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were brought on board the ferry, which bears King Gustaf’s
name. No Swedish passenger coaches are allowed on the
German system in war-time, and similarly Germany does not
permit hers to enter Sweden.
The sun has broken through the clouds, but the mist has
wiped Trelleborg and the Swedish coast from the horizon.
A fresh breeze is blowing from the south-west, the Baltic is
coated with swirling white-capped waves, and the ferry cuts
through the foam on its way to the German coast. There is
not a ship in sight, no cruisers, no destroyers or
torpedo-boats, none of the greyhounds of the sea to track and hold
up doubtful shipping. These are peaceful waters. None of
the hot winds of war are yet blowing over this sea, only the
cool autumnal breezes caress the wave crests. But no doubt
grim times are in store even here, so it is as well to make the
most of the fleeting hour.
At Sassnitz we set foot on German soil which formerly
belonged to us. Everything is as usual, the traveller’s
excitement has been groundless. Nothing—unless it be a solitary
Landsturm soldier with shouldered rifle—to remind one of
war. On landing, our passports are viséd and our hand
luggage is examined at the Custom House. Everything is
done in a quiet and orderly manner. The German railway
and customs officials are most polite, and look very well in
their new ornamental uniforms.
The train swings across Rügen to Altefähr and boards the
ferry for the mainland. Here the time-worn churches rear
their spires over our old possession Stralsund, where we stop
a while at the station. Everything is as it used to be, no
hurry or bustle; people go about their business as in times
of piping peace. But just as the train is about to steam out,
a squad of Landwehr soldiers with their kits under their arms
rush on to the platform and take their seats in the last carriage.
They are not bound for the front as yet, for they alight at
Greifswald. A blurred mass of red-tiled roofs framed in the
luxuriant foliage of late summer, and a number of churches
pointing their spires aloft—that is all we see of the old
university town. But there is nothing unusual to be seen,
everything runs its normal course, “Papers!” “Beer!”
cry the boys on the platform, and, anxious for news, one
buys a paper from one and, to quench one’s thirst, a glass of
good, dark beer of the other. A light meal is provided by a
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