After a confinement of eight months it was a wonderful thing to be able to walk through the streets unguarded. To be free again; no longer to be fenced round by barbed wire, to be shadowed by innumerable eyes; no longer to be under the rule of an arrogant Prussian. It was almost impossible to grasp it; that we were free, free. Every moment I expected to feel a heavy hand fall on my shoulder, and to hear a gruff voice bellow in my ear, “Es ist verboten, Herr Lieutenant.”

And this sense of unreality was increased by our reception outside the gates. Whether the children had been given a half-holiday in honour of their recent naval operations, I do not know, but it did seem as though the entire infantile population had assembled outside the citadel; and no sooner did an officer appear than he was surrounded by urchins of both sexes, up to the age of twelve, all yelling for biscuits and chocolate. It was an absurd and pitiable sight; and it was terrible to think that a people had so far lost their self-respect as to allow their children to beg for food from their enemies. It was often quite hard to get rid of them; they would hang on to an arm or to the end of a coat, and simply refuse to let go till actually forced.

Considering that the nation, of which it formed a part, had just sustained a defeat practically amounting to unconditional surrender, Mainz presented a spectacle of strange jubilation. I had expected to find an atmosphere of a more or less passive resignation, of disappointment only partially relieved by the cessation of hostilities; whatever the individual might feel, officialdom surely, we had thought, would assume a woeful countenance. But instead of that we found a town robed as for a carnival. Flags were hung from the windows of every house, the children in the streets waved penny ensigns, and every few minutes a lorry full of troops would clatter through, the guns decked with banners, the men shouting and singing. It was as though a victorious army were returning home, and after all it was only right that the men should receive a proper welcome. For over four years they had waged on many fronts a war that had conferred much honour on their arms. They had been at all times brave and resolute. They had fought to the very end. It was not their fault that Germany had been steeped in ruin.

The reception we received from the civil population was very friendly. At first it was only with the most extreme diffidence that we entered cafÉs and restaurants, but we soon saw that there was little or no animosity against us. In the streets civilians were always ready to show us the way, and displayed no resentment at our presence amongst them. In the cafÉs German soldiers even came up and spoke to us. There was such general delight at the war being over, that the Germans felt it impossible to harbour any ill-will against any save those whom they held directly responsible for their sufferings, and it was typical of their attitude that, when a German soldier introduced himself, his first remark was, “I am not a Prussian.”

The question of the army of occupation was very keenly discussed, and everywhere was to be found the same opinion, “We do not want the French.” It seemed as if that hereditary hate was as keen as ever; for the English and Americans they entertained very neutral emotions. But the French were too nearly neighbours; and it seems as if only the long passage of uneventful years could assuage this spirit of vindictiveness, that has been artificially fostered in the nursery and in the schoolroom.

But between us and the Germans, at any rate in the Southern States, there is no reason why this hate should outlive the war. That is, of course, if the attitude of the people of Mainz can be taken as in any way representative of the other Rhine towns. For we could not have been more hospitably received. There are those, of course, who will say, “Ah, but they were pulling your leg, they were only trying to see what they could get out of you. You spent money in their cafÉs, that was what they wanted; and you gave them chocolate and soup, that’s what they were after.” I have not the slightest doubt that a great many Germans attached themselves to us solely for ulterior purposes. But as a whole I believe that the civilians in Mainz were quite honestly pleased to be able to do for us anything they could, as a sort of proof that they had altered their Government, that the war was over, and that they had no wish to nourish any ill-feeling against us. And those who see behind this display of friendship the calculated deceit of a political stunt, are, it seems to me, merely seeing their own reflections in the looking-glass of life.

The Germans themselves were immensely enthusiastic about the revolution; they saw in it a complete social panacea.

“Everything will be all right now,” one of them said to me. “We shall abolish our big standing army, and our big fleet, and so we shall be able to cut down our taxes. Before the war our lives were being crushed out of us, so that generals could retire on large pensions. But now every one will have to work. We shall be really democratic.”

