# Little Comrade (Munsey's Magazine)/Chapter 1

pp. 831–835

### CHAPTER I
#### The Thirty-First of July

“Let us have coffee on the terrace,” Bloem suggested.
As his companion nodded, he lifted a finger to the waiter and gave the order.
Both men were a little sad, for this was their last meal together, and, though they had known each other less than a fortnight, they had become fast friends. They had been thrown together by chance at the surgical congress at Vienna, where Bloem, finding the American's German lame and halting, had constituted himself a sort of interpreter, and Stewart had reciprocated by polishing away some of the roughnesses and Teutonic involutions of Bloem's formal English.
When the congress ended, they had journeyed back together in leisurely fashion through Germany, spending a day in medieval Nuremberg, another in odorous Würzburg, and a third in picturesque Heidelberg, where Bloem had sought out some of his old comrades, and had initiated his American friend into the mysteries of an evening session in the Hirschgasse. Then they had turned northward to Mayence, and so down the terraced Rhine to Cologne. Here they were to part, Bloem to return to his work at Elberfeld, Stewart for a week or two in Brussels and Paris on his way home to America.
Bloem's train was to leave in an hour, and it was the consciousness of this that kept them silent until their waiter came to tell them that their coffee was served. As they followed him through the hall a tall man in the uniform of a captain of infantry entered from the street. His eyes brightened as he caught sight of Bloem.
“Ach, Herrman!” he cried.
Bloem, turning, stopped an instant for a burlesque salute, then threw himself into the other's arms. A moment later he was dragging him forward to introduce him to Stewart.
“My cousin,” he cried, “Ritter Bloem, a soldier, as you see—a great fire-eater! Cousin, this is my friend, Dr. Bradford Stewart, whom I had the good fortune to meet at Vienna.”
“I am pleased to meet you, sir,” said the captain, shaking hands and speaking excellent English.
“You must join us,” Bloem interposed. “We are just going to have coffee on the terrace. Come with us.”
He caught the other by the arm; but the captain shook his head.
“No, I cannot come,” he said. “I really cannot, much as I should like to do so. Dr. Stewart,” he added, a little hesitatingly, “I trust you will not think me discourteous if I take my cousin aside for a moment.”
“Certainly not,” Stewart assured him.
“1 will join you on the terrace,” said Bloem.
Nodding good-by to the captain, Stewart followed the waiter, who had stood by during this exchange of greetings, and now led the way to a little table at one corner of the broad balcony looking out over the square.
“Shall I pour the coffee, sir?” he asked, as Stewart sat down.
“No; I will wait for my companion.”
As the waiter bowed and stepped back Stewart leaned forward with a little gasp of admiration.
Below him lay the green level of the Domhof, its close-clipped trees outlined stiffly against the lights behind them. Beyond rose the choir of the great cathedral, with its fretted pinnacles and flying buttresses and towering roof. By day he had found its exterior somewhat cold and bare and formal, but nothing could be more beautiful than it was now, shimmering in the moonlight, bathed in luminous shadow, lacelike and mysterious.
He was still absorbed in this fairy vision when Bloem rejoined him. Even in the half light of the terrace Stewart could see that he was deeply moved. His face, usually smooth and full of healthy color, was almost haggard, his eyes seemed dull and sunken.
“No bad news, I hope?” Stewart asked.
Without answering, Bloem signaled the waiter to pour the coffee and sat watching him in silence.
“That will do,” he said in German. “We will ring if we have need of you.”
As the waiter withdrew he glanced nervously about the terrace. It was deserted save for a noisy group around a table at the farther end.
“There is very bad news, my friend,” he added, almost in a whisper. “There is going to be—war!”
Stewart stared for an instant, astonished at the gravity of his tone. Then he nodded comprehendingly.
“Yes,” he said; “I had not thought of it; but I suppose a war between Austria and Servia will affect Germany somewhat. Only I was hoping the powers would interfere and stop it.”
“It seems it cannot be stopped,” said Bloem gloomily. “Russia is mobilizing to assist Servia. Austria is Germany's ally, and so Germany must come to her aid. Unless Russia stops her mobilization, we shall declare war against her. Our army has already been called to the colors.”
Stewart breathed a little deeper.
“But perhaps Russia will desist when she realizes her danger,” he suggested. “She must know she is no match for Germany.”
“She does know it,” Bloem agreed; “but she also knows that she will not fight alone. It is not against Russia we are mobilizing—it is against France.”
“Against France?” echoed the other. “But surely—”
“Do not speak so loud, I beg of you,” Bloem cautioned. “What I am telling you is not yet generally known—perhaps the dreadful thing we fear will not happen, after all. But France is Russia's ally—she will be eager for war—for forty years she has been preparing for this moment.”
