Harding looked profoundly uncomfortable at this sarcasm. He was billeted with a German family who treated him as an honoured friend. The mother, a dear old soul, as he reluctantly admitted, brought him an early cup of tea in the morning, with his shaving-water. Three times he had refused it, remembering his oath never to accept a favour from male or female Hun. On the fourth time his will-power weakened under the old lady’s anxious solicitations and his desire for the luxury of tea before dressing. He said Danke schön, and afterwards reproached himself bitterly for his feeble resistance. He was alarmed at his own change of heart towards these people. It was impossible for him to draw back solemnly or with pompous and aloof dignity when the old lady’s grandchild, a little girl of six, waylaid him in the hall, dropped a curtsey in the pretty German style, and then ran forward to kiss his hand and say, “Guten Tag, Herr Officer!”
He bought a box of chocolate for her in the Hohestrasse and then walked with it irresolutely, tempted to throw it into the Rhine, or to give it to a passing Tommy. Half-an-hour later he presented it to little Elizabeth, who received it with a cry of delight, and, jumping on to his knee, kissed him effusively on both cheeks. Young Harding adored children, but felt as guilty at these German kisses as though he had betrayed his country and his faith.
One thing which acted in favour of the Germans was the lack of manners displayed by some young English officers in the hotels, restaurants, and shops. In all armies there are cads, and ours was not without them, though they were rare. The conditions of our military occupation with absolute authority over the civilian people provided a unique opportunity for the caddish instincts of “half-baked” youth. They came swaggering into Cologne determined to “put it across the Hun” and “to stand no nonsense.” So they bullied frightened waiters, rapped their sticks on shop-counters, insulted German shop-girls, and talked loudly about “Hunnish behaviour” in restaurants where many Germans could hear and understand.
Harding, Fortune and I were in the Domhof Hotel when one such scene occurred. A group of noisy subalterns were disputing the cost of their meal and refusing to pay for the wine.
“You stole all the wine in Lille,” shouted one lieutenant of ours. “I’m damned if I’ll pay for wine in Cologne.”
“I stole no wine in Lille, sir,” said the waiter politely. “I was never there.”
“Don’t you insult English officers,” said one of the other subalterns. “We are here to tread on your necks.”
Fortune looked at me and raised his eye-brows.
“It isn’t a good imitation,” he said. “If they want to play the game of frightfulness, they really ought to do better than that. They don’t even make the right kind of face.”
Harding spoke bitterly.