Chapter IV: Part 4

But the wall approaches very slowly--in fact, it almost stands still--and finally, as the rising sun disentangles itself from a pink horizon and climbs into the sky, it begins to disappear. In half an hour nothing is left, and we take off our helmets, sniffing the morning air dubiously. But all we smell is the old mixture--corpses and chloride of lime.

The incident, however, was duly recorded by Major Kemp in his report of the day's events, as follows:--

4.7 A.M.--_Gas alarm, false. Due either to morning mist, or the fact that enemy found breeze insufficient, and discontinued their attempt._

"Still, I'm not sure," he continued, slapping his bald head with a bandanna handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn't do these trenches a considerable amount of good. It would tone down some of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Waddell, if I give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches and ask them to drop it into the meter?"

"I do not think, sir," replied the literal Waddell, "that an English shilling would fit a German meter. Probably a mark would be required, and I have only a franc. Besides, sir, do you think that----"

"Surgical operation at seven-thirty, sharp!" intimated the major to the medical officer, who entered the dugout at that moment. "For our friend here"--indicating the bewildered Waddell. "Sydney Smith's prescription! Now, what about breakfast?"

VII--NINE O'CLOCK--"A LITTLE MORNING HATE"

About nine o'clock the enemy indulges in what is usually described, most disrespectfully, as "a little morning hate"--in other words, a bombardment. Beginning with a _hors d'oeuvre_ of shrapnel along the reserve trench--much to the discomfort of Headquarters, who are shaving--he proceeds to "search" a tract of woodland in our immediate rear, his quarry being a battery of motor machine-guns, which has wisely decamped some hours previously. Then, after scientifically "traversing" our second line, which has rashly advertised its position and range by cooking its breakfast over a smoky fire, he brings the display to a superfluous conclusion by dropping six "Black Marias" into the deserted ruins of a village not far behind us. After that comes silence; and we are able, in our hot, baking trenches, assisted by clouds of bluebottles, to get on with the day's work.

This consists almost entirely in digging. As already stated, these are bad trenches. The parapet is none too strong--at one point it has been knocked down for three days running--the communication trenches are few and narrow, and there are not nearly enough dugouts. Yesterday three men were wounded; and owing to the impossibility of carrying a stretcher along certain parts of the trench, they had to be conveyed to the rear in their ground-sheets--bumped against projections, bent round sharp corners, and sometimes lifted, perforce, bodily into view of the enemy. So every man toils with a will, knowing full well that in a few hours' time he may prove to have been his own benefactor. Only the sentries remain at the parapets. They no longer expose themselves, as at night, but take advantage of the laws of optical reflection, as exemplified by the trench periscope. (This, in spite of its grand title, is nothing but a tiny mirror clipped on to a bayonet.)

At half-past twelve comes dinner--bully-beef, with biscuit and jam--after which each tired man, coiling himself up in the trench, or crawling underground, according to the accommodation at his disposal, drops off into instant and heavy slumber. The hours from two till five in the afternoon are usually the most uneventful of the twenty-four, and are therefore devoted to hardly-earned repose.

VIII--STORY OF AN AFTERNOON WITH CAPTAIN BLAIKIE

But there is to be little peace this afternoon. About half-past three, Bobby Little, immersed in pleasant dreams--dreams of cool shades and dainty companionship--is brought suddenly to the surface of things by--

"Whoo-oo-_oo_-oo-UMP!"--followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dugout. Earth and small stones descend in a shower upon him.

"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head out of the dugout.

"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any casualties?"

The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel, which explodes a few yards short of a parapet, and showers bullets and fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth follow. Then comes a pause. A message is passed down for the stretcher-bearers. Things are growing serious. Five minutes later Bobby, having despatched his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds with all haste to Captain Blaikie's dugout.

"How many, Bobby?"

"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid, sir."

Captain Blaikie looks grave.

"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming from?"

"That wood on our left front, I think."

"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"

A figure appears in the doorway.

"Yes, sirr."

"Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27. Retaliate!"

"Verra good, sirr."

The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five minutes.

"Major Cavanagh's compliments, sirr, and he is coming up himself for tae observe from the firing trench."

"Good egg!" observes Captain Blaikie. "Now we shall see some shooting, Bobby!"

Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by an orderly, who pays out wire as he goes. The major adjusts his periscope, while the orderly thrusts a metal peg into the ground and fits a telephone receiver to his head.

"Number one gun!" chants the major, peering into his periscope; "three-five-one-nothing--lyddite--fourth charge!"

These mystic observations are repeated into the telephone by the Cockney orderly, in a confidential undertone.

"Report when ready!" continues the major.

"Report when ready!" echoes the orderly. Then--"Number one gun ready, sir!"

"Fire!"

"Fire!" Then, politely--"Number one has fired, sir."

The major stiffens to his periscope, and Bobby Little, deeply interested, wonders what has become of the report of the gun. He forgets that sound does not travel much faster than a thousand feet a second, and that the guns are a mile and a half back. Presently, however, there is a distant boom. Almost simultaneously the lyddite shell passes overhead with a scream. Bobby, having no periscope, cannot see the actual result of the shot, though he tempts Providence (and Zacchæus) by peering over the top of the parapet.

"Number one, two-nothing minutes more right," commands the major. "Same range and charge."

Once more the orderly goes through his ritual, and presently another shell screams overhead.

Again the major observes the result.

"Repeat!" he says. "Nothing-five seconds more right."

This time he is satisfied.

"Parallel lines on number one," he commands crisply. "One round battery fire--twenty seconds!"

