It was impossible to believe that these men had committed the atrocities reported at Termonde and Roosbeek, at Malines and Louvain.  At close range it was easy to see that the prevalent conception of the “barbarians” was the purest kind of rot—­the picture created and fostered by the Allied press, of a vicious and besotted beast with natural brutality accentuated by alcoholic rage.  With such men as individuals it seemed to us that neutral observers could have no quarrel.  To the Kaiser’s privates who have been fighting for a cause they do not thoroughly understand, was due, we thought, the greatest respect; to the officers, too, who understand what they are doing and are game in the face of odds; and most of all to the suffering German people.  But to the German war machine, we reflected, was due a terrible punishment—­the lesson it must learn not only for Germany’s enlightenment, but for the sake of civilization and humanity.

Chapter IV

A Clog Dance On The Scheldt

When the German major at Aix-la-Cha-pelle stamped on our passports:—­ “Gesehen.  Gut Zum Austritt Kommandant 2 Kompagnie, Landsturm Batl.  Aachen,” we were free, so we thought, to shake the dust of Germany from our feet.  Hoisting our rucksacks, we gave up box cars in favor of a civilized passenger train, northward bound, and at noon crossed the Dutch border at Simplefeldt.

For three hours we talked English, consulted maps, took notes, and asked questions where and when we pleased.  The holiday cost us dear.  At the end of that time we were under lock and key in the town of Maastricht, the Province of Limburg, and the supposedly free and neutral Kingdom of the Netherlands.  We suspected at the time, and in view of what I learned upon a later trip to Berlin I am quite certain, that the long arm of the German Secret Service had reached out for us across the border.

Having started from Antwerp during its investment, but prior to its siege by the German army, we were now on the third stage of a round trip which was to land one of us back in the Belgian temporary capital in time for the bombardment.  During the previous two weeks we had been stopped, questioned, and sometimes examined, no less than one hundred and thirty times.  Thirteen, we calculated, was our average number of hold-ups on our early “marching days”; that is to say, during those wanderings which led us by foot, train, ox cart, and automobile past the double sector of Antwerp’s fortifications, through the Belgian fighting lines to Ghent and Termonde, and thence into the arms of the German pickets on the outskirts of Brussels.

And now, as the heavy door of the Maastricht police headquarters slammed in our faces, and the key rattled in the guardroom lock, my companion in crime threw down his hat and coat in rage.  Between us we treated our fellow-prisoners to a quarter of an hour’s tirade on the American citizen’s right to freedom, swore that the Kingdom of the Netherlands would repent this outrage, and each of us politely assured the other it was all the other fellow’s fault.