The Diary of a U boat Commander by Anon

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Listen! I once met the Prime Minister of all Russia at a reception. I
captivated him, and thought, now! now! I shall do something.

I sat next to him at dinner; I talked of Poland--and I knew my
subject--I talked brilliantly; he listened, he hung on my words, and
he, the Prime Minister of all Russia, the Tsar's right-hand man, asked
me to drive with him next day in his sledge. I, an almost unknown
Polish girl!

When I accepted, I was in the seventh heaven of delight.

Next day he called and we set forth; at a deserted spot in the woods
near Warsaw he tried to kiss me--I struck him in the face with the butt
of his own whip.

That was why he had hung on my words, that was why he had taken me for
my drive; it was my Polish body that interested _him_--not Poland.

The Prime Minister of Russia was confined to his room for two days,
"owing to an indisposition." How I laughed when I saw the bulletin in
the paper, signed by two doctors, but it taught me a lesson; I never
dreamt idle dreams again.

No, I am wrong, my beloved. I dreamt an idle dream, a lovely dream
about you and I. An after-the-war dream, if this war should ever end,
but like other dreams it has ended--in dreams.

But I must hurry, for my little watch tells me that one hour of my five
has gone, and I have much to say.

I could have married, and married brilliantly, but Poland held me back.
I did not know what I could do for my country, it all seemed so
hopeless, and yet I felt that perhaps one day ... and I felt I ought to
be single when that day came.

It was not easy, my Karl, sometimes it was hard; one man there was,
Sergius was his Christian name; he loved me madly, and sometimes I
thought--but no matter, he is dead now, killed at Tannenberg, and
I--well, I will tell you more of my story.

When the war broke out and clouded over that last beautiful summer in
1914 (I wonder will there ever be another like it in your lifetime, my
Karl? No, I don't think it can ever be quite the same after all this!),
we were all in the country. Alex was back from his school in Petrograd,
and my father kept him at home for the autumn term.

How well I remember the excitement, the mobilization, the blessing of
the colours, the wave of patriotism which swept over the country; even
I, under the influence of the specious proclamations that were issued
broadcast by the Government, with their promises of reform, and redress
for Poland after the war was over, felt more Russian than Polish. Lies!
Lies! Lies! that was what the Government promises were, my Karl.

Under the stress of war the rottenness of that great whited sepulchre,
Russia, feared the revival of the Polish spirit; it might have been
awkward, and so they lied with their tongues in their cheeks, and we
simple Poles believed them; the peasantry flocked to their depots,
little knowing whom they fought, but the proclamations which were read
to them told them they fought for Poland, and we women worked and
prayed for the success of Russian arms.

Then the tide of war swept westward, and all day long and every day the
troops, and the guns and the motor-cars and the wagons rolled through
the village to the west.

Guarded hints in the papers seemed to say that all was not well in
France, but France was so far away, and all the time the Russians were
going west through our village. Mighty Russia was putting forth her
strength, and the Austrian debacle was in full swing; these were great
days, my Karl, for a Russian!

Then one day the long columns of men and all the traffic seemed to
hesitate in the sluggish westward flow, and then it stopped, and then
it began to go east. The weeks went on, and one day, very, very
faintly, there was a rumbling like a distant thunderstorm. It was the
guns! The front was coming back.

Have you ever seen forest fires, my Karl? We had them every autumn in
our woods. If you have, then you know how all the small animals and the
birds, the rabbits and the foxes, and perhaps a wolf or two, and the
deer, and the thrushes and the linnets come out from the shelter of the
trees, fleeing blindly from the great peril, anxious only to save their
lives. So it was when the front came back. Herds of moujiks, the old
men, the women, the children, the poor little babies, struggled blindly
eastwards through the village.

Pushing their miserable household gods on handcarts, or staggering
along with loads on their backs, and weary children dragging at their
arms, the human tide flowed eastwards, round our house, begged perhaps
a drink of water, and then wandered feverishly onwards.

They knew not in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred where they were
going; their only destination was summed up in the words, "Away from
the Front"--away from the ominous rumbling which began to get louder,
away from that western horizon which was beginning to have a lurid glow
at nights, like a sunset prolonged to dawn.