For the last time the order is passed down the wire, and the major hands his periscope to the ever-grateful Bobby, who has hardly got his eyes to the glass when the round of battery fire commences. One--two--three--four--the avenging shells go shrieking on their way, at intervals of twenty seconds. There are four muffled thuds, and four great columns of earth and _débris_ spring up before the wood. Answer comes there none. The offending battery has prudently effaced itself.

"Cease fire!" says the major, "and register!" Then he turns to Captain Blaikie.

"That'll settle them for a bit," he observes. "By the way, had any more trouble with Minnie?"

"We had Hades from her yesterday," replies Blaikie, in answer to this extremely personal question. "She started at a quarter-past five in the morning, and went on till about ten."

IX--STORY OF "MINNIE--THE MOST UNPLEASANT OF HER SEX"

(Perhaps, at this point, it would be as well to introduce Minnie a little more formally. She is the most unpleasant of her sex, and her full name is _Minenwerfer_, or German trench-mortar. She resides, spasmodically, in Unter den Linden. Her extreme range is about two hundred yards, so she confines her attentions to front-line trenches. Her _modus operandi_ is to discharge a large cylindrical bomb into the air. The bomb, which is about fifteen inches long and some eight inches in diameter, describes a leisurely parabola, performing grotesque somersaults on the way, and finally falls with a soft thud into the trench or against the parapet. There, after an interval of ten seconds, Minnie's offspring explodes; and as she contains about thirty pounds of dynamite, no dugout or parapet can stand against her.)

"Did she do much damage?" inquires the Gunner.

"Killed two men and buried another. They were in a dugout."

The Gunner shakes his head.

"No good taking cover against Minnie," he says. "The only way is to come out into the open trench, and dodge her."

"So we found," replies Blaikie. "But they pulled our legs badly the first time. They started off with three 'whizz-bangs'"--a whizz-bang is a particularly offensive form of shell which bursts two or three times over, like a Chinese cracker--"so we all took cover and lay low. The consequence was that Minnie was able to send her little contribution along unobserved. The filthy thing fell short of the trench, and exploded just as we were all getting up again. It smashed up three or four yards of parapet, and scuppered the three poor chaps I mentioned."

"Have you located her?"

"Yes. Just behind that stunted willow, on our left front. I fancy they bring her along there to do her bit, and then trot her back to billets, out of harm's way. She is their two o'clock turn--two A.M. _and two_ P.M."

"Two o'clock turn--h'm!" says the Gunner major meditatively. "What about our chipping in with a one-fifty-five turn--half a dozen H E shells into Minnie's dressing-room--eh? I must think this over."

"Do!" said Blaikie cordially. "Minnie is Willie's Worst Werfer, and the sooner she is put out of action the better for all of us. To-day, for some reason, she failed to appear, but previous to that she has not failed for five mornings in succession to batter down the same bit of our parapet."

"Where's that?" asks the major, getting out a trench-map.

"P 7--a most unhealthy spot. Minnie pushes it over about two every morning. The result is that we have to mount guard over the breach all day. We build everything up again at night, and Minnie sits there as good as gold, and never dreams of interfering. You can almost hear her cooing over us. Then, as I say, at two o'clock, just as the working party comes in and gets under cover, she lets slip one of her disgusting bombs, and undoes the work of about four hours. It was a joke at first, but we are getting fed up now. That's the worst of the Boche. He starts by being playful; but if not suppressed at once, he gets rough; and that, of course, spoils all the harmony of the proceedings. So I cordially commend your idea of the one-fifty-five turn, sir."

"I'll see what can be done," says the major. "I think the best plan would be a couple of hours' solid frightfulness, from every battery we can switch on. To-morrow afternoon, perhaps, but I'll let you know. You'll have to clear out of this bit of trench altogether, as we shall shoot pretty low. So long!"

X--HOW HOURS PASS IN THE DUGOUT

It is six o'clock next evening, and peace reigns over our trench. This is the hour at which one usually shells aeroplanes--or rather, at which the Germans shell ours, for their own seldom venture out in broad daylight. But this evening, although two or three are up in the blue, buzzing inquisitively over the enemy's lines, their attendant escort of white shrapnel puffs is entirely lacking. Far away behind the German lines a house is burning fiercely.

"The Hun is a bit _piano_ to-night," observes Captain Blaikie, attacking his tea.

"The Hun has been rather firmly handled this afternoon," replies Captain Wagstaffe. "I think he has had an eye-opener. There are no flies on our Divisional Artillery."

Bobby Little heaved a contented sigh. For two hours that afternoon he had sat, half-deafened, while six-inch shells skimmed the parapet in both directions, a few feet above his head. The Gunner major had been as good as his word. Punctually at one-fifty-five "Minnie's" two o'clock turn had been anticipated by a round of high-explosive shells directed into her suspected place of residence. What the actual result had been nobody knew, but Minnie had made no attempt to raise her voice since. Thereafter the German front-line trenches had been "plastered" from end to end, while the trenches farther back were attended to with methodical thoroughness. The German guns had replied vigorously, but directing only a passing fire at the trenches, had devoted their efforts chiefly to the silencing of the British artillery. In this enterprise they had been remarkably unsuccessful.

"Any casualties?" asked Blaikie.

"None here," replied Wagstaffe. "There may be some back in the support trenches."

"We might telephone and inquire."

"No good at present. The wires are all cut to pieces. The signallers are repairing them now."

"_I_ was nearly a casualty," confessed Bobby modestly.

