The Secrets of the German War Office | Page 7

"You are found guilty of associating with revolutionary persons. You
were found possessing a passport not your own. You are sentenced to
be shot at sundown."
The whole thing appeared to me first as a joke, then as a bluff, but
looking closely into those high-cheekboned, narrow-eyed faces with the
characteristically close-cropped brutal heads, the humorous aspect
dwindled rapidly and I thought it about time to make a counter move.

Without betraying any of my inward qualms--and believe me, I began
to have some--I said quietly:
"I think you will find it advisable to inform M. Zolarevitch" (then
minister of War) "that Count Weringrode sends his regards."
I saw them looking rather curiously at each other and then the center
inquisitor fired a lot of questions at me, in answer to which I only
shrugged my shoulders.
"That's all I have to say, monsieur."
I was shoved back in my cell. About four that afternoon one of the
officers came to see me.
"Your message has not been sent. My comrades were against sending it,
but I am related to Zolarevitch. So if you can show me some reason, I
shall take your message."
I gave him some reason. So much so that he did not lose any time
getting under way. In fact, it was a very pale, perturbed officer who
rushed out of my cell. I didn't worry much, but when at about 7.30 the
cell door opened and two sentries with fixed bayonets and cartridge
pouches entered, placed me in the center and marched me into the
courtyard, where ten more likewise equipped soldiers in charge of an
officer awaited me, I felt somewhat green. I know a firing squad when I
see one. I knew if my message ever reached responsible quarters,
nothing could happen to me; but these were motley times and all sorts
of delays may have happened to the officer.
"Right about wheel" and myself in the center, we marched out of the
courtyard to a little hill to the west of the Citadel.
An old stone building--probably a decayed monastery, for I noticed
several crumbled tombstones--was evidently selected for the place of
execution. On a little rough, four-foot, stone wall we halted, and the
officer, pulling out a document, began reading to me a rather lengthy
preamble in Servian.
Up to then not a word had been spoken. I let him finish and then
politely requested him, as I was not a Serb and consequently did not
understand his lingo, to translate it into a civilized language, preferably
German or French. He seemed somewhat startled and gave me to
understand that he was led to believe I was a Serb. I used some very
forcible German and French, both of which he was able to understand,
pointing out to him that someone, somewhere, made a thundering big

blunder which somehow would have to be paid for. He was clearly ill
at ease, but said, "I have to obey my instructions." I had told him of my
message to the minister, and although it was quite obvious I was
sparring for time he seemed in no way inclined to rush the execution.
Five minutes went; ten minutes went and looking at his watch, which
showed five minutes to eight (although it was fast getting dusk, I could
see that watch-dial distinctly), shrugging his shoulders and saying, "I
can delay no longer," he called a sergeant, who placed me with my
shoulders to the wall and offered me a handkerchief. I didn't want a
handkerchief. A few sharp orders and twelve Mauser tubes pointed
their ugly black snouts directly at me.
I hate to tell my sensation just then. Frankly, I felt nothing clearly. The
only thing I remember distinctly was the third man in the second file
held his gun in rather a slipshod manner, aiming it first at my midriff,
next pointing it at my nose--which strangely enough caused me intense
annoyance. How long we stood thus I don't know. The next thing I
remember was a rattle of grounding arms and the sight of two other
officers, excitedly gesticulating with the one in charge of the firing
squad. All three presently came towards me and one pulling out a flask
of cognac with a polite bow offered me a drink. I needed it; but didn't
take it. All this time I had been standing motionless with my arms
folded across my breast. I heard one say to the other, "Nitchka
Curacha" (no coward). If he had only known.
Indeed, had I anticipated such an experience, had I known the things I
know now I doubt if I would have been so pleased with the results of
my first visit to Koenigergratzerstrasse 70, where the Intelligence
Department of the German Admiralty is quartered. Will