invaded that country, and were held up at Liége, the huge guns prepared before-hand for this conflict shattered its forts—masses of steel and concrete—like so much paper, and later crushed the concrete defences of Maubeuge. Without a doubt, the same fate would be meted out to the forts at Verdun, were the French to rely upon them. But France is a nation of brilliant soldiers. Realizing at once that what was an impregnable fort in former days is now hardly better than an incubus—a mere house of cards, something utterly unreliable—she poured her forces out beyond those forts, dug her trenches on the eastern and northern slopes of the heights of the Meuse, and surrounded Verdun and its encircling forts with a network of trenches, covered by an artillery force, supplemented by guns which were at once removed from the forts. Indeed, she no longer relied upon Verdun as a fortress; it was merely one point in that long four hundred miles of trenches stretching across the country, no more vulnerable than any other point, and, one may add, no more impregnable. And down below those trenches, under cover of the woods, for weeks past, while Henri and his friends were languishing in Ruhleben, the Germans had been concentrating a mighty army, had been concentrating guns, equipment, and every other detail necessary for a gigantic attack, for the surprise offensive which they had planned to level at General Joffre and his forces.
"Louvain, and what next?" asked Henri aloud, as the three stepped gingerly along the pavements of the ruined city. "What next? How to get out of Belgium into France?"
"Or into England?" added Stuart.
"Or into Holland? That's where numbers of people manage to go when escaping the Germans," said Jules thoughtfully. "I've heard it said that there are Belgian patriots still in the cities of Belgium who make it their business to assist refugees. But that's where the difficulty comes in; how are we to meet such persons?"
There came a startled exclamation just at that moment, as the speaker cannoned into someone in the darkness—a small, broad figure of a man, who, rebounding from Jules, would have fallen but for the hand which that young fellow stretched out instantly. And perhaps it was just as natural that he should have apologized at once, and in the confusion of the moment in the French language.
"Pardon, monsieur," he said, whereat Henri's jaw dropped suddenly, while Stuart growled.
"And pardon me, monsieur," came the ready answer; "it was my fault. But—but—surely—surely, not German. You are—you——"
"One moment," said Henri, his wits hard at work; "who are you, monsieur?"
"I?—I? A Belgian patriot, monsieur; and you, though the darkness hides you, you are a Frenchman of Paris."
It was useless to dissemble longer, and, after all, there seemed little doubt but that the short, squat individual before them was certainly no German. Taking his courage, therefore, in both hands, Henri at once admitted that he and Jules were Frenchmen, and Stuart English.
"Monsieur," he said, "we throw ourselves upon your kindness. You are a Belgian patriot, you say, while we are refugees from Ruhleben. Assist us, help us to get away, for we are in the midst of enemies."
There was a short pause after that, while each one of the four peered hard into the darkness, the little man staring at Stuart's huge figure, and at the smaller proportions of Jules and Henri; while those three young fellows regarded the Belgian intently, indeed almost fearfully.
"Come this way, messieurs; follow me. Walk some ten paces behind me, and have no fear, for have I not said that I am a Belgian patriot? You wish to get to your own countries, eh? To fight this brutal Kaiser and his people? Bien! Follow, and I will lend you assistance."
It was three nights after that on which Henri and his friends had reached Louvain—that deserted city wrecked by German violence—and had so fortunately and so literally hit up against a Belgian patriot, that four figures crept from a tenement which had escaped the general wreckage.
"You will walk along beside me, my friends, as though we were just inmates of the city," said the Belgian, just before they left the house in which he had given the three fugitives a resting-place. "If we pass German soldiers, take your hats off to them, and if they challenge, leave me to answer. Now let us be going, and I think that we may hope for success."
Those four figures, Henri and his friends, now dressed in rough civilian clothing, crept off along the deserted streets, and, threading their way through the outskirts of the ruined city, and passing on occasion groups of German soldiers whom they obsequiously saluted, at length reached the open country. Tramping on through the night, they sheltered, just before the dawn broke, in a ruined house in another city, and repeated a similar process on the following morning. It was on the third night that the Belgian led them into what had once been a peaceful country village, and which was now merely a mass of tumbled masonry.