"How?"

"That first shell of ours nearly knocked my head off! I was standing up at the time, and it rather took me by surprise. It just cleared the parados. In fact, it kicked a lot of gravel into the back of my neck."

"Most people get it in the neck here, sooner or later," remarked Captain Blaikie sententiously. "Personally, I don't much mind being killed, but I do bar being buried alive. That is why I dislike Minnie so." He rose, and stretched himself. "Heigho! I suppose it's about time we detailed patrols and working parties for to-night. What a lovely sky! A truly peaceful atmosphere--what? It gives one a sort of Sunday-evening feeling, somehow."

"May I suggest an explanation?" said Wagstaffe.

"By all means."

"It _is_ Sunday evening!"

Captain Blaikie whistled gently, and said--

"By Jove, so it is." Then, after a pause: "This time last Sunday--"

XI--A SOLDIER'S SUNDAY AT THE FRONT

Last Sunday had been an off-day--a day of cloudless summer beauty. Tired men had slept; tidy men had washed their clothes; restless men had wandered at ease about the countryside, careless of the guns which grumbled everlastingly a few miles away. There had been impromptu Church Parades for each denomination, in the corner of a wood which was part of the demesne of a shell-torn château.

It is a sadly transformed wood. The open space before the château, once a smooth expanse of tennis-lawn, is now a dusty picketing-ground for transport mules, destitute of a single blade of grass. The ornamental lake is full of broken bottles and empty jam-tins. The pagoda-like summer house, so inevitable to French château gardens, is a quartermaster's store. Half the trees have been cut down for fuel. Still, the July sun streams very pleasantly through the remainder, and the Psalms of David float up from beneath their shade quite as sweetly as they usually do from the neighborhood of the precentor's desk in the kirk at home--perhaps sweeter.

The wood itself is a _point d'appui_, or fortified post. One has to take precautions, even two or three miles behind the main firing line. A series of trenches zigzags in and out among the trees, and barbed wire is interlaced with the undergrowth. In the farthermost corner lies an improvised cemetery. Some of the inscriptions on the little wooden crosses are only three days old. Merely to read a few of these touches the imagination and stirs the blood. Here you may see the names of English Tommies and Highland Jocks, side by side with their Canadian kith and kin. A little apart lie more graves, surmounted by epitaphs written in strange characters, such as few white men can read. These are the Indian troops. There they lie, side by side--the mute wastage of war, but a living testimony, even in their last sleep, to the breadth and unity of the British Empire. The great, machine-made Empire of Germany can show no such graves: when her soldiers die, they sleep alone.

The Church of England service had come last of all. Late in the afternoon a youthful and red-faced chaplain had arrived on a bicycle, to find a party of officers and men lying in the shade of a broad oak waiting for him. (They were a small party: naturally, the great majority of the regiment are what the identity-discs call "Pres" or "R.C.")

"Sorry to be late, sir," he said to the senior officer, saluting. "This is my sixth sh--service to-day, and I have come seven miles for it."

He mopped his brow cheerfully; and having produced innumerable hymn-books from a saddle-bag and set his congregation in array, read them the service, in a particularly pleasing and well-modulated voice. After that he preached a modest and manly little sermon, containing references which carried Bobby Little, for one, back across the Channel to other scenes and other company. After the sermon came a hymn, sung with great vigor. Tommy loves singing hymns--when he happens to know and like the tune.

"I know you chaps like hymns," said the padre, when they had finished. "Let's have another before you go. What do you want?"

A most unlikely-looking person suggested "Abide with Me." When it was over, and the party, standing as rigid as their own rifles, had sung "God Save the King," the preacher announced awkwardly--almost apologetically--

"If any of you would like to--er--communicate, I shall be very glad. May not have another opportunity for some time, you know. I think over there"--he indicated a quiet corner of the wood, not far from the little cemetery--"would be a good place."

He pronounced the benediction, and then, after further recurrence to his saddle-bag, retired to his improvised sanctuary. Here, with a ration-box for altar, and strands of barbed wire for choir-stalls, he made his simple preparations.

Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him. That was just a week ago.

* * * * *

Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.

"It's a rotten business, war," he said pensively--"when you come to think of it. Hallo, there goes the first star-shell! Come along, Bobby!"

Dusk had fallen. From the German trenches a thin luminous thread stole up into the darkening sky, leaned over, drooped, and burst into dazzling brilliance over the British parapet. Simultaneously a desultory rifle fire crackled down the lines. The night's work had begun.

(Ian Hay relates innumerable stories, each filled with absorbing human emotions. Among them are: "The Conversion of Private M'Slattery;" "Shooting Straight;" "Deeds of Darkness;" "The Gathering of the Eagles;" "The Battle of the Slag-Heaps," all of which are the narratives of a trained novelist direct from the battlefield.)

FOOTNOTES:

[4] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in original sources.

SOME EXPERIENCES IN HUNGARY

_In the Palace of Prince and Princess K----_

_By Mina MacDonald, English Companion to the Two Daughters of a Hungarian Magnate_

These experiences of an English girl throw a new light on the
character of the Hungarian noble families. At the outbreak of the
War, she was companion to the two daughters of a Hungarian Prince who
resided in the vicinity of Pressburg. This gave her an opportunity
of gauging the sentiments of those connected with the House of
Hapsburg. They discussed the War with frankness in her presence.
The family treated her precisely as one of their own and at no time
considered her as an "enemy alien." In the preface to her narrative,
Miss MacDonald says: "If other British subjects in Austria proper
were treated more rigorously, they must lay the blame on instructions
received from Berlin. My own experiences in the Hungarian family
during the throes of a World War may, perchance, induce British (and
American) readers to think more highly of the gallant Magyar race."
Selections from her narrative are here presented by courtesy of her
publishers, _Longmans, Green and Company_.