“And,” he said, “we are not going to have our children overworked in the schools. We shall cut down the hours. Before, it was so hard to earn a living in Germany, that children had to work like that or they would have been left behind. Competition was ruining us. But now....”

There was there the blind optimism that is born by the glimmering of a hope however far withdrawn. The only real dread they had was that, when the troops returned, Bolshevism might break out.

“You see,” he went on, “at the front the troops were well fed. Of course they had no delicacies, but they had enough; while now they are returning to a country that is practically starving. They will have to share with us; we are no longer militarists, and we do not see why they should have the best of everything. It is possible that there will be trouble. But whatever we do, we shall not be like Russia. We have more common sense, we are better educated, we are not religious maniacs, we shall not be swayed by a few demagogues. We are too sane to go to such extremities.”

And it was quite clear that they had no intention of restoring the Kaiser. Having once decided to choose him as their scapegoat, they had done the business thoroughly. On him they laid the whole burden of their adversities.

“He led us into this, and he kept the truth from us. If we had known that it would come to this, we would have made peace months ago. We should not have let our children die for want of food.”

But, as regards actual liberty, the revolution had merely substituted one tyranny for another, and that a military one. No doubt things will adjust themselves shortly, and at this time strong discipline was clearly essential. But the individual had very little freedom. The patrols of the Red Guard paraded the streets all day with loaded rifles; at eleven o’clock they entered and cleared the cafÉs. After that hour they arrested any one they found in the streets. Moreover, they had authority to raid private houses whenever they liked, a privilege of which they frequently availed themselves. Altogether this government of the people by the people did not seem to me so desirable an Utopia, though as a revolution it might be a triumph of order and moderation.

Our week of liberty in Mainz passed quickly and pleasantly. It was a coloured, leisured life, a continual drifting from one cafÉ to another; we played innumerable games of billiards, listened to the music in the Kaiserhof, sampled all the cinemas, and heard Der Troubadour at the theatre. Just off the main street was a small restaurant where we took all our meals. It was in rather an out-of-the-way spot, and as we were the only officers to discover it, we became during that week a sort of institution. The proprietor struck up quite a friendship with us, and whenever we came in, he used to produce from his cupboard a bottle of tomato sauce. It bore the name of Crosse & Blackwell, and he was very proud of his possession. To offer us a share in it was the greatest compliment he could pay.

Our last night there I shall never forget. We came in rather late for dinner, and by the time we had finished it was well after ten, but the proprietor insisted on us staying a little longer. He set us down at the same table as his friends and produced a vast quantity of wine. They were hospitable folk, and two hours’ companionship over a bottle had removed all tendencies to reserve.

Opposite me was a German officer who had spent the greater part of his life in England; and his flow of words bore irrefutable testimony to the potency of Rhine wine.

“I have lived among you all my life,” he said; “I do not wish to fight against you. I have no quarrel with the English. It is only the French I hate, the bloody French. I would do anything I could to harm them. They hate us and we hate them,” and a man generally speaks the truth when he is drunk.

The end of the evening was less glorious. It was well after eleven before we managed to escape after countless Aufwiedersehens, and no sooner had we got outside the house than we walked straight into a patrol of the Red Guard, by whom we were arrested, and returned to the citadel under an armed escort.

Next morning we were marched down into a train for Metz. All the German officers from the camp and a considerable number of civilians came to see us off. As I leant out of the window, to catch a last glimpse of the cathedral, it was hardly possible to realise that the war was over and that we were going home. It was the day to which we had looked forward for so long, the day of which we had dreamt so much during the cold and loneliness of the nights in France. It had been then immeasurably remote, a flickering uncertain gleam, too far away for any tangible hope. And the mind had fastened upon those nearer probabilities of leave,—a blighty, or a course behind the line. And now that day had really come, I could not grasp its significance. I was almost afraid to look forward, and my mind went back to the earlier days of our captivity, to the hunger and the depression, to the intolerable tedium and irritation. And yet, for all that, a wave of sentimentality partially obscured the sharpness of those memories. We had had some good times there in the citadel; that grey monochrome had not been entirely unrelieved. There had been certain moments worth remembering; and I thought that, when the incidents of the past four years had settled down into their true perspective, I should be able to look back, not without a certain kindliness, towards that unnatural life, that strange world of substitute and sauerkraut.

