Part 1

The Author begs to tender sincere thanks to the lady who supplied him with her experiences.

MARCUS KNOX.

DETAINED FOR SIX WEEKS IN A GERMAN TOWN.

We had long promised ourselves a holiday with our German friends in Holstein, and after a rather tiring journey we arrived there in the beginning of July, 1914.

The weather was glorious and brilliant sunshine ripened the corn in the fields round the little town of Neustadt, near Kiel. All was peace. Women worked indoors or in the gardens and men at their fishing nets or in their boats. In the evening they sat on wooden benches in front of their quaint red-roofed houses, the men smoking, the women preparing the vegetables for the following day. Everywhere reigned contentment and peace—peace—peace! The golden sunshine, the violet shadows, the ripening corn impressed themselves indelibly on my memory. How plainly I can still see it with my mind’s eye, such a picture of sweet quiet life, perhaps for years not to be witnessed again.

Then there came a change—like the rustle of some pestilential wind something swept over the tranquil scene—and that something was WAR. What did it mean? Destruction, ruin, poverty, separation and death!

Men who remembered the horrors of 1870 paled as they looked on their stalwart sons; young women wept to part from husbands and brothers, while little flaxen-haired children clung round their fathers’ knees. But the Fatherland called, and they knew nothing but obedience.

“Mein Kaiser ruft mich” (my emperor calls me), said one young man with ruddy complexion and bright blue eyes, as he clasped his wife to his breast. Then he took the infant from her arms and kissed it passionately. A wrinkled old woman held her trembling hands towards two youthful grandsons—mere boys—who were anticipating the glories of battle. They were all she had left, she had brought them up and without them her old age would be desolate. The poor woman who came to do the washing, actually rejoiced that the invalid condition of her husband would prevent his going to the front—afterwards she found he would be required after all, and many tears flowed over the wash tub. She was but one of thousands!

During the first days all was confusion and unrest. Nothing seemed real, and we hoped the news of serious war to be only a scare. The calm undisturbed tranquility of the Baltic seemed to deny the truth of these hostile reports.

People catch hold of news, or the rumour of news and instantly exaggerate. But as the long-drawn out hours crept on the rumour became fact and the command to mobilize a reality.

We were staying at the Pastorat (vicarage) and the young girl who came out with me had to return home on the 1st of August, via Hamburg to England.

Conjecture about her not being able to travel alarmed us. The railways were already crowded with anxious travellers—holiday makers whose holiday humour the vision of coming war had overshadowed, who were rushing to their homes; also with men who were already called to take their respective places as defenders of the Fatherland.

We were three friends—two English and one the Pastor’s wife. On the 31st of July we walked for the last time together on the sea shore and watched the gorgeous colours of the setting sun fade in the purple of the distance. The waters on which the town is situated are not the main sea, but a narrow, irregular bay that opens south-east into the Baltic—a splendid natural harbour close to Kiel. Surely, if war had really been declared, some of Germany’s great battleships would be stationed here! Could it be possible that what was said in England that we should drive them into the Kiel canal and bottle them up there on the first suspicion of hostilities, had already taken place? The coast is low-lying with small resorts for pleasure or industry dotted about. Here and there a windmill turned in the breeze, but not a single mast showed on the horizon. The path we were traversing winds round and round, sometimes through marsh land, and sometimes fenced in by hedges and trees; wild roses and honeysuckle bloom in great luxuriance and little steamers ply across to the neighbouring hamlets. At one part there is a ferry by which you can cross to a picturesquely situated “wirthshaus,” where you can have coffee or supper if desired. These frugal meals in the fresh air had always been a special delight of mine; but not often during my stay here this summer could I have this pleasure, for after the first few days all these places were closed. No one had any wish for anything of the kind, and soon even the ferry boat ceased to run.

On this evening of the 31st, however, some people were still able to joke and laugh and talk on many subjects. They could not yet realize the horror hanging over them.

We were sad at parting from our little friend. I intended staying some time longer, but she was due at home. There was some talk about our accompanying her as far as Hamburg, but perhaps there would be difficulty in getting back, and there was a baby in the house to think about.

Neustadt lies on a branch line, the main lines were sure to be overcrowded. Oh, why didn’t I decide to leave then with her and both get safe home together! But then we realized as little as the rest what the future had in store. Travel has been made so easy and we have been so spoiled by luxurious accommodations. It is utterly impossible for an English mind to conceive the entire disruption of ordinary traffic when an order for mobilizing a whole nation goes forth, not a mere army of a few thousands is under consideration, but the feeding and moving of millions.

In these early days I never dreamt that I should be practically imprisoned in that little out of the way town, cut off from all communication from the outside world. Let the reader try to imagine for himself the impossibility of any news of dear ones at home reaching him by any means whatsoever. In these modern times of every convenience let him picture to himself that suddenly all railways and means of transit had for him ceased to exist, then he may have a fair idea of what happened in every town in Germany and for all the English stranded there at the beginning of the war.

We decided to go together to Eutin, where our friend would have her first change, and to part there. All kinds of tales were fluttered about that we should not be able to get back. Kiel, situated at the eastern entrance of the Kaiser Wilhelm Canal, had emptied itself at the first breath of the possibility of war, and the authorities permitted nobody to enter the town without undergoing the most searching examination, as no doubt the fear of spies and bomb throwers was great in their minds, besides which mines were being laid around the harbour. Possibly they feared to disclose the fact that their ships were huddled up in the canal for two reasons; that their position would become known to the rest of the world, and they would also lose prestige amongst their own people. But Kiel was not in our route, and Eutin is not an important place, merely a railway junction.

We found our station only mildly crowded—no more than on any ordinary holiday, the train had not arrived and the officials were not sure whether it would come at all, however after a long time it did crawl into the station. For some reason or other all trains went at so slow a pace that one could almost walk along and talk to those inside.

At Eutin the crowds were dense. While waiting on the platform we saw some curious people alight from a motor. They were perhaps Russian spies coming from a reconnoitre of Kiel! We thought this later when we heard that so many had been taken. But our imaginations were on the alert to create sensations and unusual possibilities. The incoming train was fearfully overcrowded with passengers, and our friend found only standing room in a restaurant car. Unfortunately she could take none of her luggage in with her, and it had to be booked to Hamburg, where it was left, and we have since heard still is. The crowd there on that first of August was so dreadful that no one could trouble about luggage, and were glad to escape with their lives.

Our return journey to Neustadt was peaceful enough, but as evening advanced events became more pronounced, and there appeared no longer any doubt that we were on the eve of a European War such as the world had never seen before. All countries were being called to arms and much agitation filled all hearts. Everywhere men were being summoned away from wives and children and women stood about at street corners wringing their hands, but their grief was never loud or hysterical. Silent and heroic they faced their destiny. To think of having no choice in the matter. How contrary to our idea of liberty! In England, I repeat again, it is impossible to have any idea of what war really is, or what it means to those whose homes are threatened, and where the male members of every family must leave, in many cases, almost at a moment’s notice. It was wonderful to see how they came out of their houses fully equipped in faultless uniform, willing, without hesitation, to leave their all for their Kaiser and country. With stolid fortitude they obeyed the inevitable. It appeared to my overwrought imagination as if a soldier came out from every corner, from every house, and from every nook, in fact from everywhere, not singly, but in bunches.

And yet people still doubted that it could be true that war was really imminent. They had talked of it for so long—surely it couldn’t be true, and would France and England join? How could people fight in this 20th century with civilization at such a height, with money and pleasure at the head of everything? And yet the cloud darkened and the hideous rumours became true.

The post was most uncertain, and we were told that no parcels could be sent, and only letters if open and in German; later they went even so far as to insist that only German characters should be used, no Latin writing, that is the Latin alphabet was prohibited. Many of the young people did not know how to form these characters, and writing became very laborious. Telegrams, too, could no longer be relied upon—they might go as usual, they might take a week, as all the appliances would be required for the use of mobilization and ordinary correspondence be pushed aside. During the whole time I was there, in fact, only one letter train went each day, and that at 7.30 in the evening. Even the newspapers were very irregularly delivered at first. Law and order, as connected with anything besides the iron law of war, had ceased and chaos taken its place. A blank towards the outside world settled on us—an experience so strange and not to be remembered by even the oldest.