[5] I--THE CASTLE IN THE CARPATHIANS

The village of K---- stands in a pleasant mountain valley among the White Carpathians on the borders of Moravia.... It cannot even lay claim to the various dissensions of its neighbouring town S---- where representatives of every race, religion, and political party to be found in Austria and Hungary, keep the town like a boiling pot. It is far otherwise in K---- which is solidly and frankly Clovak, Catholic, and anti-Austrian. The peasants who, with the exception of the priest, the schoolmaster and the inn-keeper, constitute the population of village, are all dirty, drunken, hard-working, and intelligent.

* * * * *

The Schloss is an old white building full of beauty and interest, built on the hill below the village, in the midst of a park where Maria Therese used to hunt.... The gardens which surround the Schloss are so beautifully laid out and so ornamented with fountains and statues that K---- is known to Hungarians as the Miniature Versailles; the head gardener being a person of such serious importance in K---- that even the Herrschaft at the Schloss speak of and treat him not as an ordinary gardener but as a Man of Art. Indoors, too, the house confirms its reputation of being a small Versailles, for the collection of pictures and antiquities, begun centuries ago, is pursued by the Prince of to-day with vigour, and carping guests have been heard to remark that though there wasn't a chair in the Schloss but had a history and a value that made ordinary mortals' hair stand on end, there also wasn't one that offered any ease or comfort except in the Prince's den where all was modern--but sacred to the Prince.

Life was always merry at the Schloss, and it was a very jolly party that Excellenz von R---- found gathered there when she arrived hot and cross from Vienna, on June 28, 1914, bringing her bad news. We were: the Prince and Princess--the best-natured and most happy-go-lucky of all hosts and hostesses; their daughters, Claire aged twenty-one, fair, blue-eyed and very beautiful, and Billy aged eighteen, large and dark and interested in all things pertaining to sport; General T----, round, white-haired, and explosive--once Commandant of a very famous Galician fortress, but now living in irksome retirement in Vienna; his son Walther, a lieutenant of Uhlans, known to us as "The Babe"; finally, myself, known to everybody as Jerry--a name which no circumstances could make beautiful, and which became heart-breaking when invariably pronounced there as "Sherry."

Everybody knew and liked Excellenz von R----, who was a very gay and enterprising old lady, and Claire, Billy, and I who had looked forward in pleasure to her coming, awaited her at the gates and clambered into the carriage from both sides as it passed--for Jan, the coachman who had driven Excellencies to and from the Schloss for the past twenty-five years, found it beneath his dignity to stop at the gates to take us in, so we tumbled in as best we could on and around Excellenz, whose face was long and tragic.

II--"THE ARCHDUKE AND SOPHIE WERE SHOT TO-DAY"

"Ach, my dear children, have mercy on old bones! And I bring you bad news! The Tronfolger and his wife were shot to-day in Sarajevo. Oh, poor Sophie!" and Excellenz, who was an intimate friend of the Duchess, burst into tears. "It's quite true too--official before I left Vienna this afternoon."

But Jan was before her at the house and called as he drove up, to the footman on the steps--

"Tronfolger mit Frau heute geschossen."

German, which he insisted on speaking, was not Jan's strong point. The footman, a Bohemian and anti-Austrian, sniffed at this lack of breeding, and answered very casually "So." Excellenz, though she was still weeping, was very angry and shook her fist at Jan, but she got her innings in the hall where the Princess was awaiting--in perplexity as she saw Excellenz's wrath and tears.

"What, Francesca, you arrive in tears at K----?"

"Yes, I should think I do--it's too awful," and Excellenz sobbed out her news.

"What nonsense!" said the Princess. "How can you believe these wild stories? Besides, who would shoot that pair?"

"But it's official."

"What is official?" asked the Prince appearing.

"The Archduke and Sophie were shot to-day in Sarajevo."

"Then what the devil made them go there? They might know beforehand that they wouldn't get out of there with whole skins," he replied, greeting his guest.

In the drawing-room I found the General, who in the excitement of the moment had been forgotten. He said as usual, "Pooh! that's not a funny joke, Sherry."

"That may be; but it's official, and you ought not to receive your 'officials' with 'pooh,' but perhaps it's your way here. Here is Excellenz von R---- in tears--she has brought the news from Vienna."

"Old wives' tales! I don't believe it."

Excellenz nevertheless persuaded him.

"Donnerwetter! Jesus Maria! And she tried to save him! Plucky woman--always was plucky. Skinflint though--a skinflint. Too fond of the Jesuits! This plot was arranged in Serbia, I'll stake my life--stake my life. Ach, those Serbs! The scum of creation--scum of creation! We must exterminate them one day. They have always been a trouble, but this will bring about their end at last. Ach, the poor Archduke and the poor Duchess! Ach! Pooh!"

"Personally," said the Prince, "I think you needn't be so angry with the Serbs. They've done us a good turn really. The Archduke--it's useless to pretend otherwise, General--was the best hated man in Austria, and the Duchess the best-hated woman. Both cared only for the Church. They won't really be regretted. The young Karl Franz Josef may be the saving of Austria at a critical moment."

