With the German armies in the West E-Book

Sven Hedin

• Herausgeber: Jazzybee Verlag
• Kategorie: Geisteswissenschaft
• Sprache: Deutsch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 731

Beschreibung

It tells, with the utmost amount of detail, the story of his two months ' sojourn last fall with the German armies in the Western field of battle. He spent a good deal of time at headquarters, passed through Belgium, stayed for some days at Antwerp immediately after its fall, was at Ostend during the bombardment, and saw much at various places along the front, although he rarely penetrated to the actual fighting line. He was always the guest of German officers and consequently he saw nothing that they did not wish him to see. When he left Sweden in September to start upon the tour he was already an ardent pro German sympathiser and his devotion to the Teutonic cause apparently grew more and more absorbing with each day that he spent with the German army. He applauds or justifies everything it has done, even to the burning of Louvain, he devoutly believes Kaiser Wilhelm to be the greatest man of modern times and one of the greatest of all history, the German cause to be entirely righteous, and the German race the coming rulers of the world. And he loses no opportunity throughout the volume to preach this gospel. The book is peculiarly interesting psychologically because of the author's complete obsession, so thorough going that he can see nothing else. As a war book it has a very considerable interest and value by reason of its million minute observations, incidents, and anecdotes dealing with the life of the troops, of the overrun regions, and the happenings in the rear of the army. Hedin dined with the Kaiser, travelled on troop trains, observed batteries at work within the zone of fire, chatted with generals conducting operations, was billeted on inhabitants of the occupied territory, visited hospitals and watched staffs handling problems from headquarters. In all these matters his keenness for detail, his enthusiasm for military efficiency, lend great vivacity and force to an unusual narrative.

Leseprobe

With the German Armies in the West

SVEN HEDIN

With the German Armies in the West, S. Hedin

Jazzybee Verlag Jürgen Beck

86450 Altenmünster, Loschberg 9

Deutschland

ISBN: 9783988680235

www.jazzybee-verlag.de

[email protected]

CONTENTS:

PREFACE.. 1

PUBLISHER'S NOTE.. 3

CHAPTER I. ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT.. 5

CHAPTER II. THE EMPEROR WILLIAM... 38

CHAPTER III. ON THE WAY TO THE FIFTH ARMY.. 47

CHAPTER IV. A DAY AT ECLISFONTAINE.. 68

CHAPTER V. A DAY AT DUN... 88

CHAPTER VI. BACK AT MAIN HEADQUARTERS. 98

CHAPTER VII. TO SEDAN... 104

CHAPTER VIII. IN THE REAR OF THE FOURTH ARMY.. 121

CHAPTER IX. WITH THE FOURTH ARMY.. 134

CHAPTER X. QUIET DAYS. 151

CHAPTER XI. TO BELGIUM... 163

CHAPTER XII. ANTWERP THE DAY AFTER ITS FALL.. 180

CHAPTER XIII. MORE DAYS IN ANTWERP. 192

CHAPTER XIV. STILL IN ANTWERP. 204

CHAPTER XV. VIA GHENT AND BRUGES TO OSTEND.. 216

CHAPTER XVI. OSTEND BOMBARDED.. 226

CHAPTER XVII. TWO MORE  DAYS ON THE CHANNEL COAST.. 234

CHAPTER XVIII. TO BAPAUME.. 244

CHAPTER XIX. AN EXCURSION TO THE FRONT AT LILLE.. 252

CHAPTER XX. TRENCH LIFE.. 260

CHAPTER XXI. SUNDAY, THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER.. 273

CHAPTER XXII. ENGLISH PRISONERS FROM YPRES. 287

CHAPTER XXIII. FAREWELL TO BAPAUME.. 298

CHAPTER XXIV. A FINAL DAY ON THE WESTERN FRONT.. 306

CHAPTER XXV. HOME TO TRÄLLEBORG.. 311

PREFACE

LONG before my book dealing with my personal recollections from the war theatres of France and Belgium had been translated into English, it was made the subject of a criticism in the " Daily Telegraph " of February 15th.

The author, Mr. William Archer, complained that I have not once introduced into my narrative any harsh and condemnatory utterances regarding Germany's conduct of the war. The fact is that I have had no occasion for such utterances. My self-imposed task was, as I have repeatedly made clear, merely to describe what I saw with my own eyes and as much as possible to refrain from citing the experience of others. During the two months that I spent on the German western front, I did not see a single instance of cruelty to prisoners or wounded, let alone ill-treatment of the civil population and its goods and chattels. The Germans maintained the same incorruptibly severe and just discipline that existed, according to the testimony of history, in the Swedish armies which Gustavus Adolphus and Charles XII. led to victory during the epic period of my own country.

