Chapter IX: "detained" by the Colonel

We had just passed a sentry on the outskirts of a village. He had brought his rifle to an imposing salute as he read the name upon our military credentials. One of my companions, smiling fatuously, remarked:

"Well, fellows, this is a real pass. It gets us anywhere."

At that very instant the Colonel leaped on the running board of our automobile.

He too was smiling, but not fatuously. Although he was French he was sufficiently an Anglophile to affect a monocle, and this gave a chilling, glassy effect to his smile.

"Your pass!" he said, stretching out his hand, at the same time signaling the chauffeur to stop. The pass was given him, one of us explaining that we had just shown it to a sentry, who had permitted us to enter the town.

"Ah, quite so," he murmured. He carefully read the pass, screwing his monocle into his eye. "Ah, _quite_ so. But you will please follow me." He signaled us to get out of the car and directed the chauffeur to turn to the side of the road and to remain there. Then he led the way down a narrow lane. At the door of a small house he told us to wait. He left the door open and we saw him pass down the hall and into a rear room. Then came a burst of laughter.

"More '_journalistes Américains_,'" we heard; and then another peal of merriment. We stood about the doorstep and wondered.

The Colonel reappeared and again directed us to follow. This time he led the way to a barn a short distance along the road. A cow yard surrounded the barn, enclosed by a high stone wall. At the gate stood a soldier with fixed bayonet. On the gate-post was written a single word.

I had been suspecting for several minutes that a hitch had occurred in our plans for going war-corresponding. My companions had similar ideas, but we had kept silent. Now, as we stared at this word written on the wall, I turned to the chap who had spoken so confidently about our pass.

"You were right about the pass," I said. "It gets us anywhere."

For the word written on the wall was "Prison."

The Colonel stopped at the gate of the cow yard, twirled his mustache, and screwed his monocle. He bowed. We bowed. Then we preceded him through the gate.

A derisive yell greeted us from a quartet seated on a wooden bench outside the door of the barn. The quartet arose and came towards us laughing.

"You know these men?" asked the Colonel.

Oh, yes, we knew them. They too were newspaper men, at least three of them. Two represented Italian papers, one an Amsterdam journal. The fourth was an Italian nobleman whose name was frequently in the social columns because of his dinners at the Ritz and Armenonville. He explained that he had accompanied the others as their gentleman chauffeur, driving his own big car. It had been requisitioned for the army at the same moment they themselves were escorted into the cow yard three days before. The Colonel stood by during our greetings, still twirling his mustache. He addressed the quartet.

"Since you know these men," he said, indicating us, "you will please explain to them where they will sleep and the arrangements for food."

Then he turned to us, at the same time pointing to a corner of the building nearest the wall gate. He said:

"You are permitted to remain out of doors as much as you like, but you are not to pass that corner. If you do--well--" a shrug and the monocled smile, "the soldier at the gate will probably shoot."

The sage of our party became sarcastic.

"I presume that the soldier's gun is loaded," he remarked.

"Oh, yes," the Colonel still smiled. "The gun is always ready--also the bayonet--it would be regrettable--" again he shrugged his shoulders.

"But why are we prisoners," the sage one demanded, "and where is our pass? If we cannot go on we will go back to Paris. What right have you to keep us here?"

The Colonel raised his eyebrows and spread out his hands. His tones were so polite as to be almost apologetic.

"Right?" he questioned. "My dear fellow, it is simply a question of the _force majeure_. And besides you are not prisoners."

"Not prisoners?" we shouted in unison. "If we are not prisoners, then what are we?"

"You are not prisoners," the Colonel insisted. "You are simply detained. You can neither go forward nor back until I receive further instructions concerning you. For the moment you are my guests."

He bowed politely and gracefully.

"And the soldier with the rifle? And the dead line at the corner of the building?"

"Ah, quite so--quite so," murmured the Colonel; then bowed again to us and went out the gate.

"Consequential little cuss," sputtered one of our trio.

"Better play up to him," advised one of the Italians. "We have been here three days. Come see where we sleep--"

They led the way to a stone outhouse near one end of the stable. A soldier with loaded rifle sat in the door. We peered within. Two cow stalls heaped with filthy straw. One of the stalls was empty; in the other we could dimly discern some huddled forms.

"We sleep in the empty one," our confrères informed us. "You will sleep there too."

"And those in the other stall?" I asked.

"Oh, those! They are German spies captured during the day. They take them out every morning--they don't come back--fresh ones take their places."

I shuddered. "What becomes of them?" No one answered and the other Italian said: "Don't talk about such things. We too are prisoners, you know."

"Oh, no," said some one. "We are not prisoners--we are merely detained--guests of the Colonel."

That evening the Colonel clattered into the yard on horseback. About twenty of his men were loafing about. On his appearance there was a great to-do. They sprang stiffly to attention in lines on either side of the horse. I learned later that this was the regular evening ceremony when the Colonel returned from his ride. I had to admit that he cut a fine figure on a horse. His body was slender and very straight. His hair slightly grizzled, his face grim, but with always that glassy, haughty smile. He wore high boots of the finest leather. His spurs jingled. His uniform was immaculate. His cape swung jauntily over one shoulder. His sword clanged. His medals were resplendent. His head was held high as he rigidly returned the salutes. At every moment I expected to hear the orchestra's opening bars, and the Colonel proclaim in a fine baritone, "Oh, the Colonel of the regiment am I," with the soldier chorus echoing, "the Colonel of the regiment is he."

However, the Colonel dismounted into very real pools of mud and manure.

"_Les correspondants Américains!_" he shouted.

We lined up--hopefully--before him.

"Your automobile," he informed us curtly, "has become the property of the army. I have directed that your overcoats and other belongings, and the food you carry with you, be brought to you here. You may eat this food and also draw your daily ration of the army fare."

This was a concession; and one of the Italians, who had drawn near, immediately asked for another.

"Now that there are seven of us," he asked "can't we have an audience with the commanding general of this division?"

The Colonel considered, then said: "If you ask an audience for only one of your number, you may draw up a petition."

The Italian, having made the suggestion, wrote the petition, we all signed it and an hour later he was led away between files of soldiers to see the General. Returning, after only a few minutes, he said the General had received him courteously but would give him no satisfaction, saying that he was waiting for instructions concerning us from General Joffre.

There was nothing to do then but make the best of it.

At six o'clock the Colonel's cook informed us that we could go to the great open oven in the cow yard and draw our evening rations. It was lucky that we had our aluminum plates, for there were no others for us. We filed across the yard with the soldiers and got a mixture of beans and beef that was decidedly unpalatable even though we flavored it with our own wine and bread. As we finished it, our chauffeur, a trench "reformë," appeared in the kitchen. He told us he was not a prisoner but was "detained" in the town with the car. He asked for a bottle of our wine, which we gave him, with a cake of chocolate, and a bottle of our water.

My two friends and myself then discussed our sleeping problem. We had resolved not to sleep in that outhouse with the Germans. When the Colonel next came into the yard we tackled him, asking if we might not have the freedom of the town under parole, in order to find beds.

He said he could not consider it.

"Then," said our spokesman, "rather than sleep in the outhouse may we stay here in the yard?"

The Colonel stiffened with sudden resentment at our making so many difficulties. He strode fiercely to a door of the stable and threw it open, showing piles of straw on the earthen floor.

"There I sleep with my officers," he said with dignified reproach.

"But," we explained, "it is not the hardship to which we object. We do not wish to be classified and kept in the same place with German spies."

"Ah," said the Colonel. He stared a moment, then smiled. He was human after all. He could appreciate that point and liked us the better for making it.

He said we might stay in the yard and then, after stamping about the room a few minutes, he pointed to a ladder to a loft above his quarters and said:

"You may use that place if you like. It is not occupied. The others can sleep there too if they like."

We quickly scaled the ladder and discovered a large, bare room that had evidently been used as a granary, for there were piles of grain and some farm implements lying about. A small window, which the Colonel had evidently overlooked, opened on to the street and also a great door on the courtyard.

At eight o'clock we stumbled up into our loft, lighted a candle and fixed up our beds. We had bought some straw for two francs, from a farmer one of the soldiers found for us. The beds were hard and uncomfortable. Naturally we slept in all our clothes and with our coats over us also; but by morning we were chilled through, for the wind howled through all the cracks, and several panes of glass in the window were broken. So at least we had fresh air.

All through the previous afternoon we had heard the constant booming of heavy artillery, which the Colonel said was about twelve miles away, and was the bombardment of Rheims, which he very openly stated was then in process of destruction, chiefly by fire. At four in the morning this cannonade again started, waking us up. We rose and descended to the yard followed by the sleepy Italian quartet. We found the Colonel, very wide awake, spick and span. He fixed the Italians with his monocle.

"I understand that one of them is a prince," he said. "Tell me which one."

We pointed out the nobleman, who was the smallest and the most dispirited of the lot.

The Colonel grunted:

"A prince, eh? Well, I like his automobile quite well."

That day we got another bench to sit on and a box that we transformed into a dining table. With some candles we rigged up a lantern. For a table-cloth we had some old canvas maps. These were furnished by the Colonel himself. In fact after we once got behind that monocle we came to like our Colonel immensely. It was plain that he liked "les Américains" better than the others. Although he could not officially recognize all that we did, it was understood that we were permitted to bribe his cook. So we had real coffee for breakfast. We had vegetables not included in the army menu; and on one great occasion we secured enough apples and pears to make a magnificent compote in our little alcohol stove.

We got up the second morning about 6.30, greatly discouraged, although the Colonel's cook, to whom we had given twenty francs the night before, brought us coffee. There was no water to be had until the soldiers had finished at the pump, and we did not have moral courage enough to shave or wash anyhow; we just stood around the courtyard in a drizzle of rain, cursing everything and everybody, chiefly our captors. We argued over and over again that it was ridiculous to arrest us; if our pass was no longer valid the thing to do was to send us back to Paris, under guard if necessary.

That morning one of the Italians dropped a letter out of the window of our loft opening on the street, to a soldier, who said he would post it in Paris. It was addressed to the "Gaulois" and contained a note from us to the American Ambassador, which I learned later never saw its destination. The first news of our whereabouts reached Paris in a message that our chauffeur sent by hand to the automobile company, merely saying that the car had been requisitioned; and we did not know about this until we returned to Paris.

We also drafted a long letter to the Commanding General, asking to send an enclosed telegram to Ambassador Herrick. The telegram stated that the three of us were detained at that point, and asked him to notify our offices in Paris. The Colonel took this letter and said he would deliver it to the General; but the telegram enclosed never reached Paris.

At five o'clock the third morning we were awakened by a soldier coming into the loft and waving a lantern over us as we lay on the floor. He called out the names of the quartet and told them to follow him. They did so, and that was the last we saw of them. I confess it gave us rather an extra chill, even though we were all chilled to the bone from the weather, to see them led out in that fashion and at that ghastly hour. It was still very dark. We heard them clatter out into the courtyard. I peered out of the loft door and dimly saw a file of soldiers. I heard one of our late companions complaining about the loss of his hat.

At breakfast our fears were set at rest by the Colonel explaining that as the quartet had been arrested before us their case had been settled first, and that they had been taken to Paris. He had found the missing hat, which he gave to me, and asked anxiously whether I would search out the owner when I returned to Paris. Inasmuch as this was some indication that I really might see Paris again, I gladly promised.

The weather cleared and we passed considerable time in the yard. A small enclosed orchard lay adjoining the courtyard, and one afternoon the Colonel gave us permission to walk there. We found some wild flowers and put them in our buttonholes. This touch of elegance called forth the admiration of the Colonel when we again saw him.

_"C'est comme à Paris_," he said.

We even got up enough courage to shave and scrape the mud off our clothes and boots, and clean up generally as well as we could. We had given the cook another twenty francs and he heated some water for us.

At noon the next day the Colonel told us that arrangements had been made for us to return to Paris at three o'clock and in our own automobile; inasmuch as his soldiers did not like it, it was to be turned over to the authorities in Paris. He asked us what had become of our French chauffeur. We insisted that no one could know less about this than we; and a detail of soldiers was sent out to rake the town for him. After the midday meal we noticed that the guard at the gate had been withdrawn, so we suggested that perhaps we could pass our "dead line" and look out at the world. As we reached the gate four men in civilian dress accompanied by a soldier entered. The soldiers in the cow yard and ourselves burst into a mighty laugh. "More American correspondents," was the shout that greeted the newcomers.

Two of them were special correspondents for American and English papers, one was a "famous war correspondent," the fourth was an amateur journalist whose claim to war corresponding lay in his former experience as an officer in the New York militia. Also he was the relative of a wealthy politician.

No credentials were found on the person of any one of the quartet; but they were making a great fuss about the "injustice" that was being done them. Our Colonel, to whom they addressed their remarks, became bored. He left them still talking and came over to us.

"They go to Paris at the same time as you," he announced. "They are fortunate. I should have liked to entertain them for a few days." He shrugged his shoulders and grinned sardonically.

He then asked us for our cards. He shook our hands. The monocle dropped from his eye and he let it dangle on the silken cord.

"I shall call on you in Paris when the war is over," he said, "er-er, that is--if I am still here." He hastily jammed the monocle back into its proper position.

The automobiles for the party were now in the yard, and a captain who was to conduct them told us to take our places. As we drove out our Colonel was standing beside the gate. He was twirling his mustache. As we passed, his free hand came to a friendly salute.