III--GLIMPSES OF THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS

Excellenz von R---- during her stay in K---- remained sad over the murder of her friend, and no one spoke of anything but the political complications which might ensue. The plot, it seemed, had been known to the military and civil authorities in Sarajevo, and several arrests made even before the tragedy. The Archduke was very uneasy, and asked the Governor, General Potiorek, if it was safe to venture out to the reception in the town hall. "Absolutely safe," General Potiorek was unwise enough to reply, "I can stake my own life on your Highnesses' safety."

After Excellenz von R---- returned to Vienna the Bores arrived _en masse_ to spend the whole month of July in K----. They were the Princess's young brother Count R----, his wife, and children, Elizabeth and Stefan. It is not without reason that they are known as the Bores. The Count was the most bearable of them--but even he was trying to one's nerves in hot weather. He was gay and irresponsible--had squandered his own fortune, and as much of his wife's as she would allow him, at baccarat. His particular sin was his unfortunate habit of writing verse to each and all of us and singing it, to his own melodies, on every embarrassing occasion. His verse was clever--and usually true, consequently it annoyed. The countess was a politician, devoting her attentions to the General, who spent his days in trying to avoid her.

"Jesus Maria!" he would say when, red and panting, he had made good his escape. "In all my years in Bosnia and Galicia I never had anything like this--pooh!"

Elizabeth--usually called Bethi--was sixteen, and Stefan was twelve. Both were small but they overran the whole Schloss; no person or thing was sacred to them, and no room escaped invasion.... Bethi was being educated in the Convent of the Sacré Coeur in Budapest, where all disliking her, the nuns advised her mother to have the girl's education completed at home--an advice which we in Schloss K---- could so well understand and sympathise with!...

The children were always first in church, occupying the most comfortable chairs in the chancel. Once they actually established themselves in the large velvet chairs placed for the Prince and Princess. Billy could not succeed in dislodging them, and Claire and I, on arrival, had to use force--to the amusement of all the peasant children--which so insulted Stefan that he sulked during Mass till he conceived the brilliant idea of stretching out his foot far enough to trip up an altar boy. The priest stumbled in the "Lavabo inter innocentes manus meas," and the old church servant, who had in earlier days been the village schoolmaster, shot out of the sacristy, as was his custom when the attention of the acolytes wandered, and soundly cuffed the unfortunate altar-boy. Happily the Countess had seen, and Stefan had a very bad quarter of an hour afterwards in the Schloss.

IV--DARK DAYS AFTER THE TRAGEDY

There were days of tension after the ultimatum went to Serbia. The press was very restrained but clearly uneasy, and did not attempt to justify the extravagant tone of the ultimatum. General opinion as to whether the Serbs would fight or not was not very divided, and there were few who did not agree that Serbia was never intended to fight. She was simply to behave herself in future and Austria was to see that she did it. General T---- was indignant at the ultimatum.

"Berchtold again! Soft-headed fool--pooh! There are so many ways of getting what one wants--he must just choose this one! This way may really lead to war, and we are not prepared--no money, no munitions--nothing, nothing! Ach, it's an awful business! Perhaps Serbia won't dare to fight ... if the Russians back her she will!"

"You surely can scarcely imagine that any country could take such an ultimatum lying down?" I suggested.

"Pooh," he replied, "you can't deny that they've always been a thorn in our flesh. But my country is mad--mad! Nobody seems to realise what this can lead to. The Serbs are good fighters too. If Russia backs them we're done for. Na, I must get back to Vienna now, for Walther will have to go if there's war. Pooh--they're all crazy everywhere."

Even the Man of Art grew mournful among his rosebushes. He was Croatian and bitterly anti-Austrian.

"Ach, Fräulein! There are sad days coming, for that wasn't an ultimatum that went to Serbia--it was a declaration of war. The Serbs will fight, Fräulein. I know the race; they are brave men such as we have in Croatia. Of course they'll fight. They are real soldiers and have real officers--old General Putnik--that's a man! They'll beat us, Fräulein, and I'll have to go and fight against them too--against my own race. Bah! we're slaves here in Austria."

V--THE PRINCE WAS "IRRITATED BY THE WAR"

Then came the Serbs' reply and the partial mobilisation of the Austrian army. Everybody looked grave and the Prince became distinctly irritable.

"Just in the middle of the harvest, too! What a time of year to send an ultimatum! How the devil do they expect me to get my harvest in, if they take my men away? The lifting of the beets won't even begin for six weeks yet."

"War will be finished by then," said Billy, "and Serbia will have ceased to exist."

"And what of little Poli--the beautiful Dragoon with the sky-blue coat?" asked Claire. "Won't you have to return to Göding and join your regiment now?"

"This upsets all my plans for the summer," replied the soldier, "and it's very annoying, and it's too bad of them to spring a war upon peace-loving soldiers like this. They'll telephone to me if they want me, and I won't move from here till they do."

"And if the telephone is out of order, as it usually is, you'll be shot as a deserter," said Billy.

"Nevertheless, I won't go," said Poli, for the Einjährigerfreiwilliger was a man of peace and did not appreciate a Government which enforced days of warlike pursuits upon him each year.

