And it was quite useless to point out that the average soldier applies the nickname “Hun” or “Boche” or “Jerry” in very much the same way as we call the Scotch “Jocks” and the Frenchmen “Froggies.”
The censor would not see it. “You think we are all barbarians,” he maintained. “It is your hate campaign, and we are not Huns; the Huns were beaten in 453 at Chalons by the Romans.”
East of the Rhine there is not much sense of humour.
And indeed, considering the way in which the Kaiser has compared himself to Attila, our warders were peculiarly sensitive on this point. And they always approached it with that strange Teuton seriousness that is for ever hanging over the crags of the ridiculous.
At Karlsruhe, on the preceding Christmas, a certain officer, who had spent most of the afternoon beside a bottle, in the middle of a camp concert arrogated to himself the right to play a leading part. And leaping on the stage, he had for the space of half an hour regaled the audience with an exhilarating exhibition that contained many good-humoured but forceful references to his “sweet friend the enemy.” Unfortunately a German censor was present, and the next morning the officer was testily buttonholed by the sleuthhound.
“Captain Arnold,” said the censor, “I do not wish to make any trouble between you and us, but you said last night many things that were most offensive.”
Captain Arnold, whose memories of the preceding evening were shrouded in a mist of cocktails, endeavoured to be jocular.
“Oh, no, surely not? Not offensive; come now, not offensive.”
“Oh, yes, indeed they were; most offensive, Captain Arnold. You called us Huns.”
The gallant officer realised that he had been indiscreet, and saw that only one way lay open to him.