The pastor, who had been away for a holiday, was expected, and we feared for his journey—would he succeed in getting through? He was a delicate man and might not be able to bear the strain. Everyone’s thoughts went out to those in distant places! As far as England was concerned, even at this early date all communications with the dear Homeland were cut off. All the letters and cards I had written were returned. Every protective precaution was taken by the Germans as soon as there was any doubt in their minds about the attitude of England.

Many houses had soldiers quartered in them, for the little town was dangerously situated, and must be well guarded against spies.

We held all in readiness in case any soldiers should be allotted to us, and many hopes were expressed that they would not come before the master of the house returned.

Each day the situation became more strained.

Proclamations were issued that all strangers must leave for their respective countries. Still I stayed on. I feared to travel alone through all the crowded stations, especially as greatly exaggerated stories of the harrowing experiences of other travellers kept pouring in. At that period I felt as if I would rather remain in the shelter of my friends’ house and under their protection, and so I lost my chance. Afterwards there was no possibility of my getting through as every train was needed for the military.

With the German’s usual thrift and forethought everyone began laying in a stock of provisions and especially of coal, because the supplies from England had ceased. Many shops put up their prices, eager here as elsewhere, to make the best of an opportunity, but soon a law was passed by the Government to fix a standard above which no one might charge. Hints and rules how to economise were published in the local papers. No cakes were allowed to be baked and only a certain number of breakfast rolls. A plentiful harvest lent its abundant yield of fruit and grain to help the thrifty housewife prepare for a winter of need and privation. All kinds of eatable berries were being picked to make into syrup for the wounded soldiers soon to be brought into our midst. About this time we heard that two Russian spies had been taken in a cornfield, and I was warned not to attempt to sketch or I might be put under arrest. My nerves are not over strong, but somehow I felt as if I could trust the people, and only at times fully realized my danger.

On August the 4th the pastor returned and everywhere he received a welcome. We were truly thankful to have someone to direct parish business and console the miserable and over-anxious. This kind man proved in truth a boon to the people in this time of sore distress, but, as far I was concerned, he did not add to my comfort. A German to the core, he could not refrain from arguing and boasting; but that did not happen so much at first, not until England had declared war. Our principal fear at this time was that the Russians would come across the Baltic Sea and land troops somewhere north of Berlin, and I was surprised that the authorities made no efforts to strengthen the seaward defences. Every day the Baltic showed the same still, tranquil silent surface—not a warship anywhere in sight. A motor filled with Russian spies had attempted to pass through the town early one morning. They were arrested and from that time a chain was put across the bridge and all motors forbidden to enter Neustadt—in fact any person entering the town by the bridge was stopped and examined. Soldiers were stationed at every exposed corner and numbers patrolled the streets daily. They were, however, not overworked and had plenty of time in which to drink beer. So many people were foolishly sentimental about these guardians of our safety and treated them continually at various public houses to drinks so that they were sometimes seen the worse for liquor, which greatly reduced our respect for the defenders of the Fatherland.

The market place was repeatedly filled with horses to be sold for the army. In fact they were brought in such numbers that the way was impeded and to pass along almost impossible. They had to be tested to see if they were fit for war, and these operations made walking in the vicinity where they were taking place dangerous. So many horses were sold that it was feared there would be none left to carry in the harvest, and in many districts the corn stood in sheaves ready to be carried home. Later school children offered to help with the harvesting as the men were away; and it was a curious sight to see young lads and lasses directed by old men gathering in the golden grain; but at the time of the horse sales the corn was still standing and in many fields not yet cut.

When the horses were all sold the town became quieter and the stillness after the uproar struck us as almost painful. We felt as in a besieged town so little news of the outside world could be got.