But Poli had to go, for one morning about four o'clock, as the church bells were ringing the Angelus, the order for a general mobilisation was "drummed out"--in Hungary the town crier always uses a drum. Being much too sleepy to grasp what he said, I promptly went to sleep again, and in the morning discovered that I was the one person in the Schloss who had not been at all upset by the news, and that I was regarded by all as something approaching a monster of callousness. There was the wildest confusion inside and outside the Schloss when I came downstairs; all the outdoor servants had gathered in the courtyard to say good-bye before leaving to report themselves at their "Kaders"; indoors the housemaids were crying as they went about their work, and it was with difficulty that the Princess, Claire, and I managed at last to get some sort of a breakfast served by a scared-looking butler. The Prince and Billy had been up at the stables for some time, for the officials had already arrived to claim the horses on the Government list. "And all our riding-horses will have to go--every one of them," sobbed the Princess, "yes, even Hadur--nothing but Claire's little horses, which are too young, and one other pair will be left."

VI--WEEPING PEASANTS FLOCK TO WAR

The road was simply alive--peasants leading in their horses, recruits wearing the Hungarian red, white and green in their hats, cartloads of Jews huddled together weeping and wailing because their Moishes and Aarons had to go, wild-looking gipsies who had never done military service, dancing and singing in the gladness of their hearts that when others were taken they were left to steal and sing.

* * * * *

The town of S---- was seething with excited gesticulating crowds of people--all soldiers and recruits were drunk--the women-folk sobbing and screaming--the gipsies who lived in the town drunken and singing and dancing like their brethren in the country--every one was hurried and anxious, men, women, children and horses were all mixed up and military automobiles rushing about everywhere.... We reached the Oberstuhlrichter's door in safety, but so bruised and breathless that we could hardly move. Our friend, the Oberstuhlrichter was so harassed and overworked, that he had nothing to say but--"For the love of Heaven, my dears, go away. I really know nothing myself except that Germany and Russia are now in the fray and I've got to get all the recruits away from here at once. Now go away and leave me."

VII--THE WISDOM OF UNCLE PISTA

From him we went to Aunt Sharolta and Uncle Pista--in Hungary all older people are addressed as uncle or aunt. Aunt Sharolta was nearly blind, but wonderfully sweet and gentle; and Uncle Pista was small, round and jovial--red-faced and white-haired. He always wore a piece of plaster on his nose, and we often speculated as to what might be below that plaster, for it certainly never was changed, and whether it had originally been black or pink no one knew, for from time immemorial it was grey. He was the most intrepid politician I have ever met. He had learned geography sixty years ago, had forgotten it for fifty, and I doubt if he rightly knew where Serbia lay from Austria. His daughters' geographical views were based on their father's.

When, on this particular day, we appeared in their house, hot and breathless and looking as if we had been picked out of the hay-stack, we found Uncle Pista bemoaning his horses and saying that if this sort of thing would continue he would have no nerves left. Aunt Sharolta was turning out all her drawers for things to manufacture into comforts for the soldiers, and having unearthed a piece of grey material embroidered with rose-buds she was making it into a chest-protector.

"Our boys," she explained, "will die of cold in Russia, if we don't make warm clothes for them."

"What's more to the point, my horses will die of cold in Russia," grumbled Uncle Pista.

"You don't think, then, that the Russians may break into Galicia?" I suggested.

"What an idea! Our army won't let them. Russia will take six weeks to mobilise--she can't do it in less--and by that time we shall have finished off Serbia and we can join the Germans in Russia. It's a pity though that the German Kaiser didn't keep quiet; of course he knows best, but there's no question but the Tsar was very impertinent to him lately, and William is hot-tempered. I've no doubt it's for the best, and it's one of God's mercies that we have the Kaiser behind us to help us against Russia. Our boys will be in St. Petersburg long before Christmas."

VIII--THE PRINCE CALLED THEM ALL FOOLS

Partridge shooting opened on August 1st, and the Prince and Billy--for the keepers were all away at their Kaders--collected some beaters--among whom the naughty and clever Joszo, resplendent in carpet slippers, a pair of old gaiters, and an old cartridge belt--and set out to a melancholy half-hearted shoot, from which Billy returned in a dismal humour. They had shot little and had thought all the time of the men--German, Austrian, Russian, and French--who had shot with them last year and who were now engaged in shooting one another; the Prince had spoken all the time, too, of his friend the Grand Duke Nicholai Nicholaievich, who had hitherto been such a charming and clever man, but who, now that he was to lead the Russians, was nothing but a mahogany-coloured giant; and it was a disgusting world, and how could anybody ever be happy again....

The days that followed were very anxious. France, the newspapers said, declared war on Germany; and Austria felt cross and shocked. How could France declare war on any country when she was herself, as the whole world knew, so little prepared? But there would be a revolution in France, and Poincaré would be guillotined for rushing his country into war like that. Oh, yes, all were agreed, nothing was surer than that Poincaré would meet the traitor's death he deserved.... My return to England had been planned for September, and I began to think that I ought to try to leave at once, but this was laughed down.

"How do you propose to go, Jerry--by private balloon? For everything on wheels is in the hands of the army at present. No, whatever happens you must just stay with us--even if England should join in, you will easily be home for Christmas--the war will be finished long before then. But England won't fight, so why should we break our heads about it?"

I pointed out that treaty obligations would hardly allow Great Britain to stand aside.

"Treaty obligations don't count any more," said the Prince; "the Germans are in Belgium."

"Great Britain, I imagine, does not accept the German view of treaty obligations. Can't you really see that Germany is committing a crime in going through Belgium like that?" I asked the Prince.

"No, absolutely not, when the French were already in Belgium before France declared war on Germany. And even supposing they were not there, Germany would still be right in forcing her way through--it's a case of the survival of the fittest. He's a nice fool that King of the Belgians! He had simply to allow the Germans through, and he would have been well paid for it by William. Old Leopold would not have been so silly."