“Yes,” agreed Stewart, smiling, “I have heard of la revanche; I have seen the mourning wreaths on the Strassburg monument. I confess,” he added, “that I sympathize with France's dream of regaining her lost provinces. So do most Americans. We are a sentimental people.”
“T, too, sympathize with that dream, in a way,” said Bloem quickly. “I am a sentimentalist, too, I suppose—perhaps a dreamer; yet I know other Germans who have something of the same feeling. We realize that the annexation of Alsace and Lorraine was a terrible mistake. We should have been generous in our hour of triumph, as we were to Austria five years before; instead, we inflicted cruelly hard terms upon a defenseless foe, and we have reaped a merited reward of detestation. The provinces which cost us so much have been a source of weakness, not of strength. We have had to fortify them, to police them, to hold them in stern repression. Even yet they must be treated as conquered ground. You do not know—you cannot realize—what that means!” He stared out gloomily into the night. “I have served there,” he added hoarsely.
A cold shiver ran over Stewart's frame. He felt as if he had suddenly found himself at the brink of a fathomless abyss.
“But since France has not yet declared war,” he said, “surely you will wait—”
“Ah, my friend,” Bloem broke in, “we cannot afford to wait. We must strike quickly and with all our strength. There is no secret as to Germany's plan—France must be crushed under a mighty blow before she can defend herself: after that it will be Russia's turn.”'
“And after that?”
“After that? After that we shall seize more provinces and exact more huge indemnities—and add just so much to our legacy of fear and hatred!”
Stewart looked out over the lighted square.
“I can't understand it,” he said at last. “I don't understand how such things can be. They aren't possible. They're too terrible to be true. This is a civilized world—such things can never happen—humanity wouldn't endure it!”
Bloem passed a trembling hand before his eyes, like a man awaking from a horrid dream.
“Let us hope so, at least,” he said. “But I am afraid; I shake with fear! Europe is top-heavy under the burden of her awful armaments. Now, or at some future time, she must come tumbling down. She must—she must”—he paused, searching for a word—“she must crumble. Perhaps that time has come.”
“I don't believe it,” Stewart protested stoutly. “Some day she will realize the folly of excessive armaments, and they will cease.”
“I wish I could believe so!” said Bloem sadly. “You do not know, my friend, how we here in Germany, for example, are weighed down by militarism. You do not know the arrogance, the ignorance, the narrow-mindedness of the military caste. They do nothing for Germany—they add nothing to her art, her science, or her literature—they add nothing to her wealth—they destroy rather than build up—and yet it is they who rule the empire. We are a pacific people, we love our homes and a quiet life; we are not a militant people; and yet every man in Germany must march to war when the word is given. We ourselves have no voice in the matter. We have only to obey.”
“Obey whom?” asked Stewart.
“The emperor,” answered Bloem. “With all our progress, my friend, with all our development in science and industry, with all our literature and art and music, with all our philosophy, we still live in a medieval state, ruled by a monarch who believes himself divinely appointed, who can do no wrong, and who, in time of war, at least, has absolute power over us. And the final decision as to war or peace is wholly in his hands. Understand, I do not complain of the emperor. He has done great things for Germany; he has often cast his influence for peace. But he is surrounded by aristocrats intent only on maintaining their privileges, who are terrified by the growth of democratic ideas, and who believe that the only way to checkmate democracy is by a great war. It is they who preach the doctrine of blood and iron; who hold that Cæsar is sacrosanct. The emperor tries to restrain them; but some day they will prove too strong for him.” He stopped suddenly, his finger to his ear. “Listen!” he said.
Down the street, from the direction of the river, came a low, continuous murmur, as of the wind among the leaves of a forest. As it grew clearer it resolved itself into the tramp, tramp of iron-shod feet. Bloem leaned far forward, staring into the darkness.
Suddenly, at the corner, three mounted officers appeared; then a line of soldiers wheeled into view; then another and another and another, moving as one man. The head of the column crossed the square, passed behind the church, and disappeared; but still the tide poured on, with slow and regular undulation, dim, mysterious, and threatening. At last the rear of the column came into view, passed, disappeared; the clatter of iron on stone softened to a shuffle, to a murmur, died away.
With a long breath Bloem sat erect and passed his handkerchief across his shining forehead.
“There is one battalion,” he said; “one unit composed of a thousand lesser units—each unit a man with a soul like yours and mine; with hopes and ambitions; with women to love him; and now marching to death, perhaps, in the ranks yonder, without in the least knowing why. There are four million such units in the army the emperor can call into the field. I am one of them—I shall march like the rest!”
“You!”
“Yes—I am a private in the Ninety-Eighth.” Bloem spread out his delicate, sensitive surgeon's hands and looked at them. “I was once a corporal,” he added, “but my discipline was faulty and I was reduced to the ranks.”
