I may add here a rather interesting quotation from Colonel F. N. Maude’s book, “War and the World’s Life.” On page 11 he writes: “I do not suggest that life in the Prussian army has at any time been ideal, but I do assert, from personal knowledge, that relatively to their respective stages of civilisation the treatment of the Prussian soldier, since 1815, has at all times been fairer and more humane than in any other army. The fact is proved by the very high standard of discipline maintained, together with the extraordinary absence of military crime which has so long distinguished it.”
I am reminded, too, of one of the first experiences of a friend of mine in France. He reached a village through which the Uhlans had passed. Had the inhabitants any complaints of their behaviour? None whatever.[62] Their only indignation was directed against some English soldiers who (if their story be correct) had behaved abominably. It was a curious shock of reality for my friend. He realised that sometimes the enemy might behave well, and sometimes bad stories of English soldiers might be circulated (even amongst Allies). I am quite sure that no soldiers in the world would, in general, have more natural humanity than the British, and perhaps none would have as much. I contend only against the belief that one side is impeccable, and the other hopelessly barbarian.
From the International Review; a Common Memorial.
Here are a few extracts from the International Review, a periodical published at Zürich, and with co-operators in Russia, Denmark, Germany, Austria, Italy, America, Great Britain. “The yearning of human beings towards mutual understanding needs to-day a new organ for its expression.” Hence this review—a review naturally pronounced pro-German by our Junker Press, since it presents, amongst other things, moderate statements of the German standpoint. The only internationalism which this Press can recognise is one that is exclusively English. So exactly, mutatis mutandis, do German and English chauvinism coincide. The extracts which follow are taken from the first number of the review. “Under the title, ‘German-French Chivalry,’ the Volksstimme, of Frankfurt a.M. (June 19, 1915), describes the dedication of a memorial to three thousand dead at Sedan on June 12. The leaders of the German army were present, and the French authorities officially shared in the proceedings. The short inscriptions on the simple monuments are in both French and German. They refer alike to the seventeen hundred French and the thirteen hundred Germans who fell on August 27 during the battle on the heights of Noyers.”
A Story from France.
From L’Action Française, Paris (June 12, 1915), is cited a description of the poignancy of war, of which the following is a translation:
There had been a fierce fight in front of a fortress. Many dead lay on the ground, and a few wounded who were dying. In the night we heard weak cries, ‘Kamerad, Kamerad!’ We answered, thinking it was a German who wished to give himself up. The cries were repeated. We thought of treachery, and each took his stand in readiness. Suddenly, there came in pure French: ‘Camerades Français!’ ‘What is it?’ ‘A wounded man lies near you.’ ‘No.’ ‘Yes, in front of the trench.’ ‘We have just made a round, and found only dead.’ ‘Yes, but there is a wounded man there who is calling. Can you not look for him?’ ‘No.’ And then in the silence we hear again, ‘Kamerad, Kamerad!’ The German officer speaks again, very politely: ‘French comrades, may we go to look for the wounded man?’ An inflexible ‘No’ is the answer. Is not some trick concealed under his apparent humanity and his persistence? ‘Well, then,’ calls the German again, ‘go yourself and look; we shall not shoot.’ Can we trust a German’s word, after all that they have done? But there is no long delay. A man from Lille springs forward: ‘All right, I will go to fetch him,’ he says. ‘I will go with him,’ I say to the Lieutenant. The leader of my squadron brings some others. The wounded man calls: ‘Kamerad! Do not kill me!’ We reassure him as to our intentions, and as he has a shattered hip we carry him to our lines, and on the way in spite of his suffering, he keeps on repeating with every kind of modulation, ‘Good comrade.’ He was a young man, scarcely eighteen years old, of the 205th Infantry.
I call to the enemy trenches: ‘We have brought in one wounded man, are there any others there?’ ‘Yes. 20 metres further to the right.’ We look round. ‘There are none there, only dead.’ ‘Wait, we will give you some light.’ A few words in German which we cannot understand. Will they simply shoot us down? Suddenly two splendid rockets go up: we can see as if it were midday. We are half a dozen marines and are standing twenty metres from the German trenches. On the other side of the wire entanglements an officer and men, behind the breastwork pointed helmets and caps. All remains quiet. We look round carefully. ‘Nothing. There are only corpses here. We are going back, you go back, too.’ ‘Merci, camerades français!’ calls the officer, and his men repeat the greeting of their superior. As soon as we are behind our breastwork our Lieutenant gives a command loud enough to be heard at sixty metres. ‘In the air—Fire!’ From over there once more, ‘Thank you, comrades,’ as answer to our salvo, and all falls back once more into the silence of the night; the work of death can go on again. But for this one night not a shot was heard around us.
How much sanity is there in a world that sets such men to kill each other, and eggs them on to hate?