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QUIET DAYS 187
to protect and stands in arms at many other points, is yet
always able to fill the gaps with fresh, perfectly trained men.
It is true that, numerically, the Allies are three times stronger
than Germany and Austria-Hungary and that they—the self-
conscious British, and the French, so rightly proud of their
cultured refinement—have instituted a regular import of black
and brown human material from distant continents. But in
real soldiers the Germans are superior. Practically speaking
their country is clear of enemies—with the exception of six
hundred thousand prisoners—and they are fighting out their
fight on enemy territory.
Saturday, the 3rd of October, passed very quietly.
It is pleasant to be able to rest now and again, when other-
wise one is always on the move. I dined at one o’clock with
Professor Zinsser and the doctors under him. The table
was laid in the garden. Over our heads we heard the buzz of
German biplanes ’
and Gotha Tauben. A cheery and willing
Franciscan friar waited at table and joined animatedly in the
conversation. After dinner the distinguished old pater Miiller
came to call. Now and again a batch of French prisoners
marched past. A couple of them were carrying a sick German
to the railway station, whilst others were carting coal to the
hospitals in barrows. I photographed a band of eighteen men
on their way to dinner. One can see even in the picture that
they are in the best of spirits, well cared for and sheltered
against cold and rain. Some scenes I witnessed between
prisoners and their guards were inordinately comical. On
one such occasion I saw a German gaoler pat his French
prisoner on the shoulder and say in a fatherly, patronising
voice, " Hier hast du cine Cigarrette, mein Bursch" (Here is a
cigarette for you, my lad), whereupon the Frenchman gave a
friendly nod, accepted the cigarette with a smile and a merci,
and lit it from the German’s pipe. Among the soldiers one
sees no signs of national hatred. But in the French press it
glows like a consuming fire. Not to speak of the venom of
the English newspapers !
In the evening I spent a few moments with some Jesuits
employed in the service of the Red Cross. They had some
sanguinary tales to tell of places they had recently visited,
particularly Rossignol. I might fill whole books with these
horrible stories about streets drenched in blood, fallen soldiers
and hand-to-hand fighting in towns and villages, where every
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