Then, as the Germans advanced more and more, the character of the tide
changed, the civilian element was outnumbered by the military.
Companies, battalions, brigades, sometimes in good order, sometimes in
no order, marched through the village. They would often halt for a
short time, and the officers would come up to the house, where my
mother and I gave them what we could. My father lived amongst his books
and accounts, and bemoaned the extravagance of the war. Then there were
the deserters, the stragglers, the walking wounded, the--but you know,
my Karl, what an army in retreat means.

I must proceed with my story, for time moves relentlessly on.

One day a desperately wounded officer, a young Lieutenant of the Guard,
a boy of twenty-five, was taken out of a motor ambulance to die.

The ambulance had stopped opposite our gates, and lying on his
stretcher he had seen our garden, my garden. He knew he was to die, and
he had begged with tears in his eyes to the doctor that he might be
left in the garden.

Who could refuse him?

He died within two hours, amongst our flowers, with Alex and I at his
side.

Before he died, he begged us, implored us, almost ordered us, to move
east before it was too late.

We repeated his arguments to my father, but the latter was obdurate,
and he swore that a regiment of angels would not move him from his
ancestral home. So we made up our minds to stay.

Things got worse and worse, and one day shells fell in the grounds and
we hid in the cellars. That night all our servants ran away, and my
father cursed them for cowards. Next day in the early morning we heard
machine guns fire outside the village, and then all was still.

At six o'clock Alex, white-faced, came running into the house. He had
been down to the gates and he had seen the enemy. They were drunk, he
said, and going down the street firing the houses and shooting the
people as they came out.

It seemed impossible and yet it was true. It was growing dark, when we
heard shouts and saw lights, and from the top of the house I saw a
crowd of singing and shouting soldiers, with pine torches, half
running, half walking up the drive.

They massed in a body opposite the house. Paralysed with terror, I
looked down on the scene, and shuddered to see that every second man
seemed to have a bottle. One of them fired a shot at the house, and
next I remember a flood of light on the drive, and, in the circle of
light, my father standing with hand raised. What my father intended can
never be known, for, as he paused and faced the mob, a solitary shot
rang out, and he fell in a huddled heap.

As he fell, a boyish voice from the door shouted "Murderers!" It was
Alex. With his little pistol I had given him for a birthday present in
his hand, he ran forward and, standing over my father's body, head
thrown back, he pointed his pistol at the mob and fired twice. A man
dropped, there was a flash of steel, the crowd surged forward,
and--and, oh! my Karl, they had murdered my beloved brother, my darling
Alex.

The next moment they were in the house. I escaped from my window on to
the roof of the dairy, and from there down a water-pipe, across the
yard to an old hay-loft. For a long time they ran in and out of the
house, like ants, looting and pillaging; then there was a great shout,
and for some time not a soul came out of the house. I guessed they had
got into the cellars. At about midnight I saw that the house was on
fire. In a few minutes it was an inferno and the drunken soldiers came
pouring out, firing their rifles in all directions.

I had found a piece of rope in the loft. One end I placed on a hook and
the other round my neck. I was close to the upper doors of the loft,
with a drop to the courtyard, and thus I stayed, for I feared that some
soldier, more sober than the rest, might explore the outhouses and find
me. I was watching this unearthly spectacle, and never, my best
beloved, did I conceive that man could become lower than the beasts,
but before my eyes it was so, when I noticed that the great gates at
the southern end of the courtyard were opening. As they opened I saw
that beyond them were drawn up a line of men. An officer gave an order,
and two machine guns were placed in position in the gate entrance;
round the guns lay their crews, and the seething mass of revellers saw
nothing. I felt that a fearful tragedy was impending, and as I held my
breath with anxiety the officer gave a short, sharp movement with his
hand and a hideous rattle rose above all noises. The pandemonium that
ensued was indescribable. Some ran helplessly into the burning house,
others ran round and round in circles, others tried to get into the
dairy; one man got upon its roof and fell back dead as soon as his head
appeared above the outer wall. The place was surrounded. It was
horrible. A few tried to rush for the gate, they melted away like snow
before the sun, as their bodies met the pitiless stream of bullets. I
suppose two hundred men were killed in as many seconds. The machine
guns ceased fire. Ambulance parties came into the yard, collected the
dead and living, and within half an hour there was not a soul save
myself in the place. Discipline had received its oblation of men's
lives.

