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TRENCH LIFE 319
the Press and its sense of responsibility. There hundreds of
thousands of volunteers hurry to the colours without artificial
and false inducement. They come, driven by the Germanic
spirit, by national pride, by sense of duty and ambition.
There is not a single man able to carry arms who hesitates
to go out and die, for it is clear to all that if it is God’s wish
that Germany shall go under, the last German shall have fallen
in the last trench before the waves close once for all over the
wreck. For these reasons the Press of the Central Powers
has in this war a far easier task to fulfil than the Press of the
enemy countries, for it has but to register the trend of events
and to announce the news from east and west and from far-
away tropical seas, but it has no need to resort to the dis-
honourable makeshift of deceiving its readers and inventing
tales of victory so as to drive fresh throngs to the recruiting
offices.
To return once more to the Townhall of Bapaume, every
day, at the hour that the local newspaper was published,
brought fresh groups of eager soldiers to the notice board. It
was quite refreshing to stop awhile and observe them. There
they stand with their cigarettes or pipes and hands in trouser
pockets reading through the news attentively and slowly.
Up to the present they have had little news that is not good,
but all news is taken with the same calm. At most one notices
a passing smile or a momentary gleam in the eye. The same
spirit is shown if a piece of bad news is posted, such as the
loss of a warship.
Sometimes the soldiers are not content with reading, they
must copy the w^hole of the paper into their diary. And
why ? Probably because they are on the way to the foremost
trenches, where they will impart the contents to their isolated
comrades.
Duke Adolf Friedrich and I were invited to supper with
Lieut.-General von Winckler, the Grenadier par excellence, the
Chief of all the Grenadiers of the Guard. At seven o’clock we
started out on the great main road to Arras, but long before
we reached half-way we turned off to the left along a by-road
leading via Hamelincourt to Boiry. The evening was still,
the air was clear, and the moon was brilliantly radiant. We
could hear no cannonading, and yet there could be no doubt
that we were approaching the line traced in iron, blood and
fire across the face of France At every village we were stopped
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