It was a Roman holiday for the French inhabitants of the town of ——, who lined the roads en masse quivering with suppressed emotion and happiness, thinking they were eyewitnessing a great German retreat. "Our French soldiers will soon be here again," they whispered to one another. But it wasn't a retreat—it was one of those mysterious strategic shifts you read about in the papers without really realizing what it means till you see it—great masses being rushed from one battlefield to another on the long line.
For weeks these same regiments had been daily "decimated," "cut to pieces," and otherwise badly mauled by English war correspondents, but you would never have suspected it. Bearded dragoons and Uhlans were still able to sit up and smoke big Hamburg cigars as they rode along, the horses looked fresh, the guns of the batteries were spick and span, the men seemed to have "morale" to spare; they looked as if they were just going for the first time—and not coming from the scrimmage.
By way of digression and as illustrating the military "discipline" on which the Germans pride themselves so, the following whimsical interlude took place in front of the sacred portals of the Great German Staff: A famous German professor of philosophy, adorned in civil life with the high title of Privy Councilor, 65 years old, white-haired, white-bearded, and with big yellow horn-rimmed spectacles, incongruously wearing the field gray uniform whose collar and shoulder straps indicated that he was an unterofficier of the reserve regiment of a German university town well known to Americans, was waiting patiently outside of the guarded gate in company with a young Feldwebel (a non-commissioned officer of higher rank.) The old philosophy professor had enlisted with practically his whole class at the outbreak of the war, but on account of his age was not sent to the front with them at the time, but finally was allowed to go with a transport of four automobile loads of gifts and supplies for the regiment. He and the Feldwebel had to hang around outside while the Lieutenant in charge went inside to do the talking in the Great General Staff Building. Presently the old philosophy professor ransacked his pockets, produced an apple, clicked his heels together in regulation fashion and, saluting his young superior, (infinitely inferior in the civil social scale,) said: "Am I permitted to offer you an apple, Herr Feldwebel?"
His ranking superior acknowledged the gift with curt military punctilio, then added respectfully, "I thank you, Herr Privy Councilor."
In the afternoon a forced march of two miles brought me to the handsome villa occupied by the foreign military attachés, where Major Langhorne, the American expert, was again found in good health and spirits, and particularly happy because in a couple of days he was again to see some real fighting. The Great General Staff continues to give our military attaché every possible opportunity to see things for himself and give Uncle Sam the benefit of the military lessons to be learned from the big scrap, no matter which way it goes.
Today I again dropped in on the Great General Staff and found it not only at home, but very much interested on discovering that I had no pass to come or go or be there at that time. The wartime mind of Prussian militarism is keen and right to the point. It saw not the chance of getting publicity in America, but the certainty that other more dangerous spies could come through the same way. By all the rules of the war game, Prussian militarism would have been thoroughly justified in treating me as a common spy in possession of vital military secrets, but it courteously contented itself in insisting on plucking out the heart of the journalistic mystery. All attempts at evasion and humor were vain—here was the ruthless reality of war. It was the mailed Prussian eagle against the bluff American bird of the same species, and the unequal contest was soon ended when Major Nikolai, Chief of Division III. of the Great General Staff, stood up very straight and dignified and said: "I am a German officer. What German violated his duty? I ask you as a man of honor, how was it possible for you to come here?"
The answer was quite simple: "The German military machine was so perfect that it covered every contingency except the most obvious and guarded every road except the easiest way. All you have to do is to take a passenger train to Luxemburg, and hang around the platform until the next military train pulls out for Belgium or France, hop aboard, and keep on going. In case of doubt utter the magic phrase, 'I am an American,' and flash the open sesame, the red seal of the United States of America—to which bearded Landsturm guards pay the tribute of regarding it as equally authoritative as the purple Prussian eagle stamped on a military pass."
Followed a two-hour dialogue in the private office of the chief of the Kaiser's secret field police, as a result of which future historians will find in the Kaiser's secret archives the following unique document, couched in Berlin "detectivese" and signed and subscribed to by The Times correspondent:
Secret Field Police, Great Headquarters, Dec. 1, 1914.
There appears the American war correspondent, and at the particular request of the authorities, explains: