Читать книгу Red Cross & Iron Cross - Axel Munthe - Страница 4

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The day of reckoning will come. The day when the civilized world sets to work to pick out the criminals from the barbarians, the criminals responsible for the atrocities and infamies committed by the savage foe. The documents for the accusation furnished by the accused themselves—a most valuable contribution to the sombre study of German criminology—establish beyond doubt that it is on the leaders and not on the men that the heaviest responsibility will fall. The hanging evidence against several of the commanding German Generals in Belgium is overwhelming—their proclamations to their victims and their orders to their troops contain damning proofs that they are morally and legally responsible for the slaughter of hundreds of helpless civilians, men, women and children. Accusations of instigation to murder, even of the wounded, are brought against officers of all ranks by their men in their note-books—now in the hands of the Belgian, French and English authorities. As to the men themselves, the writers of these precious human documents, most of them have already gone to their doom, and all we know of them are the horrors they have witnessed and the atrocities they have committed. Many are still alive and prisoners of war. Others have died in our ambulances side by side with their former foes, now their comrades in suffering and as often as not almost their friends. I have had some dealings with several of these men. I have read their note-books, I have heard from their own lips their gruesome tales of recorded and unrecorded horror. Those dying men told no lies. Man speaks the truth when he is aware that Death is listening to what he says.

Suffering has no nationality and Death wears no uniform. There are neither friends nor foes on "no-man's-land," on all men's land, on the borderland between life and death, dreaded by all. Men die as best they can. Most men fear death, all men fear dying. All men are more or less alike when they are about to die. What they did with their life whilst it belonged to them may concern the priest if he is at hand, but Death does not care, he welcomes them all in his own rough way, good men and bad men are all the same to him. So they are to the doctor. Now and then I tried to say to myself that I disliked these dying Boches, but I cannot honestly say I did; in fact, I rather liked them. These were all so forlorn, so patient, so humble, so grateful for the little one was able to do for them. They were all delighted to come across a man who knew their language—those who could smile grinned all over with joyous surprise, those who could not, greeted the familiar sound with a friendly look or a tear in their tired eyes. Those who could speak, or nearly all of them, spoke with humiliation and shame of what they had witnessed and what they had done. They certainly did not spare themselves; on the contrary, they seemed to like to talk of their evil deeds as if it gave them some relief—in fact, they did not want to talk of anything else. I saw several of these men die. They died as brave men die.

No one accustomed to the cheerful, affectionate way the French and English soldiers are wont to speak of their leaders, could avoid being struck by the way these German soldiers talked of their officers. They all spoke of them with fear and bitterness and often with hatred. Even as they lay there safe in one of our ambulances they seemed to be afraid of lying next to their own officers. Luckily this did not happen often and never for long, for the German officers always protested furiously against being placed with their own men. Besides, it mattered little where they were placed, they were invariably dissatisfied anyhow. Those I saw were sullen, arrogant and often insolent; displeased with everything and everybody and most difficult to deal with. They always spoke of their rank and their Iron Cross—unavoidable it seemed to me, as I never came across an officer without it—as if entitling them to privileges shared by no one else. They were well pleased with themselves and their doings, frightfulness and all, and never did I hear from any of them a word which sounded like disapproval of the atrocities they had witnessed. Personally I only know of one German officer who disapproves this frightfulness, and his mother was a Russian. On the contrary, I heard a captain say that the Belgians had been treated much too leniently, and that all the civil population ought to have been driven out of their country and those who resisted shot on the spot. This officer was a Prussian. The marked difference between Prussians and South Germans, well known to those who have visited Germany in times of peace, has been amply illustrated by the conduct of the different units in this war.

"The Prussian is cruel by birth, civilization will make him ferocious," said Goethe, who knew his country well. It is true that the French soldier always singles out the Bavarians as particularly brutal and violent and especially fond of looting; but I wonder if this evil reputation of theirs is not to a certain extent founded upon vague reminiscences from the war of '70. It must be admitted though that their record at Nomély, Blamont and several other places is a terrible one. But I do not forget that the unnamed hero of this little book was a Bavarian soldier.