But even in peace time not a day passes but that crime is committed even in the most civilised countries. How, then, can one expect that it shall disappear in a war? I therefore by no means deny that there have been isolated instances of offences and cruelty in an army of several million men. But I have not seen them and need not therefore embark upon the subject. I have a shrewd suspicion that criminal statistics generally will testify in favour of the Germanic peoples — as compared, for instance, with the Slavs and the Latins.

Mr. William Archer has something to say about my " outspoken contempt for England." Here he is mistaken. I have no feeling of hatred towards England and have never entertained any feelings of ill-will towards its great and admirable people. It is only the part which England has played and plays in this world-wide crisis that I abhor and deplore. The earth is large enough to hold both England and Germany, and England would have gained more by keeping neutral in this war. The hatred of England which pervades Germany is new — it began on the 4th August, 1914. Prior to that date it did not exist. Whether England's policy has gained the sympathy and approval of the neutral countries is not for me to judge. One can respect and admire a nation for its splendid qualities and for its colossal contribution to the advancement of the world, and yet not admire its policy at a given juncture. This is the nature of the feelings I now entertain for England, and I deeply regret that her guiding statesmen were not able to avert a situation which must inevitably bring misfortune upon their country. Did the English people itself desire this war? That question will be answered in the early future.

Mr. William Archer is surprised that I do not speak about the Battle of the Marne. Here I will remind him once more of what I say in the introduction to the book, to wit, that it was not my intention to write the history of the war. I have simply described the happenings at which I myself was present.

In conclusion Mr. William Archer says: " It would be curious to know whether Dr. Hedin now feels so confident of Germany's triumph as he did in the golden prime ..." As to that, after the events which have occurred since " the golden prime," especially on the eastern front, my faith in Germany's victory is more unshakable than ever.

It is very kind of Mr. William Archer to say that German culture is not in danger. I really think that he is right. The Germans have shown that they are men, capable of defending their culture against I might almost say the whole world, and I pity those who thought that by their united forces they would be able to reduce Germany to a second or third rate power.

SVEN HEDIN

Stockholm

25th February, 1915

PUBLISHER'S NOTE

AS I have been publicly criticized for undertaking the issue of the English edition of this book, for the most part by people who have not read it, I am taking the somewhat unusual course of giving a brief explanation of my point of view.

In the first place, Dr. Sven Hedin's book is essentially a record of facts as he saw them. He is a trained observer, and there can be no question of his veracity. Hitherto, for facts with regard to the German Armies and their organisation we have had to rely on such accounts as the German official communiques chose to give us, which nobody believes; or, as an alternative, on the accounts published in our own press, which, owing to the strictness of the censorship, were mostly gathered from accounts furnished by prisoners or our own soldiers. The prisoners were naturally pessimistic and our men optimistic. Hence the general impression formed has been that the German organisation had gone to pieces, that their troops were short of food and clothes and that their ammunition was poor.

How far this is from the truth these pages will show, and it is surely desirable to publish a book that for the first time gives us a comprehensive idea of the wonderful organisation against which we are fighting. To my mind it is one of the things chiefly needed to stimulate both our workers and our recruiting.

Again, is it not well to let the English nation know, for instance, that those 600,000 troops which our gallant 120,000 successfully withstood at Ypres were not ill-clad, ill-fed levies, but magnificently equipped troops with a machine-like organisation behind them?

There is also the question of Dr. Sven Hedin's anti-English opinions, which are quite distinct from his record of facts. But why should these not appear in this country where those of Bernhardi, Nietzsche, Treitschke and Cramb have been universally read and their publication applauded? His reflections are of course intensely irritating to any British subject, but they cannot possibly affect the British cause. On the contrary, their publication will probably do good, for there is nothing like a little tail-twisting to rouse the British Lion!

They afford only one more example of the truth that Lord Rosebery enunciated the other day that " foreigners have never understood Englishmen and Englishmen have never understood foreigners."

These opinions, however, though evidently accepted from official Germany without question or examination, do not lessen the value of Dr. Sven Hedin's record of personal experiences. For he is so obviously honest. Indeed, again and again he naively records little facts which really tell against his case.

Dr. Hedin's personal position is not for me to discuss, but I give his book intact, omitting only, at his own request, a few passages dealing with Swedish politics of purely local interest, and the British public can form its own judgment both of the author and of his views.

If that judgment is unfavourable I hope it will not prevent them from taking his facts to heart.

JOHN LANE

CHAPTER I. ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

" But where are the Main Headquarters? " I asked.

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

" Good, but how am I to get there? "

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

" And afterwards? "

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

" And where shall I find the car? "

" This paper will tell you."

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

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

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

Then came the question:

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

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

" Who is going to be my chauffeur? "

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

" Who appoints the officer? "

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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