New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1916-09-17

Also the sense of horror After so
- many months of battle have finally
learned to 20 composedly through the long
weeks filled with blood and death
The second summer is drawing to an end
For the second time l see the slopes of the
Vosges crow red and gold with autumn foliage
On warm evenings soft haze hangs over
them. violet blue. with streaks of lilac, such as
the Alban Hills take on as Roman summer
dav begins to wane. | see melancholy caSIIe
ruins hang over devastated villages. The war
has made frightfu marks on the face of this
whole region. But have seen so much that Is
beautiful mutlated or given to the flames!
At first nv hand trembled whenever an old
church pew or altar picture was consigned TO
destruction. Suddenly in the midst OF my
work of spoliation felt as used to do IN those
fa~-off days, when peace was still on earth ana
the dark Reaper had not yet begun his wlnnow-
ing when my whole world was museum IN
North German city and all my thoughts were
centred in the study of the great artists of
ancient times.
Like an impulse of nature was this inner
protest whenever anything beautiful was de-
stroved. But now that has passed. The inner
most core Of my being is laid bare. | stand on
GUARD on the border of the Empire. The wind
plays with my whitening hairs. see life dif-
ferently Verses and etchings, Old Masters
Southern Madonnas-their fascination has
vanished War is my handiwork. Death IN all
its forms stalks by my side-and am often
astonished to find how different ne is from the
Death in the woodcuts of Durer, in the old plct-
ures of the Apocalypse, in the Dance of Death
Of Holben.
This new Death in battle-how the modern
artillery and the modern inventions have trans
formed him through the monstrous and in
crediblv ingenious achievements Of science and
the technical arts
| look at him calmly, almost with the cool
self-possession of connoisseur. The comrades
who have stood shoulder to shoulder with me
on the SUBMITS of the Vosges-how often have
their places become vacant. If not one day,
then another We know our fate; we are
ignorant only of the date on which it will be
ACCOMPLISHED. Almost with astonishment one
sees the dawn of a new morning, surprised that
one has really lived through the preceding day.
Is il discipline-this existence of ours-or
IS it a privilege? To be chosen to stand as
guardians of the borderland of the Empire,
where the spirits of the heroes of MARSHA
Tour and Gravelotte seem on moonlight nights
TO hover on the horizon-drawing the German
sword a second time to fight for hercely con-
tested province?
And TO think that that same moonlight plays
about the cathedrals of Metz and Strassburg.
When | dream at nights in my dugout re-
build them in thought-so long familiar to me
in all the enchantment of their finals and their
rose-tinted window clusters. And in the bright
midday hours often seem to hear the peal of
their giant bells which announce TO the shout
ing crowds in the streets the great victories IN
the East-those fabulous, inspiring episodes
in world history. illustrating TO us, with our
slow and painful progress from trench to
trench. a glorious ideal form of warfare.
We are held close to our mountain heights
TO our dugouts. Our mission is to hold fast,
10 stand on the defensive And death wanders
ever through our ranks. We are always car
rying comrades TO their graves, carving crosses
and lining up sadly around fresh made mounds.
Sadly? But why?
Why does il so often run through my head
what Goethe wrote: "Man is too petty for his
/ destiny? And why am dissatisfied with my
self because | sometimes doubt whether such
quickly won immortality Is really prNleRe.
Those who have been thrust prematurely
through Deaths gate, who have known only
the brief morning Of life, TO whom no high
noon is vouchsafed, cut off from happiness,
love success the development Of their intel
lects and the possibilities Of their careers-will
they not be recompensed in another existence
for having in this life travelled so quick and
short road TO Vahaa?
The cighteen-year-ol boys, with their smooth
childish brows, their soft heads Of hair and
their premsturely defective eyes-are they not
seed sown by God, TO ripen for the days OF
harvest?
often / regard these carly sleepers almost
with envy. Yes, sorrow and lamentation must
be silenced among US. They are for those at
home These stern times must make us stern.
We must become as inyulnerable as Siegfried,
a. if we had been baptized with dragons blood.
Yes, many times ask myself: ado still wish
70 return home safely?"
IL II