Read Ebook: An Englishwoman's adventures in the German lines by Lloyd Ann Gladys

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Ebook has 546 lines and 24355 words, and 11 pages

PAGE

War! 7

Getting Ready 10

How the Uhlans Came 16

Anything for Bread 23

Fiction v. Fact 25

The "Terrible" French 28

Spies Ahoy 31

Threatened with Death 34

To Leave or not to Leave 41

What the Uhlans think 45

The Sign of the Red Cross 50

On the Road 55

Rushing the Mails through 61

A Teuton Feast 67

Coals of Fire 72

In Danger 75

Maps and Mines 78

In the Bar 80

In the Woods 82

Prisoners of War 86

A Disturbed Night 94

The Plot Thickens 97

The March Past 100

Arrested! 104

Homeward Bound 120

An Englishwoman's Adventures in the German Lines

WAR!

"Albert has gone."

I jump down from the little vicinal train, which always stops so obligingly in Manhay Street opposite the inn, and press Madame Job's hand in silent sympathy.

"To Li?ge?" I ask after a pause.

"He is in the forts, Mademoiselle," she answers tearfully.

So Madame's son Albert, the baker, is a soldier too. Well, he will do his duty like all these Belgians. But who will bake for the countryside?

"Caught in the war. A nice ending to my summer's holiday," I say cheerfully.

"You had better return to England to-day--it will be your last chance," says a dispatch carrier, a khaki-clad, dusty figure standing before us in the village street.

"The trains are taken for the soldiers. Besides, I have only Belgian paper money--unnegotiable now."

"Walk then."

"Too far," I protest.

"Please yourself, Mademoiselle. But in war-time, a little hotel, on a high road, with the post office opposite and the Gendarmerie next door, is not the place of residence I should personally choose. Good-bye, Mademoiselle; good-bye, all. I must be off."

The dispatch carrier mounts his machine, bends over the handle bars in best professional style, and is quickly lost to view in a cloud of dust.

GETTING READY

"Les Prussiens, les Prussiens!" These words are uttered in hoarse whispers under my window while I dress. They send a nervous tremor down my spine. At breakfast I am informed that the Germans are only a day's march distant. They have already crossed the frontier and are advancing on us. Bombarded Li?ge is safer than Manhay, situated on one of the high roads from the frontier. The blindest Teuton could not miss this short, straight line of white-washed houses.

I join the crowd of peasants standing in a cluster at the cross-roads. Everyone is busy advising, gesticulating, prophesying. Other peasants are pouring in from the neighbouring villages for directions and news. Any stranger at once forms the nucleus of an entranced group. There is much chattering but little real excitement. These people who live on the edge of big events are never unprepared.

Motor-cyclists are coming and going in the direction of Li?ge. Cars shoot through every few minutes at a break-neck speed carrying men in uniform. The Commandant, peaked hat and uniform complete, lolls at the door of the Gendarmerie. His horse is being walked up and down by a farmer's boy.

He disappears into a back room to answer the telephone, but when he returns he does not impart his news to the gaping crowd. The little vicinal train puffs noisily down the street from its shed at the end of the village. The peasants of the 13th and 14th classes, called up to-day, climb in. They are very workmanlike in their dirty-white trousers, short belted coat, and "bonnet rond." They carry necessaries in a small parcel. How I admire the plucky air of confidence on their manly faces as they lean over the side of the little car which is to take them down to the railway ... to Li?ge ... perhaps to God.

They bend from the train to shake their relatives' hands with something of the Commandant's calm nonchalance. Matters are worse than I imagined. Men with pitchforks are even being called up to help guard the frontier. Too late! M. le Directeur is here in a khaki suit. The brave man. He is about to take dispatches. His motor-cycle needs petrol. The entire village hurls itself on the machine. We are all panting to be useful.

"Doucement, doucement, mes braves gens. Ce n'est pas un Allemand." , he says, laughing.

The spirit of the peasants obviously delights him. He breaks into a Walloon song. They all shout the chorus, beating time with their hands. Then he is off.

One thing is decided on. The magnificent avenues of trees which line the undulating roads must be decimated to bar the route against the German troops. To keep them back a few days, a few hours, will be something. Already knots of villagers in wideawake hats and stout corduroys are stealing away, axe hooked to shoulder, lengths of rope coiled round their left arms. They look bored and indifferent, so I know they will work like demons. A bored-looking Belgian is a man to be feared.... Soon one hears the steady hack-hack, followed by a swirl and crash as some huge fir or oak falls prone across the great white road. There is something about the sound which makes one's blood run cold. It comes as a foretaste of death.

A car drives up with four busbied officers. The Belgian guides. The Commandant speaks to them a moment. They drive on. He re-enters the Gendarmerie, comes out a moment later, locks the door and casts a lingering, almost affectionate glance at the yellow, black and red flag floating proudly from the masthead. He is wondering, perhaps, if he will ever see it again. Mounting his horse, he waves his hand to the villagers, and is off on his sixty-mile ride to Arlon. Brave Commandant of the nonchalant mien, but not brave enough to face those last good-byes. How I feel for you!

The day wears on. Already the end of the high road where it turns to Malempr? is piled high with trees. The Noah's-ark firs on the highway to Bomale have come toppling down like ninepins. My thoughts turn to weapons. I never dream for an instant but that the peasants will fight the common enemy from behind those bulwark barricades. It seems the only natural and proper thing to do. I know nothing of the duties of non-combatants.

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