But I had become so fascinated with this battle-scarred, uncanny, out-of-the-way land that I resolved to try every means to stay.  I declared that on this particular mission I was more of an investigator than a journalist, that I had the special task (self-imposed, to be sure) of investigating Russian atrocities; that if Berlin reports were to be given credence abroad they must be substantiated by some impartial observer.  If Germany would supply the atrocities, I would supply the copy.  That she wished to do so was evidenced by the permissions granted me by Herr von Meyer of the Wolff Telegraph Bureau and Commandant Rauch of the capital of the devastated province. (I had passed beyond the point where I was told that I could go, but at any rate their names carried weight.) Would it not seem strange if the Commandant at Wehlau had me sent back after these great men had set their seal of approval upon my investigations?  After Germany had made such grave charges against the Russians, how would it impress American readers that the German Commandant at Wehlau could not make good and had sent me back?

Then, as a finishing stroke, I pulled my passport from my pocket and showed Berlin’s approval of me stamped impressively in the right-hand corner.  This vise was not at all unique with me.  It had been affixed to the passports of thousands of Americans of all grades, and was merely to ensure passage from Germany into Holland.  As I did not wish to impose upon the time of the Commandant I did not burden him with these extraneous details while he feasted his eyes on the magic words:  Gesehen, Berlin.  Mount Olympus, Mecca, Imperial and Ecclesiastical Rome all rolled into one—­that is authoritative Berlin to the German of the province.

“Gesehen, Berlin” he repeated with reverence, carefully folded the passport and deferentially handed it back to me.  I saw that I was winning, so I sought to rise to the occasion.

“And now, Herr Commandant,” I began, “can you suggest where I may best begin my atrocity work tomorrow?  Or first, would it not be well for me to get a more complete idea of the invasion by seeing on the map just what routes the Russians took coming in?”

He unfolded a large military map of peerless German accuracy and regaled me for more than half an hour with the military features of the campaign.

“Just tell me the worst things that the Russians have done,” I began, “and I will start investigating them tomorrow.”

Then he anathematised the Russians and all things Russian, while his orderly stood stiffly and admiringly at attention and the other officers stopped in their tracks.

“First you should visit the ruins of the once beautiful old castle at Labiau destroyed by the beasts,” he thundered.  “And they also wantonly destroyed the magnificent old church near by.”