"We are close to the Dutch frontier, my friends," he told them, "but the way there is not so easy as it might seem, for the Germans have stretched a barbed-wire fence between Belgium and Holland, and on it is suspended an electric wire, charged with a high voltage, which kills instantly; many a poor fellow endeavouring to escape from this unhappy country has been electrocuted. But there are ways to avoid such dangers, and here is one. Give a help, you, my friend Stuart, who are the Hercules of the party."
A huge grating, which he endeavoured to lift, was a mere plaything in the hands of the burly Englishman. It was a big grating above an open sewer, and heavy enough to try the strength even of Stuart, yet it yielded to the first tug he gave, and lifted upwards.
"Now, descend," said the Belgian, "there is a pit down here some twenty feet in depth, and iron rungs in the wall. Descend, my friends; I follow."
In a trice they were at the bottom of what felt like a deep, cold well, and were standing in utter darkness listening to the sounds made by the Belgian as he too entered and dropped the grid behind him. Then all four stood listening for a while.
"Not a sound; no one has followed—that is good," giggled the Belgian, for he was an amiable little fellow. "One has to be careful in these day, messieurs; for there are spies throughout Belgium, and they know well that there are people, like myself, patriots, my friends, who carry on this traffic. But none have seen us, and therefore we are not likely to be disturbed. Now, on, messieurs, and have no fear, for there are no holes and gullies into which you can tumble, while, seeing that it has been dry weather, there is no water in the sewer."
Feeling their way by stretching out their hands, and stumbling along in the darkness, Henri following immediately after the Belgian, then Jules, and last of all Stuart, the party traversed a long stretch of the sewer, their fingers every second or so touching the brick walls on either side, while occasionally their feet splashed through puddles. Then the narrow path they trod swung to the left, and for a moment a breath of cold air blew in upon them, and, glancing overhead, Henri caught just a fleeting glimpse of stars far above, and of the iron bars of a grid stretching between him and the sky.
"Now to the left, messieurs, and we descend. Listen, we are nearly under the Dutch frontier, and overhead stretch those highly-charged electric wires which have been erected by the Germans, and on which many a poor fellow has been electrocuted. But even fear of electrocution cannot keep the brave sons of Belgium from endeavouring to leave this invaded country, and from joining those Belgian troops now fighting with the French and the British. No, I who lead you now have led hundreds of young fellows by this path or a similar one, and have taken them to safety. Now on, messieurs; in a little while we shall ascend to the surface."
It was perhaps a quarter of an hour later that Henri felt that the path under his feet was ascending, and presently, having in the meanwhile been half stifled, he began to appreciate the fact that fresh air was reaching him, and that he could breathe more easily. A warning cry from the man who led them now brought him to a halt, and five minutes later the whole party had clambered up the rungs of a ladder and had gained the Open.
"Messieurs," said the Belgian, "beyond there, straight ahead, you will find a town with friendly Dutchmen in it, who will feed you and clothe you and send you to your people. Adieu! You will fight all the better for these adventures, and all the more fiercely for having seen what poor Belgium is like under the Germans. Adieu! And good luck go with you."
Shaking hands with their deliverer, and thanking him most cordially, Henri and Jules and Stuart saw him depart down the ladder, and then turned their faces from unhappy Belgium into Holland. For, indeed, they were now beyond the frontier, and, looking back, could see the barbed-wire fence which separated Holland and Belgium, erected to keep patriotic sons of the invaded country from escaping German control and joining the Belgian forces under King Albert. Yes, they could see the light shot from a small moon, which had now risen, shining on the wires, shining on that lower one which was charged with an electric current.
"Nasty thing to get up against, that," said Stuart, the big, hefty Stuart, shuddering in spite of himself. "I expect many a poor devil has been killed by that method. And what a method! Just the sort of thing a German would do. Now isn't it a mean, underhand way of killing people? But never mind, here are three of us who mean to get even with them; and in the meanwhile what about getting forward? What about something to eat? What about something to smoke? What about joining people who ain't afraid of smiling, who've pot a friendly feeling for British and French, and don't give a rap for the Germans?"
