In the Claws of the German Eagle | Page 6

at any rate and he had but to await the end
of the war--then it was home again. The pictures show phalanxes of
these men smiling as if they were glad to be captives. On the other
hand there are no smiles in the pictures of the spies and francs-tireurs.
They know that they are fated for a hasty trial, a drumhead decision,
and to be shot at dawn. The prospect of that walk through the early
morning dews to the execution-ground made their shoulders droop
along with their spirits.
With these thoughts on our mind we held our tongues and kept our eyes
on the door, wondering who would be the next guest to arrive, and
mentally conjecturing what might be the cause of his incarceration.
The last arrival wore a small American flag wound round his arm, and
around his waist he wore a belt which contained 100 pounds in gold.
He spotted me, and, coming over to my corner, opened up a
conversation in English. I thought at first that this was merely a clumsy
German ruse to trap me into some indiscreet talking. To his kindly

advances I curtly returned "Yeses" and "Noes."
His name was Obels, a Belgian by birth but speaking English as well as
German, French, and Flemish. He was an invaluable reporter for a great
Chicago paper, and in his zeal for news had run smack into the
Germans at Malines, and had been at once whisked off by automobile
to Brussels for trial as a spy. He had a passionate devotion to his calling.
No mystic could have been more consecrated to his Holy Church. I
fully believe that he would have consented to be shot as a spy with a
smile on his face if he could have got the story of the shooting to his
paper. He was one of the most straightforth fellows I have ever met,
and yet I regarded him there as I would a low-browed scoundrel. For a
long time I would not speak to him. I dared not. He might have been a
spy set to worm out any confidences, and then carry them to Javert.
Left to himself, each man let his most pessimistic thoughts drag his
spirits down. Gloom is contagious, and it soon became as heavy in the
room as the gray clouds of smoke. The one bright, hopeful spot was the
lone woman prisoner. She alone refused to succumb to the depressing
atmosphere, and sought to play woman's ancient role of comforter. She
tried to smile, and succeeded admirably, for she was very pretty. A
wretched-looking lad huddled up on a bag in the corner tried to
reciprocate, but with the tears glistening in his eyes he made a sorry
failure of it. We were a hard crowd to smile to, and growing tired of her
attempts to appear light-hearted, she at last gave herself up to her own
grievances, and soon was looking quite as doleful as the rest of us. Our
gloom was thrown into sharp relief by a number of soldiers grouped
around a table in the corner laughing and shouting over a game of cards
which they were playing for small stakes. We dragged out the long
afternoon staring doggedly at the bayonets of our guards.
Only once did the guards show any awareness of our existence. That
was when suddenly the arrival of "Herr Major" was announced. As the
door was opened to let him pass through our hall to the stairway, with a
hoarse shout we were ordered to our feet. As his exalted personage
paraded by we stood, hats in hand, with bared heads, with such humble
and respectful expression as may be outwardly assumed towards a
fellow-being whom all secretly despised or desired to kill. Was there
really a murderous gleam in the averted eyes of those Belgians arrayed
in salute before the Herr Major, or was it my imagination that put it

there? Perhaps you can tell.
Picture your country devastated, your towns burned, your flag
prohibited, your farmers shot, your women and children terrified, your
papers and public meetings suppressed, your streets patrolled by aliens
with drawn swords as your enemies' bands triumphantly play their
national airs. Picture, then, yourself lied about by hireling spies, thrown
into prison, compelled to breathe foul air and sleep upon a floor, fed on
black bread, and held day after day for sentence in nerve-racking
suspense. Picture to yourself now the abject humiliation of being
compelled to stand bare-headed in salute before these wreckers and
spoilers of your land. Do you think you might keep back from your
eyes sparks from that blazing rebellion in your soul? Then it was not
imagination that made me see the murderous gleam in the eyes of those
high-spirited Belgians.