An Englishwoman's Adventures in the German Lines
9781465679932
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
“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 Liège 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. M. le Précepteur is busy in the post office trying to decipher governmental wires. Several malle-postes,like two-horsed roofed-in wagonettes, are waiting about, their drivers ready to take round letters—the last batch, who knows!—to the scattered villages around. A very small girl, fortified by a very large dog, is deftly steering back some wandering cows from the direction of Malempré. The village idiot has been trying to get up a game in the skittle alley, but is promptly squelched. Motor-cyclists are coming and going in the direction of Liège. 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 Liège ... 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.
