Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - I. On the Way to the Front
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ON THE WAY TO THE FRONT 35
Moselle, where a stone bridge with beautiful arches takes us
across and past a couple of Moselle steamers which are lying
moored, carrying the Red Cross flag. The narrow, winding
streets are filled with tramcars, cabs, vans, men and women,
and last but not least soldiers in German army uniforms.
We breathe more freely as we come out again on to the open
road and speed along the bank of the great Rhine tributary.
There is plenty for the eye to feast on. Now and again we
catch sight of a Uttle steamer or tug gliding on the river ; on
the steep left bank stone buttresses support the vineyards.
The landscape itself is indescribably beautiful round these
endless bends, as one village after another comes into view,
the grey houses with their black slate roofs and the beautiful
churches showing up strikingly against the luxuriant back-
ground of foliage. Still bowling along at lightning speed, we
soon reach Treis, where a curious-looking ferry, reminding me
of those of the Siberian rivers, is ready to take us and our car
across to the left bank. We drive down on to the other end of
its deck so that another car which has just arrived can be taken
on board. The principle upon which the ferry is worked
is as follows : A stout cable is stretched across the river and
made fast on the left bank to the rock and on the right bank
to a securely imbedded pile. From a ring on this cable
runs a line, the other end of which is made fast to the bows
of the punt-shaped ferry. A long steering-oar projects into
the water astern. The rest is done by the current. By
reversing the action and the steering-oar, the ferry runs back
to the opposite bank.
On the left bank we continue our swift, winding journey.
Here and there we pass a military convoy or meet an ambulance
train, the first two carriages of which contain wounded French-
men, the others Germans. The Frenchmen are no better or
worse off than the Germans ; all lie on straw and are covered
with blankets. The sliding doors of these goods wagons,
fitted up specially for the transport of wounded, stood open
in order to admit fresh air to the wounded.
At the village of Eller we stop for a moment at an inn, where
the host. Herr Meinze, entertains us with what he knows about
the war. His young daughter runs off to fetch a letter just
received from the son of the family, twenty-two years old,
an Uhlan of the Guard from Potsdam. The letter bears the
somewhat vague postal address of La Ferté, and the writer
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