"There you are right," I said, "he probably would have sold his country."

"Now, Jerry, don't be impertinent! Anything you say now will be used against you if England declares war on us. Don't forget you're our prisoner then."

* * * * *

When the declaration of war did come it sobered us somewhat! The Princess quickly recovered and said----

"Why do you worry about it, Jerry? It's not a matter between you and me, but between Grey and Berchtold--let them scratch each other's eyes out if they like. After all, I'm not sure that I'm so angry with them, for it means that now you've got to remain here indefinitely--nolens volens. I am very glad, for it will be fearfully dull here without our usual big shooting parties. And now come and play bridge."

That was the way in which the Princess looked at it all the time. It was impossible for me to persuade her that to have an enemy alien in the house might be very unpleasant for her: she could never see why, though England and Germany hated each other so cordially, she and I could not remain the good friends we had always been and live peacefully in the same house.

* * * * *

It was very easy for us to disagree, for, after a course of the _Neue Freie Presse_, the _Neues Wiener Tagblatt_ and the _Berliner Tagblatt_, with the exception of myself and the servants--the majority of whom were Slavs--the inmates of Schloss K---- were soon convinced that it was England that had been behind the whole conflagration: that jealous of Germany's dangerously increasing foreign trade, she sought to cripple it by a war, and accordingly it was at England's suggestion that Russia bribed the Serbs to assassinate the Archduke--an event which the Entente felt would certainly force Germany's hand....

"We are not strong enough to do anything ourselves, and Germany is the one hope of our existence. What can one do if one is so poor and so divided as we are? Oh, but Willy will save us--a plucky dashing fellow who will teach you all a lesson. You will shed bitter tears in England yet."

"We shall see, when the war is over, who will laugh and who will cry," I would reply.

IX--THE ROMANCE OF MARISCHA

I have said that all the servants were anti-Austrian. I wrong Marischa and probably also Therese. The latter was the maid who waited on me--a Vienna girl whose views were probably orthodox enough.... She was a scullery-maid--round as a barrel, with a large, good-humoured face, was always in a hurry and always smiling, and dressed always in the black and red costume of Moravia.... She had had a husband who left her years ago, going to America, from where he wrote to say that he had had enough of her and did not intend to return to her. Then Stefka Stefan came into her life and she found him irresistible.... He was small, sulky, and delicate looking, not as one pictures a hero of romance; but he was very devoted to Marischa and, if she could have got a divorce from her husband, he would have married her; but, as she explained to me in her inimitable way, this wasn't possible.

"Priest say no divorce, so Marischa yes just live like that with Stefan. Prince and Princess yes give Marischa and Stefan house. Marischa's husband no good man, but Stefan yes good man and yes want to marry Marischa: priest say no possible, so Marischa yes live just like that with Stefan."

Nevertheless her romance was a very real grief to Marischa, for the priest at confession would never give her absolution, and her enforced abstinence from communion pained her more than it would many of her class. The earthly tie was stronger and Stefka Stefan continued to work in the garden at Schloss K---- and to live in Marischa's cottage. In spite of many protests the Prince was obdurate and refused to send the couple away, saying, with easy Hungarian carelessness, that the life in Marischa's cottage was better and purer than in the next house where at one side the gamekeeper beat his wife, and at the other the butler was in turn beaten by his wife. Marischa's loyalty simply oozed out of her.

"Kaiser brave man, yes brave man. Kaiser fears only God, so God let Kaiser win."

"Which Kaiser, Marischa?"

"German Kaiser. Our King Kaiser yes old man now not know like German Kaiser yes know--fears God--fears God."

It was a pity to spoil this beautiful faith, so I always remained on very good terms with Marischa, who always greeted me with a smile of affection and pity that was touching.

X--STORIES THE PEASANTS BROUGHT HOME

News of great deeds soon came from Serbia, where the Austrians were supposed to be already in the heart of the country. No lie was ever too big for the Austrian papers, and the jubilation throughout the country over the imaginary successes in Serbia knew no bounds....

The fields had become very empty and sad: instead of the crowds of jolly handsome young peasant lads, singing their beautiful Slovak songs as they worked, there were now only a few old men and women, and gipsies who would follow one any distance begging all the time for "a Kreutzer for the love of God, Mistress."

The men-servants who had gone to their Kaders soon began to return. First came the Man of Art. We had all been sitting outside on the terrace when we heard that this first of the heroes had returned, and he was at once summoned to give his report. His heart was bad, so bad that the doctor feared that the exertion of even a few days' military service might kill him, therefore--with many shakes of his head--he would never fight for his country.

"Where did they tell you that?" I asked.

"In Agram, Fräulein," very mournfully.

"They didn't expect you to believe it, I hope?"

But the Princess interrupted. "Don't ask these awkward questions, Jerry. We're much too glad to have him back again to go very deeply into the details of his terrible illness. And now, Herr Gärtner, give us all your news of the war."

He did, and how they wished he didn't!

"The Herrschaft all thought Russia would take six weeks to mobilise--well, the Russians are in Galicia now. Our armies there were far too small and badly prepared, and they have been cut to pieces. The great body of troops is being withdrawn from Serbia up to Galicia, and we have had very serious reverses in Serbia too. It's our officers that are no good. I travelled with a Bulgarian who had come from Moscow to Agram through Roumania, and he says the Russian mobilisation is complete, and that he didn't think there were so many men on earth as he saw pouring through Moscow as the Siberian troops came up. The Herrschaft cannot hear those things, as they sit in the gardens here away from it all, but I know for a fact that the Russians are in Galicia and Lemberg is about to fall."