As an example, it was one of the most wonderful things I have ever
known in your wonderful army, my Karl, but it was terrible--terribly
cruel.

I never knew what became of my mother, though I feel she is
dead--murdered, perhaps, like my father and my darling Alex, or perhaps
she hid somewhere in the house and remained petrified with terror till
the flames came. Next morning I left my hiding-place and walked about.
Not a German was to be seen, but in the wood was a huge newly-made
grave. It was all open warfare then, and this flying column, which was
miles in advance of the main body, had moved on. The house was a
smoking mass of ruins, but the farm buildings had been spared, and I
let out all the poor animals and turned them into the woods, so that
they might have their chance.

All day I searched for my father and brother, but not a sign was to be
seen, and at dusk I stood alone, faint and broken, amongst the ruins of
my ancestors' home. As I looked at this scene of desolation and I
contrasted what had been my life twenty-four hours before and what it
was then, something seemed to snap in my brain, and for the first time
I cried. Oh! the blessed relief of those tears, my Karl, for I was a
poor weak, helpless girl, and alone with death and bitterness all round
me. Late that night I hid once more in my hay-loft and next morning I
left Inkovano for ever. Before I left, I made a vow. It is because of
this vow, my beloved, that I am to die. For I vowed by the body of our
Saviour and the murdered bodies of my family that, whilst life was in
me and the war was maintained, for so long would I work unceasingly for
the Allies against Germany. As the war ran its fiery course, I have
seen more and more that the Allies are the only ones who will do
anything for Poland, my beloved country, so have I been strengthened in
my vow.

I struck south on my feet, as a poor girl--I, the daughter of a
princely family of Poland! No hardships were too great for me, provided
I could reach Allied territory. I travelled from village to village as
a singing girl, and once I was driven away with stones by villagers set
upon me by a fanatical priest. I came by Cracow, and across the
Carpathians, helped to pass the lines by a Hungarian Lieutenant--but I
tricked him of his reward; I was not ready for that sacrifice. Then
across the Hungarian plains to Buda-Pesth, where I remained three weeks,
singing in a third-rate café, to make some money for my next stage. But
I had to leave too soon--the old story!--this time it was the
proprietor's son. What beasts men are, my Karl! And yet to me you are
above all other men, a prince amongst your fellows, and never did I
love you so distractedly as that first night at the shooting-box, when
I read the scorn in your eyes as you rejected me. I have no shame in
telling you this. Am I not already in the grave? And then I must be
silent and can only await your coming. After many struggles, wearisome
to relate, I came to Hermanstadt, and there, whilst pushing my trade as
a dancer, came into touch with a Hungarian band of smugglers, working
across the mountain passes between Eastern Hungary and Roumania. I did
certain work for these men, and in return crossed with them one bitter
night in a thunderstorm into Roumania. At Bukharest I got a good
engagement, and when I had saved a thousand marks, I bought a passport
for five hundred, and came to Serbia, then staggering beneath the great
Austrian offensive.

Once again I was in the horrors of a retreat, but I escaped, reaching
Valona, and crossed to Brindisi, by the aid of a French officer to whom
I told my story and who believed me. His name is Pierre Lemansour, and
he lives at Bordeaux.

If fortune places him in your power, be kind to him, my Karl, for your
Zoe's sake.

I came to Rome; and thence to Paris. I stayed here three weeks, singing
in a cabaret. Whilst here I tried to advance my plans in vain! What
could I, a poor girl, do for the Allies? The Embassy laughed at me, all
except one young attaché who tried to make love to me.

Then I thought of England--England, and her cold, hard islanders,
phlegmatic in movements, slow to hate, slow to move, but once
roused--ah! they never let go, these islanders!

One of their poets has said: "The mills of God grind slowly, but they
grind exceeding small."

That, my Karl, is like England.

They are your most terrible enemies, and you know it.

Do not be angry with me when you read this.

For me it is Poland, for you Germany.

Where I am going in a few hours there is no Poland, no Germany, no
England, no war. And perhaps, perhaps, no love.

You and I, Karl, have loved, too well, perchance, but our love was
above even the love of countries.