Stewart also stared at those beautiful hands, so expressive, so expert. How vividly they typified the waste of war!
“But it's absurd,” he protested, “that a man like you—highly trained, highly educated, a specialist—should be made to shoulder a rifle. In the ranks you are worth no more than the most ignorant peasant.”
“Not so much,” corrected Bloem. “Our ideal soldier is one whose obedience is instant and unquestioning.”
“But why are you not placed where you would be most efficient—in the hospital corps, perhaps?”
“There are enough old and middle-aged surgeons for that duty. Young men must fight.” He pushed back his chair and rose abruptly. “I must say good-by. My orders are awaiting me at Elberfeld.”
“Your orders?”
“To-morrow I go to my depot—I put on my uniform, shoulder my rifle, and hang about my neck the metal tag stamped with my number. I cease to be an individual—I become a soldier. Good-by, my friend. Think of me sometimes in that far-off, sublime America of yours! One thing more—do not linger in Germany. Things will be very different here under martial law. Get home as quickly as you can; and, in the midst of your peace and happiness, pity us poor blind worms who are forced to slay one another!”'
“But I will go with you to the station,” Stewart protested.
“No, no,” said Bloem; “you must not do that. I am to meet my cousin. Good-by—lebe wohl!”
“Good-by—and good luck!” Stewart wrung the hand thrust into his. “You have been most kind to me.”
Bloem answered only with a little shake of the head, then turned resolutely and hastened from the terrace.
Stewart sank back into his seat, more moved than he would have believed possible by this parting from a man whom, a fortnight before, he had not known at all. Poor Bloem! To what fate was he being hurried?
And then Stewart started violently, for some one had touched him on the shoulder. He looked up, to find standing over him a tall man dressed in a dark-blue uniform and wearing a spiked helmet.
“Your pardon, sir,” said the man in careful English. “I am an agent of the police. I must ask you certain questions.”
“Very well,” agreed Stewart with a smile. “Go ahead—I have nothing to conceal. But won't you sit down?”
“I thank you,” and the policeman sat down heavily. “You are, I believe, an American?”
“Yes.”
“Have you a passport?”
“Yes, I was foolish enough to get one before I left home. All my American friends laughed at me and told me I was wasting a dollar.”
“I should like to see it.”
Stewart put his hand into an inner pocket, drew out the crackling parchment, and passed it over. The other took it, unfolded it, glanced at the red seal and at the date, then read the rather vague description of its owner, and finally drew out a note-book.
“Please sign your name here,” he said, and indicated a blank page.
Stewart wrote his name, and the officer compared it with the signature at the bottom of the passport. Then he nodded, folded it up, and handed it back across the table.
“It is quite regular,” he said. “How long have you been in Germany?”
“About two weeks. I attended the surgical congress at Vienna.”
“You are a surgeon by profession?”
“Yes.”
“You are now on your way home?”
“Yes.”
“When will you leave Germany?”
“I am going from here to Aix-la-Chapelle in the morning, and expect to leave there for Brussels to-morrow afternoon, or Sunday morning at the latest.”
The officer noted these details in his book.
“At what hotel will you stay in Aachen?” he asked.
“I don't know. Is there a good one near the station?”
“The Kölner Hof is near the station. It is not large, but it is very good. It is starred by Baedeker.”
“Then I will go there,” said Stewart.
“Very good.” The officer wrote “Kölner Hof, Aachen,” after Stewart's name, closed his note-book, and slipped it into his pocket. “You understand, sir, that it is our duty to keep watch over all strangers, as much for their own protection as for any other reason.”
“Yes,” assented Stewart, “I understand. I have heard that there is some danger of war.”
“Of that I know nothing,” said the other coldly, and rose quickly to his feet. “I bid you good night, sir.”
“Good night,” responded Stewart, and watched the upright figure until it disappeared.
Lighting a fresh cigar, he gazed out at the great cathedral, nebulous and dreamlike in the darkness, and tried to picture to himself what such a war would mean as Bloem had spoken of. With men by the million dragged into the vast armies, who would harvest Europe's grain, who would work in her factories, who would conduct her business? Above all, who. would feed the women and children?
And where would the millions come from needed daily to keep such armies in the field? Where could they come from, save from the sweat of inoffensive people, who must be starved and robbed and ground into the earth until the last penny was wrung from them?
Along the line of battle thousands would meet swift death, and thousands more would struggle back to life through the torments of hell, only to find themselves maimed and useless. But how trivial their sufferings beside the hopeless, year-long martyrdom of the countless thousands who would never see a battle, who would know little of the war—who would only know that never thereafter would there be food enough, warmth enough—
Stewart started from his reverie, to find the waiter putting out the lights. Shivering as with a sudden chill, he hastily sought his room.