The warmest of welcomes indeed waited the three in that Dutch town which they were approaching, and despite the late hour of their arrival they were immediately accommodated in one of the houses, were given an opportunity of bathing, and were provided with suitable clothing and with a meal the like of which they had not seen for many a long day.
"And now," said Henri on the following morning, when they assembled in the salon of the house to which they had been invited, "and now, Stuart, what happens? Naturally enough, Jules and I make for France by the quickest route, and then join the army."
"Which looks to me as though you're suggesting that I'm going to do something quite different," growled Stuart, looking impressively big in the Dutch clothes which had been provided for him. "Just as naturally enough as you two are going to join the French army, I am off to join the British—Kitchener's, you know—to take a hand in the job of smashing the Kaiser."
"Then we shall part," said Jules, not without a sigh of regret. "We have had fine times together—eh, Stuart? And, looking back upon it, even Ruhleben doesn't seem so bad. In any case, it was worth it to have gone through such a long adventure as we have had together. But I wish we could continue in one another's company. I wish somehow you, too, could join the French army, or that our regiments in the French and British armies might be set to fight side by side in Flanders."
"The next thing is how are we going to return?" said Henri. "I have said that we shall take the quickest route, and I am not quite sure that that won't be via London—eh, Stuart? What do you think? Coastal services from Holland towards France, I expect, are disorganized, and no longer possible."
That this was so, their host immediately informed them.
"You may take it from me," he said, "that it is no longer easy, and in fact almost impossible, to obtain a steamer running between the Hook and Havre as formerly, and indeed of late it has been a matter of considerable difficulty to get a passage from Holland even to England; for the German submarines infest these waters, and, careless whether the boat belong to a neutral or to one of the combatants, utterly indifferent to the fact that many of them are filled with women and children and people who have nothing to do with the fighting, indeed forgetful of all instincts of humanity, of all mercy, and of all the usual customs and feelings which have in the past controlled the actions of belligerents, are torpedoing vessels at sight without warning, killing the crews and passengers, murdering both French and British and Belgians, as well as Dutchmen and people of other nationalities. Mon Dieu! they are beasts these Germans. They are cowardly bullies. That Kaiser will surely rue the day that he ever commenced this war, and will most certainly regret the frightfulness which he has taught his subjects to show to the people of all nations."
"And so there is a difficulty about getting a boat to England—eh?" said Henri, a little concerned. "But surely it should be possible. Perhaps some English boat would take us; for I can hardly believe that they have been scared from the water."
"Scared! Ha ha!" laughed the Dutchman. "No, no! The picture I have painted is perhaps a little over-coloured. Though the menace of the German submarines has been extreme, and though they have murdered numerous individuals, and have sunk a number of vessels, yet they have not gone scot-free themselves; understand that, messieurs. German submarines have been trapped, have been sunk, have suffered themselves to such an extent that it is said that there are scarcely crews left to man them; only, just now, there is a recrudescence of the peril. There are more of these boats about, and consequently there is more difficulty in crossing to England."
Yet the impatience of Henri, Jules, and Stuart to rejoin their own people was so great that no amount of danger could thwart them. A visit to their respective consuls provided them with funds for the journey, and the following morning they were on the sea and steaming for England.
"'Pon my word, I can hardly believe it's true," chortled Stuart, now clothed in different raiment, and looking indeed a very fine and sturdy, if not respectably-dressed, member of the British nation. "It's too good to be true; and I am sure I shall wake up to-night imagining that I am still on board that train, or in the lodgings that Belgian patriot provided us with, and in any case being chased by Germans. Germans! Just you wait till I get a turn at 'em."
No wonder that Henri grinned at his huge companion; it delighted him to hear the sturdy remarks of this gallant fellow, just as it delighted Stuart to look down from his greater height at the dapper, spruce, active, and now well-clad figures of his two most dashing French comrades. Spruce, indeed, Henri looked, his little moustache lending a certain amount of distinction to his face, his head held well on his shoulders, his cigarette between his lips, and the most jaunty air about him. There was a far-away look, however, in Henri's eyes, for he was thinking of France—thinking of her as she was now, and as she had been when he last saw his native country.