God made the love of men and women, then men and women created their
countries.

I see the future before me, Karl, and I foresee that the struggle will
be at the end of all things, between England and Germany. One will be
in the dust.

Thus, I crossed to England and was swallowed up in the great city of
London. England has always had a corner of her calculating heart for
the small nations, and in London there is a Polish organization. I
applied there, and one day I was taken to the Foreign Office, and found
myself alone with a great Englishman. His name was--No, I promised, and
it will not matter to you, for though he gave me my chance, I have no
love for him, and he will never be in your power. Even as I write these
words, he has probably taken a list from a locked safe and neatly ruled
a red line through the name Zoe Sbeiliez. I tell you they know
everything, these Englishmen. I told him my story, and then he asked me
whether I was prepared to do all things for the Allies. I told him I
was. He then said that I could go as agent for a back area in Belgium,
and my centre would be Bruges. I agreed, and asked him innocently
enough how I was to live in Bruges. He looked up from his desk and
said:

"You will be given facilities to cross the Belgium-Holland frontier, as
a German singer."

"And then?" I asked.

"You will go to Bruges and make friends with an Army officer; he must
be high up on the staff."

I guessed what he meant, but hoped against hope, and I said: "How?"

I can still see his fish-like face, hair brushed back with scrupulous
care, as without a shadow of emotion he looked up, puffed his pipe, and
said in matter-of-fact tones:

"You have a pretty face and an excellent figure. Need I say more?"

I could have struck him in the face. I was speechless, my mind a whirl
of conflicting emotions. I was roused by the level tones again.

"Is it too much--for Poland?"

Oh! the cunning of the man; he knew my weakness. Mechanically, I
agreed. Certain details were settled, and he pressed a bell. Within
five minutes I was walking back to my lodgings.

Thanks to a marvellous organization, which your police will never
discover, my Karl, within _three weeks_ I was singing on the Bruges
music-hall stage, and accepted without question as being what I was
not, a German artist from Dantzig. The men were soon round me, but I
had no use for youngsters with money. I wanted a man with information.
At last I found my man--the Colonel. He was on the Headquarters staff
of the XIth Army, the army of occupation in Belgium, when I first met
him. Subsequently he went back to regimental work; but by the time he
was killed (and to realize what a release that meant for me, you would
have had to have lived with him) I had established regular sources of
information concerning which I will say no more. Let your country's
agents find them if they can. This must I say for the Colonel: he was a
brute and a drunkard, but in his own gross way he loved me, and he
licked my boots at my desire, but I had to pay the price. You are a
man, and with all your loving sympathy you can but dimly realize what
this costs a woman. To me it was a dual sacrifice of honour and life,
but it was for Poland, and the memories of my parents and Alex steeled
me and strengthened my resolution, and so, and so, my Karl, I paid the
price.

My special work was on the military side, and consisted in making
quarterly reports on the general dispositions of large bodies of
troops, the massing of corps for spring offensives, and big pushes and
hammer blows.

Then you came into my life! When the Colonel used to go away it was my
habit to mix in the demi-mondaine society of Bruges, to try and live a
few hours in which I could forget--oh! don't think the worst! _That_
sort of thing had no attraction for me. I didn't seek oblivion in that
direction! I had never even kissed anyone in Bruges until I kissed you
that first night we met at dinner--I was attracted to you from the very
first; the Colonel was due back in a few days, and I suddenly felt mad,
and kissed you. I suppose you put me down as one of the usual kind, out
to sell myself at a price varying between a good dinner and the rent of
a flat! You will now know that I had already mortgaged my body to
Poland.

Then a few days later you will remember we went down for that wonderful
day in the forest, and for the first time, Karl, I began to see that I
was really caring for you, and a faint realization of the dangers and
impossibilities towards which we were drifting crossed my mind.

Do you remember how silent I was on the drive back? In a fashion, my
Karl, I could foresee dimly a little of what was going to happen. I had
a presentiment that the end would be disaster, but I thrust the idea
away from me. Then came the day, just before one of your trips--oh! the
agony, my darling, of those days, each an age in length, when you were
at sea--when you told me at the flat that you loved me.

How I longed to throw my arms round your neck and abandon myself to
your embraces, but I was still strong enough in those days to hold back
for both our sakes.