The journey home was protracted by innumerable delays. We left Mainz on November 24th, and it was not until the 5th of December that we arrived in London. We spent five days in Nancy, another three in Boulogne, and the trains behaved as is their wont on the railroads of France. All this rather tended to dispel the glamour of the return.

For one of the chief attractions of leave is its suddenness. One is sitting on the steps of a dugout musing gloomily on the probable chance of a relief, when a runner arrives from Battalion with a chit, “You will proceed on U.K. leave to-night. The train leaves Arras at 8.10 p.m.” And then the world is suddenly haloed with flame. One rushes down the dugout, flings hurried orders to the sergeant, collects all that is least important in one’s kit, scatters an extravagance of largess among the batmen who have collected it, and then races for H.Q. It is all a scramble and a rush. The mess cart is chartered, within a couple of hours one is at the railhead; a night of cramp and discomfort and one is at Boulogne; there is just time for a bath at the E.F.C. Club, and then the boat sails. There is a train waiting at the other end, and the whole business takes only twenty-four hours. It is like a tale from the Arabian Nights. At one moment one is sitting on a firestep, the next one is in London. It embodies the very essence of romance.

But the return of the Gefangener was altogether different. He had plenty of time in which to collect his thoughts, the return to civilised life was marked by slow gradations. At Metz he could get a decent bath, at Nancy a decent dinner. By the time he had reached Boulogne, his odyssey had assumed the most prosaic proportions. There is no doubt about it, for those who had been prisoners only a few months the leave boat was infinitely more exciting.

But there were, of course, compensations. After having lived on tinned meats for eight months, it was a thrilling experience to find a menu that comprised fried sole and grouse, Brussel sprouts and iced grapes. Over my first dinner I took three hours. It was a gluttonous but on the whole a natural exhibition. It also saved us from a further period of confinement.

For when we arrived at Nancy one of the first pieces of intelligence we received, was the news that it would not be possible to provide a train for us within five days. To many ardent spirits this was a sad blow, and one or two adventurers decided that whatever the rest might do, they themselves were not going to wait five days “for any blooming train,” and among these rebels I had rather naturally numbered myself.

During the afternoon I went down to the station with Barron, the constant companion of my peradventures, and interviewed the railway authorities. Now there is only one way to deal with a military policeman; it is no good trying to dodge him. He knows that trick too well. The frontal assault is the one road to success. We walked straight up to him.

“Corporal,” I said, “we’re going to Paris.”

“Very good, Sir; you’ve got your movement order made out, I suppose.”

“No, Corporal, I’m afraid I haven’t,” I confessed.

He grunted.

“That makes it a bit awkward, Sir; you see, I have got orders, Sir, to....”

At this juncture a five-franc note changed hands.

“But, Sir, of course it could be managed, I expect, if you’re down at ten minutes to eleven. Well, Sir, I’ll see what I can do.”

That was all right; and feeling ourselves rather dogs, we made our way back to the Stanislas and had a game of billiards. At half-past six we sat down to a long, carefully selected dinner and two bottles of champagne; and as the evening progressed a delightful warmth and languor came over us. A bed with a spring mattress seemed more than ever desirable.

“It won’t be a very comfortable journey,” hazarded my companion. “It will take a good ten hours.”

“Yes,” I said.

“It really seems rather a sweat....”

“Old man,” I said sternly, “I’ve paid that corporal five francs, and on my mother’s side I’m Scots.”

And we returned to our attack on the omelette.