"Mon Dieu! What a change! What desperate changes!" he was saying to himself. "Every man able to bear arms, and of a suitable age, a soldier; every one of them living the life followed by our ancestors—those cave-men—dwelling in trenches throughout the months, fighting like tigers to beat down the Germans. Well, it will be good to join them, good to wear a uniform and line up shoulder to shoulder with our fellows."
"Yes, good," Jules admitted—for Henri's last remark had been uttered aloud—his face flushing at the thought. "What'll they do with us, Henri? Send us to some instruction-camp, do you think, and keep us there fooling about, training, drilling, doing things that I hate—that we all hate?"
"Poof! Not they. You seem to forget, Jules, that you and I have done our training; and, although we may not be very skilful soldiers, we can both of us shoot, know our drill sufficiently well, and if put to it can dig with the best of them. No, I'm hopeful that we shall jump out of these clothes into uniform, and shall almost as promptly jump into the trenches and find ourselves engaged in fighting the enemy."
It was with real regret that the two Frenchmen parted with their English companion on arrival in London.
"Of course, we'll all of us make the same sort of promises," laughed Stuart, as he gripped their hands at parting. "We'll swear to look one another up, to meet again shortly, and possibly, if we are rash, to write to one another; and just as certainly we shall find it awfully hard to meet, and, in fact, are more likely to knock across each other by pure accident than by design. It's always like that in warfare, and more than ever now in this conflict. Well, an revoir! That's the word, isn't it, Henri? Au revoir! Here's wishing that we may meet again soon; and, better than all, hoping that we shall rapidly whop the Germans. Au revoir! We have had splendid times together."
They had had a wonderful adventure indeed, and that escape from Germany was one which, almost at once, gave interest of quite considerable degree to the public, both British and French. For journalists ferreted out the fact that Jules and Henri were fresh from Germany, and though the two young fellows were modest enough they did not hesitate to tell their story. Thus, as they sat in the express train which took them to the sea-coast on the following day, they read a full account of their own doings. A few hours later they were in Paris, and at once reported at the Ministry of War.
"Bravo! So you are back from Ruhleben, mes enfants. Welcome, welcome!" cried the officer who interviewed them. "And now, of course, like good sons of France, you have returned at once, at the very earliest moment indeed, to fight France's enemies—the Boche, the Hun, the despicable ruffian whom the Kaiser and his war lords have sent in our direction to wreck the country. Now, tell me; you have had some training?"
"Yes, mon Colonel, we have both done our course, and were on holiday in Germany when war broke out and prevented us from returning. We are very anxious, mon Colonel, to join in the fighting."
The old Colonel's eyes sparkled as he listened to Henri's rejoinder, and, with Gallic enthusiasm, he smacked both young fellows heartily on the back.
"Bon! It is fine to hear you, mes enfants. It is grand to know that two of France's sons have gone through such adventures in order to return to the country. And you wish to join in the fighting as soon as possible? Bien! If I can contrive to arrange it, it shall be so. But, first of all, you must go to an instruction-camp, from which you will be drafted to regiments, and where, of course, your uniform will be issued, as well as your kit. Au revoir! Good luck go with you!"
It was a case of incessant movement for Henri and Jules, and, indeed, for weeks now they seemed to have been travelling; first those few miles on foot in the neighbourhood of the camp at Ruhleben, and then in the empty passenger train which had conveyed them from that dangerous area. Later came their trip on the supply train, and here, once more, they were packed in a French supply train running out of Paris en route for one of the big army camps instituted by the French. By the following morning, in fact, they had discarded plain clothes, and were looking critically at one another in uniform.
Jules gave vent to a light whistle, indicative of surprise, astonishment, and amusement—if, indeed, a whistle can indicate the latter. Certainly it was not one which displayed any sort of tendency to admiration; while the grin which followed it made Henri quite sure that his appearance was a source almost of ridicule to his comrade.