It matters little that I could not identify the band of barbarians who had established themselves in the château mentioned in this book—similar scenes have occurred everywhere ever since the war began, and hundreds of châteaux in Belgium and France, have had a much worse fate. I admit though that when I wrote down the description of the devastated nursery I believed that this particularly revolting deed was unique of its kind. Not at all; I was mistaken. I have read since then from the pen of a distinguished English surgeon in Belgium a description of a similar act of incredible barbarism. But I am very sorry I do not know more of the German officer who after a prolonged contemplation in front of the Venetian mirror smashed it with a knock of his sword-hilt—the old caretaker just entered the drawing-room in time to witness this performance.

I am glad at least to be able to hail his comrade-in-arms, the Adalbert of this book, by his well-fitting Christian name; his family name was too long to remember, I have had to shorten it here for convenience sake. I know well he is a rather unusual type of German officer, but since I had the good luck to have half an hour's conversation with this phenomenon I do not see why I should not let the reader share the pleasure of his acquaintance. Moreover, I was told by Dr. Martin, who knew the Germans far better than I do, that after all Adalbert was not such an uncommon type of German officer as I seemed to think—I was delighted to hear it, so much the better for us. He wanted to know if I was a nobleman: sind sie Adel? He seemed to have his doubts about it. It would amply satisfy all my literary ambitions were I able to present him with this photograph of himself, slightly retouched by a lenient hand, but very like him. I wish I knew where he was, he ought not to be difficult to trace. Maybe "Potsdam" would find him . . .

But the others, the dear old village doctor, the white-haired Curé, Soeur Marthe and Soeur Philippine, and Josephine with her kind brown eyes, where shall I find them? Their village is a heap of blackened ruins, four naked walls are all that remains of their church, and God knows where they are! God knows where they are. They are all over France, in every hamlet, every village and every town, soothing the sufferings of the wounded and sharing their bread with the homeless. Dr. Martin is dead. He was first reported missing and it was thought he had fallen into the hands of the Boches. He was soon afterwards found dead, with Josephine's medal round his neck. Better so for him. I am sure he would have preferred the second alternative had he had the choice.

But I am equally sure that Adalbert is not dead. I am sure he is still as fit and alert as when I saw him, safe under the protection of the law of irony—maybe I would have spared him had I doubted his invulnerability. Even so, as I read through this manuscript, my literary instinct, rudimentary though it may be, tells me that this Adalbert does not fit in very well in the "composition," if a layman may use such an expression. I am sure it would have been wiser to keep him to myself for fear that his harsh giggle might jar on the reader of this tale of suffering and woe. But life is made up of such contrasts and so is death. No, I know well he does not fit in the composition. Anyhow I shall leave him in the place where I found him like the bell-capped buffoon strutting about amongst the swordsmen and arquebusiers on an old Flemish tapestry, or like the grinning monkey crouching in the corner of a primitive old painting of martyrs and saints. Yes, martyrs and saints they are indeed, the other figures I have tried to paint with loving hands on the remaining pages of this little book! Martyrs giving their lives for a sacred cause and saints bending over bleeding wounds and gently closing the eyes of the dead with prayers on their lips. The background of the picture is the fair land of France with its devastated plains and its ruined homes, and far away against the reddening sky Rheims Cathedral in flames! Brave and chivalrous France, so calm in her hour of danger, so dignified in her sorrow, so strong in the consciousness of her unconquerable soul.

I just caught a glimpse of a handful of Tommies as they flung themselves into the midst of the fray to fight the Hun by the side of their dauntless ally. I heard them singing and laughing in their water-logged trenches in Flanders, and I saw them, agile as leopards, leap from their parapets and, led by a boy officer swinging his cane, spring forward to meet death half-way as joyously as though to welcome a friend.

I know that Tommy will play the game, it is the game he has played so often and played so well, it is the old game between Right and Wrong!

I know what stuff he is made of, that mighty fighter; I know that his heart is sound and that his arm is strong. Strike hard, Tommy, strike your hardest! It is the salvation of the world you are fighting for! I have known all along that you were coming. I have known it ever since I was a boy and began to read the History of England! I have known it all along, but God bless you all the same, Tommy, for coming! And God be thanked that you came!