Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. On the Way to the Front
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woman, who at 30 pfg. each sells small bags of waffles, plums
and grapes.
From some belated fields the corn is still being brought in,
and black and brindled cattle, and here and there a flock of
sheep, is seen grazing in the meadows. Summer and prosperity
seem to reign everywhere in Germany, and there is meat and
bread in abundance. Is it possible that it is six weeks since
this country has been involved in the greatest war in history?
Everything betokens peace on earth, even the sky is cloudless
and the sun sheds its golden rays over Pomerania. Among the
trees by the roadside some women are walking with little
children in their arms. They are engaged in earnest
conversation and walk with bowed heads. No doubt their menfolk
are at the war, and perhaps one of them knows already that
she is a widow. A conscientious observer might notice that
there are fewer adult men than usual. But the difference is
so slight that one would not think of it unless one knew that
there was war. Old men, women and children seem a little
more in evidence than in peace time: that is all.
At Anklam station, not far from where the Peene flows into
the Baltic, another body of soldiers board the train. Their
uniforms are dark blue with very bright red collars. They
are Landsturm men in the prime of life, and have probably
been called up for service within Germany; for at the front
hardly anything is seen but field-grey uniforms, a protective
colouring which blends with the appearance of the soil and is
very hard to distinguish.
Prenzlau—so now we are in Brandenburg. Fresh bodies of
Landsturm men clamber into the train, which is to carry them
away from their homes to an unknown fate. They come
running and singing across the platform, as if they long to get
away. Their blue tunics with red collars and shoulder-straps,
and the red cap-bands, form a bright contrast to the dress of
the civilians. They are strong and powerful specimens of
the Teutonic type, but too stout for perfect symmetry. One
does not see amongst them any ideal specimens bearing the
distinguishing characteristics of the Caucasian race, no
broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strapping fellows such as one meets
with in the mountains of Georgia; but they are a blonde,
sound, calm and yet cheery set of men, all animated by one
single thought—to conquer or to die. Their women, children
and other relations have followed them to the train to say
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