"What's wrong?" he demanded rather shortly. For when you criticized Henri's get-up—the cut of his coat and of his trousers, and in particular the hang of the latter, the colour of his socks, and his particular fancy in boots and hats—he was apt to become quite angry. And it made no difference now that the smart clothes which he was wont to wear had been changed for the peculiar blue uniform of France's fighting forces, supported by a pair of army boots of sturdy pattern, and capped by a steel helmet of distinctive style and of the same peculiar blue colour. Yet, withal, putting cut aside, allowing the fact that Henri, dressed as he was now, looked tall and strong and active and upright, and quite martial too, armed with a rifle, one had to admit that there was a huge difference between the Henri of that moment and the dapper, elegant, well-groomed Henri of twenty months before—a Henri who in London or Paris might quite fairly have been termed a "knut".
"Well, you do look a 'one-er'!"
"And what about you?" demanded Henri a little warmly. "Now that compliments are flying, what about you, mon ami? With that pack on your back you look like a donkey laden for the market."
At that Jules grimaced, and jerked his pack higher; and, indeed, Henri had not described him altogether unfairly. For your French poilu—the gallant, sturdy French infantry soldier—is, when on the line of march, if not actually overloaded, certainly apt to have the appearance of being so. What with his pack, his mess tins, the camp-kettle which one man among a certain number carries, his entrenching-tools, and the little bundle of faggots for the camp-fire, a French infantryman does indeed seem to have a vast quantity of personal impedimenta.
A sounding bugle called the two, and in a little while they were parading with a number of other men, some of whom had already seen service, while others were new to warfare altogether—men who possibly had been delayed from joining the colours by illness, who had contrived to reach France from abroad, or who belonged to a younger classification. A smart sergeant threw a knowing eye along the line, and, striding down it, seemed to take in the appearance of every man within a few seconds. Halting here for a moment to adjust a belt, and there to tuck in the tag of a buckle, he soon reached the end of the line, and, passing down behind it, adjusting packs, putting kettles in the correct position, arranging helmets at the regulation angle, he presently appeared in front again, and treated the squad to a smile of commendation.
"Very good indeed, lads. Very good," he said. "Stand easy for a moment."
Striding across the ground came a dapper officer—one of those smart, tall, well-turned-out Frenchmen, who appear to be the essence of soldierly composure. Halting in front of the squad, which was drawn up at attention once more, he, too, ran his eye over the men, passed a remark to the Sergeant which was essentially complimentary, and then advanced a few paces nearer.
"Mes enfants," he said, "there are some among you, who are but new recruits, who may have done your musketry course already, who doubtless know something of soldiering, and yet who must needs undergo further training; to you my remarks do not apply. But there are others among you who have seen service, who have engaged the Boche, and who may doubtless desire to return to the front at the earliest moment. Let such men step a pace forward."
Henri did not even glance at Jules, seeing that, being on parade, he must keep his eyes directly forward; while Jules, some files to his left, did not dare to cast a look in Henri's direction. It was strange, therefore, and yet not strange, when one remembers the spirit which animated these two young fellows, that, without agreement, without waiting to see what the other would do, each instantly took a pace forward, and with them perhaps a dozen of their comrades.
"Bien! Very good! And now we will ask you all about it," said the officer, smiling pleasantly. "Mon camarade, you who look so strong, tell us of your experience."
He halted in front of a broad-shouldered, burly man, who was well past thirty-five years of age, and whose chin was deeply scarred by a wound, now healed completely.
"What experience, mon Capitaine?" the gallant fellow repeated. "Well, at Ypres, in 1915, and before that, at Charleroi, in the great retreat past Château Thierry, and so to the south of the Grand Morin."
"And afterwards, mon ami?" asked the officer, patting him in paternal manner on the shoulder; for, though discipline is strict in the French army, indeed stricter in no other, there is yet the best of feeling between officers and men, a species of camaraderie which unites them closely. "You have seen much service, my friend. What then, after the Grand Morin?"
"What, then? Mon Dieu! There was the Battle of the Marne, mon Capitaine, when we drove the Boche before us; and there followed the fight about the Aisne, when the British were just to the left of us; and, later, yes later, for I have seen a great deal, mon Capitaine, there was fighting near Arras, fighting to the north of the line later, between Ypres and Nieuport, when the Germans assailed the British at Ypres, and lost the flower of their Prussian Guard Corps. This is the full tale, monsieur, for I have already mentioned the Second Battle of Ypres, in which those Huns first nearly stifled me with asphyxiating gas, and then took this chip out of my chin with a bullet."
