“IT’S A LONG, LONG WAY——”
I sit inside that armoured car, balancing myself dexterously on the top of my suit-case and begin to speculate as to how long I have to live. The soldiers are clustered together at one end of the strong grey vehicle; I am mercifully alone. Supporting myself on the top of my box I peer over the sides and watch the advancing army as we pass. Mile after mile flies by and still we are confronted by that endless sea of faces. On either side of the road are wide devastated spaces where the troops have encamped the night before. Once, in the centre of a wide plateau, we see a biplane, her white wings gleaming in the morning sun.
“Mine,” says the Lieutenant, indicating the machine as he turns to me with pride. We pull up and he gives an order to some soldiers near. Men are being told off to guard the aeroplane. Spy mania seems rampant. Perhaps they think I have the evil eye!
For seventy miles we drive on, now crawling to allow some soldier’s frightened horse to get out of our way, now spinning along at a pace that makes me dance about like a parched pea in the interior of that steel-sided vehicle. During all that long, tortuous drive we pass troops. I become obsessed with faces, jeering, smiling. I get used to their peculiar brand of verbal humour. I try to look away from them and prove myself complacent, superior. But escape is impossible. The entire country seems to be merged in one huge, irrepressible Teutonic grin!
I long for an earthquake to swallow us all up, so deadening becomes the effect of these continually marching troops. On they come, cavalry, infantry, artillery, baggage waggons, Red Cross ambulances, caissons, pontoons, on they come in a never-ending orderly procession. Every now and again we pass the still steaming field-kitchens, mounted in carts, each drawn by two horses, ready to supply the hot meal which every soldier expects and gets. The men are fully equipped and fresh-looking. They for the most part have not yet been shot over. At times a car filled with officers dashes past. They direct quizzical glances at my escort, as if enquiring what kind of cargo they have on board.
One incongruity in this well-drilled, magnificently equipped, steadily advancing army. Behind a troop of cavalry, heading a mile or so of well-filled baggage waggons, comes an old black “growler” drawn by two seedy-looking horses. It might almost be a draper’s brougham taking round millinery samples in a London street. The blinds of the carriage are modestly drawn down. It may enshrine the Kaiser or the latest patterns in soldier’s socks. History is silent.
We are going through Vielsalm, a frontier town. The pace is such that I have a momentary impression of a steep street and curious silent people. We are out once more in the open country. Germany, I suppose.
I feel, with the Brandenburger, that the cord is tightening round my neck each minute. Fool that I was not to tear up my papers. A Russian passport, an unsent telegram to an editor, some journalistic notes about the war—enough evidence surely to warrant my immediate death. I set my teeth and prepare my method of defence. I say to myself sternly, “Keep your head and who knows if you may not still escape.” But in my heart I have no hope.
We are approaching a town of size. The foot-paths are seething with townsfolk who generously feast the soldiers as they pass through. Vacant spaces on the paths are piled with a medley of eatables. The housewives seem to have emptied the contents of their larders on the pavements, even in the roads, for the troops to help themselves. We nearly drive over an enormous pot of gooseberry jam. Many girls are buttering tartines and offering the soldiers huge glasses of milk or lemonade. Others have ready buckets filled with water for the heated men to enjoy a cooling splash over face and arms. Some are ladling out wine into thin-stemmed glasses. Flowers are thrown but not in quantity. The troops need something more practical at a time like this.
We draw up at the station. I am delivered into the hands of the Bahnhof Commandant, Colonel ——. He takes me to a café and sends for the Bourgmestre. Across a red-clothed table I answer question after question until my brain begins to reel.