Each time we were together I loved you more and more, and each time
when you had gone I seemed to see with clearer vision the fatal and
inevitable ending.

But I refused to give up the first real happiness that had been mine in
my short and stormy life, and so I clung desperately to my idle dream.

I prayed, I prayed for hours, Karl, that the war might end, for I felt
that in this lay our only hope--but what are one woman's prayers, a
sinful woman's prayers, to the Creator of all things, and the war
ground on in its endless agony just as it does to-night--Karl! Karl!
will this torture ever end?

But I must hurry, there is still much to tell you, and Time goes on
relentlessly just like the war; it is only life that ends. Then came
the days I took you to the shooting-box for the first time, and that
night I broke down and, unashamed, offered you myself. Think not too
badly of your Zoe, my Karl; when a woman loves as I do, what is
convention? A nothing, a straw on the waters of life. I wanted you for
my own, passionately and desperately, for I feared that any moment the
end might come, and to die without having felt your arms around me
would have added a thousand tortures to death. Though I could have
welcomed death with joy when I saw the look of sorrowful contempt which
you cast upon me that night. Heavens above! but you were strong, my
Karl. I am not ugly, and yet you resisted, and I hated and loved you at
the same time--oh! I know that sounds impossible, but it isn't for a
woman. I slept little that night and, feeling that I could not look you
in the face in the morning, I left for Bruges before you got up.

I felt that I could trust you not to try and find out the secret of the
shooting-box.

What a relief it is to be able to tell you everything frankly, and how
I hated the perpetual game of deception which I had to play.

I used to rack my brains for answers to your perpetual question, "Why
won't you marry me?" It was a desperate risk taking you down to the
forest, but you loved me so much that you never questioned the reasons
I gave you for my secrecy. I can tell you now, Karl, that in the early
days when I used to disappear from Bruges, it was to the shooting-box
that I went.

But I will write more of that later.

Did you suffer the same agony as I did before you left for Kiel, and
your pride would not allow you to come to me? You understand now, my
darling, why I could never marry you, and when the Colonel was killed
it became harder than ever. Once during that terrible interview before
you went up the Russian coast, I nearly gave way and promised to marry
you. But how could I? I had sworn my vow, and even to-night, though I
stand in the shadow of death, I do not regret my vow.

It is inconceivable that I could have married you and carried on my
work--a spy on my husband's country--and if I ever thought of trying to
do this impossible thing, a vision which has partially come true always
restrained me.

I saw a submarine officer disgraced and perhaps sentenced to death,
because his wife had been convicted as a spy!

No! it was impossible.

But if I could not marry you, I still wanted your love.

Then you went up the Russian coast, and I heard of your return in a
submarine terribly wrecked. I guessed what you must have gone through,
and determined to see you, but when I entered your room and saw you
lying open-eyed on your bed, with no one but a clumsy soldier to nurse
you, I could have wept. You know the rest; you can perhaps hardly
remember how I led you to my car and took you down to the forest. Oh,
Karl, are you angry with me for what happened? Do you sometimes think
that I took an unfair advantage of your weakness? Please! Please
forgive me, you were so helpless, and I loved you so.

Then came those unforgettable weeks whilst your boat was being
repaired, weeks which opened to me the door of the paradise I was never
to enter. Oh! Karl, I pray that all those memories may remain sweet and
unclouded all your life. Think of those days when you think of your
Zoe. Alas! they came to an end too soon, and you left for the Atlantic.
When you came back all was over; I had been caught at last.

The evidence at the trial was clear enough. I have no complaints. I was
fairly caught. You remember the big open space in front of the
shooting-box? I do not mind saying now that five times have I been
taken up from there in an English aeroplane, and landed there again
after two days. Each time I took over a full report on military
affairs. Not a word of naval news, my Karl; you will remember I never
tried to find out U-boat information. I even warned you to be cautious.
Well, they caught me as I landed; the English boy who had flown me back
tried hard to save me, but it only cost him his own life.

My first thought was of you, and there is not a jot of evidence against
you, save only your friendship for me. Remember this fact, if they
persecute you. Admit nothing, believe nothing they tell you, deny
everything; they have no evidence; but they are certain to try and trap
you.

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