"And you would repay that same chip, my friend?", laughed the officer.
"Bien! You may say that, Monsieur le Capitaine—repay it a hundredfold if I am able."
From one to another the officer passed, questioning them in the same friendly manner, inviting their confidence, listening to their stories, extolling their actions with words which reached the ears of their comrades.
"And you," he said at last, arriving at the gallant Henri, and tapping him on the breast with a friendly finger, while he ran his eye over this young soldier, admiring his clean, well-bred, active appearance, the set of his figure, his healthy looks, and the perky little moustache which Henri still boasted. "Well, you," he asked, "mon enfant?"
"I, mon Capitaine? Well, I have seen but little more than the heart of Ruhleben camp," Henri told him; "for I was there, a prisoner for many weary months."
"And then, did our friend, the Hun, think so little of you that he set you free?" asked the officer, his eyes twinkling. "Hardly that, I am sure, my friend, for you look as though you could do some fighting."
Henri smiled back at him.
"No, Monsieur le Capitaine," he told him; "it was not because they wished to set me free that I am here, but because they couldn't help it. I escaped—I and two other comrades, one of whom was British."
"Ah! And you escaped—you and two comrades, one of whom was British; and because you wished—all of you, no doubt—to fight for your country?"
"That is so," Henri admitted at once. "We were eager to fight the Hun, and we have joined the French army at the first opportunity."
It was the same when the officer questioned Jules, and in a trice he realized that the two had made their escape from Ruhleben together.
"Tiens!" he cried; "one little moment. Two young Frenchmen who escaped from Germany and an Englishman with them—mais oui! but—vraiment! I have read this same story quite lately. Ah! I have it. You, then, are Henri and Jules for certain?"
The two young soldiers admitted the fact with rising colour, while the glances of every man in the squad were cast at them, and the Sergeant, that smart little fellow who had first dressed the line and adjusted every buckle and every accoutrement, turned a pair of admiring eyes on them. As for the officer, he gripped each one by the hand and shook it warmly.
"It's an example to us all, mes enfants," he told the squad. "There is great honour to our big friend here who has seen such fighting throughout the first days of the war, the Retreat, that Battle of the Marne where we smashed the crowing German, the conflict near Arras and round Ypres, which barred the progress of our enemy. To such a man there is undying honour. But here we have two who, though wretched, no doubt, while confined in a German prison, half-starved, by all accounts, bullied and browbeaten, could yet have remained in that camp safe from the danger of warfare. But they wished to help their country; and see them here, joining up with our forces at the very first moment. And so, Jules and Henri, you would wish to go to the front almost immediately?"
The two nodded their assent.
"And you have had training?"
"Pardon, monsieur," said the Sergeant, opening a book and placing his finger on the name first of Henri and then of Jules; "here is their record. Three years ago they did their training and attended manoeuvres, and were reported on as excellent conscripts. In the ordinary way they would attend a few drills here, perhaps go through a short instruction in musketry and bayonet exercises, and then be drafted to the front."
"Bien! There is little else after that for them to learn but bombing and the warfare peculiar to trench fighting—such as the conduct of trench-mortars, catapults, and other weapons of a similar description—that they can well learn at the schools of instruction just behind the front. Pass them for the front, Sergeant. Put them down to go with a new draft which leaves for Verdun to-morrow evening. Good luck, my friends! I wish, indeed, that I could come with you."
"Re-form line!" bellowed the Sergeant, or, rather, he snapped the order, and at his words those who had stood forward a pace stepped back just as smartly, while every head turned as the men dressed the line.
"Dismiss!" bellowed the Sergeant, and in a moment the squad broke up, each man going off to his own quarters. As for Henri and Jules, they spent some busy hours in making ready for the coming journey; and, boarding the train with a draft of men the following evening, they found themselves behind the Verdun lines after a longish journey.
They were near the spot selected by the "All Highest", by the Kaiser, the would-be lord of the world, who had determined to make one more gigantic effort to crush the French and to defeat his enemies.