"And yet the newspapers speak only of the success of our offensive against Serbia," said Claire, in tears.

"Our newspapers are the most lying on earth, Highness, and I tell you that Austria will lose, and lose badly in this war."

Consternation of all! An Englishwoman to hear all this!

"That will do," said the Prince, shortly, "and I should advise you not to repeat in the village what you've just said, else you'll get yourself into trouble." The Princess then hurried the offender off to the gardens before more could be said.

In a few days the gamekeeper arrived back, to the annoyance of his wife, who had hoped that the war would end her beatings for some time. His uncle was an army doctor, and no reasonable being could expect the gamekeeper to be strong and well in such circumstances--heart disease again, of the most incurable kind. The butler and the first footman returned from Bohemia--the one with varicose veins, and the other with heart disease.

The newspapers were silent about the Russian front, but became more and more triumphant about events in Serbia, where Conrad von Hötzendorf expected the whole Serbian army to be surrounded in a few days by the Austrians under General Potiorek, who, in his capacity of Military Governor of Bosnia, when the Archduke and his wife were shot, had been sent to punish the Serbs.

I soon began to receive and to send English letters through Rome, and during the rest of the time I was in Hungary I had no trouble with my mails, despite the fact that foreign correspondence was forbidden to enemy aliens. It was very difficult for me to realise that I was an enemy alien, for my liberties were hindered in no way....

XI--THE OLD ADMIRAL ARRIVES

At the end of the month the Admiral arrived from Vienna. He was no longer young, but he was very enterprising, and, though for many years retired, he now offered himself to his country, which was ungrateful enough to evince no very pressing need of his services....

The Admiral brought us all the news of Vienna, which he described as being in a state of wild enthusiasm and satisfaction. Day by day Italy's declaration of war on the Allies was awaited, and, as expectancy gradually died, Vienna's rage against Italy knew no bounds. A popular joke in the city then was:--

"Was ist der Dreibund? Ein Zweibund und ein Vagabund!"

But, the Admiral assured us, everybody knew that the Zweibund would win without the Vagabund: Willy would see to that; he had all that was necessary to win a war, men, munitions, and brains. No, there never was a man so plucky as Willy. The Admiral's thoughts, from force of habit, lingered on things naval, and his morning greeting was, invariably--

"Good morning! To-day we shall hear something from the sea!"

We all grew impatient as time passed and the Admiral's big sea-battle failed to take place. I once dared to suggest that the German Fleet was afraid to come out. The Admiral's remaining hairs literally stood on end.

"Afraid! Oh, Miss Jerry! You must have patience--they will come out in time. What do you suppose Willy built his Dreadnoughts for? To sit in the Kiel Canal, perhaps?"

There was never even a hint in the Austrian papers of any doings at sea at all; but the Man of Arts knew of the clearing of enemy ships from the seas by the Allied Fleets. It was in the Slav papers.

"But how do you manage to get those papers?" I once asked.

"Na, Fräulein; don't ask me that. To have that known is as much as my life is worth. But you can be quite certain that I'm not the only person here who gets them."

Japan's declaration of war was the surprise of the Admiral's life, and his rage was almost classic. It was right, though, he said, for the Allies to welcome the yellow Japs to their rainbow collection of soldiers!

Uncle Pista was charmingly funny about Japan one afternoon when Claire, the Admiral, and I went to tea to Aunt Sharolta.

"Japan will regret what she has done," and in anticipation of this his face grew rounder and redder. "There won't be much left of her by the time that Germany's done with her."

"How is Germany going to manage it?"

"By sending ships and men there, of course," he replied, contemptuously.

"And how will Germany manage that?" asked the Admiral, greatly amused.

"How!" repeated the old gentleman. "How does any ship go anywhere? By crossing the sea, of course."

"What about the British Navy on the way?" asked Claire.

"Why--would the German boats go near the British Navy?" and Uncle Pista was surprised and disappointed.

"Not intentionally--but they might find the British Navy difficult to avoid," said the Admiral.

"Then they wouldn't avoid it at all," said Uncle Pista, recovering his spirits. "They would just smash it up, as they're smashing up the English in Flanders just now, and then go on, and they would be in Japan in a few days."

"Good sailing!" commented the Admiral.

"Oh, yes, there will be an end of Japan and of England, too! Willy will teach them the lesson they need. How glad I am that no child of mine ever learned English!" By this time we were literally roaring with laughter, and he paused in surprise. "What are you all laughing at? Am I not right?" He had forgotten my nationality.

"Quite," I said, hoping he would continue. But Aunt Sharolta looked up from the chest-protector she was sewing and said--

"It is useless for you to talk like that, Pista, when we are being annihilated in Galicia and Serbia. Oh, yes, I know the newspapers are very encouraging, but those who know say otherwise."

"Have patience! Have patience," said the Admiral. "Trust in Willy. And mark my words, to-morrow we shall hear something from the sea."

(This English companion to a royal Hungarian family continues to relate her experiences until the spring of 1915, when, despite the efforts of her kind host and hostess, she escaped from the War-cursed country. She tells how she made her way to Switzerland, via Vienna and Innsbruck, and arrived safely at her home in London.)

FOOTNOTES:

[5] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the original sources.

"FORCED TO FIGHT"--THE TALE OF A SCHLESWIG DANE

"_What My Eyes Witnessed in East Prussia_"

_Told by Erich Erichsen, A Soldier in the German Army Translated from the Danish by Ingebord Lund_