The soldiers of the “landwehr” who are in possession of the stations, the look-outs, the guardhouses, already begin to be impatient; and the absence of news weighs heavily on them; they envy those who are marching yonder on the roads of wealthy “Frankreich” where good wine flows in abundance. They greet their comrades with friendly signs as they pass by in trains decorated with green branches and flowers on their way “nach Paris.” It is for those who come from their beloved fatherland that they have written in large letters, black, red and green, on the white walls near the points and on the approaches to the stations: “Nachrichten Bitte” (News, if you please). Let them not forget the old men, who stay behind to guard the railways and the people; let them not forget to throw out their old newspapers telling of the advance in giant strides of the vast armies of the conquering Kaiser.
Numerous trains rush onward towards France; at the windows men in uniform salute their wounded comrades as they pass, shake their fists at us and disappear, carried on to the combat by a throbbing engine. So they come in their thousands and by thousands invade our country. Trains carrying before their funnels the flag of the Red Cross, and on their coaches the distinctive marks of sanitary transports, are also caught up in this giddy whirlpool which hurries troops from east to west. They are crowded with armed men, helmeted, ready for the fight; the trucks carry heavy naval guns. That train has nothing to fear; it is protected by the Conventions of Geneva.
Namur! Here they take out the wounded who cannot stand a longer journey.
A young lieutenant, an effeminate dandy, who, apparently, has not yet heard the whistling of bullets, or the sound of a bursting shell, has our carriage pointed out to him. He approaches and orders a soldier to open the door. He has just been shaved, his moustache is cut in such a way as to show his sensual lips, his carefully manicured hands are loaded with rings, his tunic fits him like a glove, his collar is high and cramping. He takes pleasure in causing his new gaiters to creak; he stands as stiff as a poker in order to make the most of all his inches.
He mounts the step and in a high falsetto voice and mocking tone begins to speak to us. We growl out a reply; it does not seem to satisfy him. But one could not expect wounded Frenchmen to behave like trained dogs before a German officer, as the Boche soldiers do.
However, it is not curiosity only that has brought him; he has a mission to accomplish, so sharply, jerkily and with a pronounced German accent, he brings forth a sentence, which he must have been preparing a long time, even before our train was signalled: “You use explosive bullets!” I fire up then and answer: “It’s false.” But he thrusts in my face a packet of cartridges labelled: “Ammunition for practice” (“Get out, idiot,” I murmur), and peremptorily he continues: “You lie, you use explosive bullets; but we shall bring Paris to ruins!” I shrug my shoulders and he goes off stiff and haughty, and as proud of himself as if by his sole energy he had taken a whole transport of able-bodied soldiers prisoners. He has insulted the wounded and defenceless; he has thought it a fine thing to probe an open wound. He seems to be satisfied. Poor cad! have you succeeded yet in destroying Paris?
After a long wait the train starts again. The Belgian peasants, with bent shoulders and a frightened air, watch us pass, without making a movement, without speaking a word; you might think they were rooted to the ground. How different they are from those who, a month ago, welcomed us so heartily. Poor Belgium! The iron foot of Germany has passed there and terror reigns. Any demonstration must have been severely forbidden. The train goes ever onward. Night comes. We have had nothing to eat except a bit of bread and raw bacon that some German soldiers have thrown into our compartment by mistake, as they passed our convoy. We were lucky, for afterwards I met comrades who had had absolutely nothing between their lips during the fifty-five hours of our journey.
We are carried onwards. It seems as if a veil surrounds me, and even in my waking moments I am still in a dream. The train stops, starts again, jolts as terribly; it increases our sufferings, jerks off our bandages. On the platforms we hear raucous voices. We shudder at the noise of the piercing whistle of an engine, rushing full speed ahead, which cuts through space and shakes us on its passage. Then numbness seizes us, weariness of mind and body. Sleep overtakes us now and then and it is difficult to distinguish between our sleeping and waking moments. It is only after the sun’s rays have transformed our compartment into a veritable furnace, and the heat and the flies have made sleep impossible, that we shake off the torpor into which we were plunged.
We throw off our coats. It is now afternoon and there are signs of our approach to a large station. The train slows down, passes the points, makes a winding curve and stops.
Herbesthal! I grind my teeth with rage and powerlessness. It seems as if a great door had been shut on me, separating me for ever from those I love. Herbesthal! it is the threshold of our prison. This name grates on my ears like the grinding of heavy bolts on the doors of a dungeon. Herbesthal! it is the ruin of our dreams of a providential release. Brutal, positive, overpowering reality forces itself upon us, in spite of our hopes. Herbesthal! it is the ugly doctrine of facts, which comes to curb smiling fancies, dear to the hearts of the French. It is the boundary which separates the Republic of liberty of spirit, goodness and inspiration from the realm of brute force, of willing slavery, of servitude of intellects, of crimes ordered by an authority before whom all tremble. Herbesthal! The threshold is crossed, we are in Germany! Prisoners.