Half an hour passed, and the world of languor grew even fairer. Effort then appeared almost criminal. Surely the supreme delight of life lay in this slow puffing at a cigarette. The idea of our all-night journey became increasingly abhorrent.

“Archie,” I said, “do you think we shall be able to get any sleep in this train?”

“We shall be too cold. You know what a French train is?”

And again there was a silence. By this time we had reached the coffee stage. In about half an hour we should have to go. There would be a longish walk back to our billets, then we should have to pack and lug our bags all the way down to the station. It really didn’t seem worth while....

“Look here,” I said, “we shall only gain five days by this, and I’m jolly sleepy....”

“And if it’s your Scots blood that is troubling you,” my companion burst out, “I’ll pay you the damned five francs now, and with interest.”

That settled it.

“GarÇon,” I called, “l’addition, s’il vous plaÎt, et cherchez-moi un fiacre, je suis fort ÉpuisÉ.”

But the others were either made of sterner stuff, or else they had wearied of the lures of the Stanislas. At any rate they presented themselves duly before the military policeman at 10.50, and a quarter of an hour later they were on their way to Paris, to that city of gay colours and gayer women; while stretched out peacefully on a delightful spring mattress, two renegades slept a coward’s sleep.

Well, the last I heard of those lambent rebels was that on their arrival at Paris they were instantly arrested by the A.P.M., and when we left Boulogne they were still sending urgent telegrams over France, begging for an instant release. Whether this has been since accorded them I do not know, but when I went down to Victoria a week after my arrival to meet a friend, I saw, stacked in a neglected corner, a huge pile of the white wood boxes that were peculiar to the Offiziergefangenenlager, Mainz. And on those boxes were the names of those bright warriors who had defied authority. Their luggage had come on afterwards with us, and had preceded them by many days. They were very gallant fellows, very resolute and proud-hearted, but ... I am glad I went to the Stanislas.

And when we did eventually move from Nancy, it was not in one of the unspeakable leave trains, but in a hospital train, fitted with every possible convenience and comfort. As in the haven of the Pre-Raphaelite, there were “beds for all who come,” and beds, moreover, that were poised on springs, and that swung gently to the movement of the engine. For thirty-six hours we slept solidly.

And at Boulogne we were provided with a hospital boat; indeed, we might have been the most serious stretcher cases, instead of being rather untidy, very lazy, and thoroughly war-weary Gefangenen. It was a royal return.

Twenty-four hours later, with a warrant for two months’ leave in my pocket, I was standing on Victoria platform, a free man. I had often wondered what it would feel like. Would it seem very strange to be no longer under authority, to be able to do what I liked, and to go where I wanted? I had wondered whether the atmosphere of a prison camp would still hang over me, and whether I should see in commissionaires and waiters some dim survival of those whiskered sentries. When I went to a theatre, should I turn rather nervously to the powdered lackey in the vestibule, as if half expecting a thundered “es ist verboten”? Would it take long to drop those habits of subservience?

But when I was once there, all those misgivings were as a dream. It seemed that I had never been away at all. With my old-time skill, I overawed a taxi-driver, and promised to “make it worth his while.” I drove round to my banker, and cashed an enormous cheque; then to my tailors to order a civilian suit. And then—Hampstead.

I lay back against the padded cushion and watched each well-known landmark fall behind me—Lord’s, Swiss Cottage, the Hampstead cricket field. Surely I had never been away at all. Those eight months in Germany, they were merely some old remnant of a fairy tale, ein MÄrchen aus alten Zeiten; they had no real existence. I felt as though I were coming back from Sandhurst for my Christmas leave. There had been no separation. In the last month I had had one week-end leave and two Sunday passes. It was just a resumption of the old life, a slipping back into the ordered harmony of days.

The taxi drew up outside the door; I knocked on the window with my stick, and the hall was instantly alive with welcome. But I could not make it an occasion for heroics. It did not seem in any way a special event, demanding any exceptional excitement.

“Father,” I said, “I’ve got no change. You might give that taxi-driver ten shillings.”