There was, however, no longer any doubt about the seriousness of the situation, for news had been brought us that England was arming against Germany. Soon enemies would entirely surround this land. This news burst upon the people as they came out of church on the 5th August. The Emperor had ordered a solemn service to be held in every church everywhere, and our little building was crowded, while lines of soldiers filled the benches and extra seats had to be supplied. A powerful sermon the pastor preached and many eyes were moist, even men bowed their heads and wept. As we came out the dreadful words “England hat den Krieg erklärt” (“England has declared war”) were hissed from mouth to mouth, and an awful gloom fell on all. People seemed to creep along, shuffling their feet in the dust. “We are lost” they cried, and then the storm burst in fearful curses against the Power which had always been in touch with Germany. These curses were dreadful for me to hear, and my situation became more painful than ever. I feared someone might assault me or at least say something offensive, but nothing happened. By this time everyone knew that an “Engländerin” was being harboured at the Pastorat, but the pastor was much beloved and respected and vouched for my good conduct when a burly policeman came to enquire about me. But on this day, when England declared war, no one noticed me. Men went about the streets with great strained eyes that saw nothing but their inward misery.

“Three against one, the odds are fearful. England by sea and France by sea and land on one side, Russia by both sea and land on the other.” They muttered, “We are fighting for our existence, how will it end?”

The thought that they had been the aggressors and that their Emperor and his party could possibly have saved the situation and the peace of Europe, had they been so minded, never seemed to occur to them; that there existed another side to the situation never entered their minds.

Sometimes we walked to the station, but at first I only ventured in the company of my friends. Herr Pastor felt it his duty to say good-bye to the streams of men going to the front, also to cheer the sobbing wives and mothers. Harrowing sights we witnessed during these pilgrimages, but no loud grief ever occurred; the controlled silence of the people struck me as wonderful; and the faces! will they ever be obliterated from my memory? Shall I ever cease to see in my mind’s eye the rigid sentries standing at the chained bridge giving people permission to pass. The station lies on the other side of the bridge, also the post office, which official edifice I always felt nervous to approach. The rigorous discipline of these civil institutions awed me from the beginning. There exists none of the easy good nature so often found in England, for neither here nor at the railway is ever any mercy shown to the late comer. As the clock strikes the post office closes even though a hurrying individual, with a bundle of letters, stands on the threshold.

At the Pastorat all the reserve clothes connected with the Red Cross were taken out, washed and aired to be in readiness should wounded soldiers be sent to this town, the gymnasium turned into a hospital and twenty beds put up; a very small number it sounds, but not in comparison with the size of Neustadt.

There was the same eager desire to be the first to do anything which always characterises women workers everywhere. No one is ever willing to take the shady corners nor to do the unrecognized tasks!

I, being a foreigner and an enemy, kept myself free from the jargon of tongues and petty squabbles connected with this branch of patriotism. I kept to myself and stayed in the pretty vicarage garden with the peacefully sleeping baby, or in the almshouse grounds among the feeble and infirm poor. These unfortunate creatures, decrepit with age, showed me great kindness and the desolate feelings of being an alien oppressed me less here than anywhere else. I might walk in their grounds free among the flowers or sit in the quaint old chapel and look at the hideous Lutheran conceptions of church decorations, if I liked, but everything there was so appallingly ugly that I preferred to remain outside among the natural beauties created by the Almighty. But the sensation of being in a town as if besieged was at times so overwhelming that no personal kindness could assuage the misery of it. The loneliness of being the one on the other side among all these patriotic Teutons wedged me in as between huge rocks where there was no outlet. Of course I had no sympathy with them, nor they with me; but I was the one in the midst of many, and often and often my heart sank at the thought of how I might be imprisoned for months and months. The more I tried to speak German correctly the more I stammered over it. Certainly it is like a mother tongue to me, but one can never quite get the accent. People knew that I was not a native of North Germany, but I was often, in fact mostly taken for a Southerner. After a while, however, everyone in this small place recognised that I was English—an English friend of the Pastor, and many considered that I ought to leave this very exposed and important neighbourhood, so near to their great naval harbours and Kiel Canal, and suggested that it would be better for all parties were I, an English enemy, to go into the interior of the Empire away from all temptations of spying or giving information to my countrymen.