scrambled back to my car. Here the paper was snatched from me to be read
aloud to the expectant crowd thirsting for news. There was a tense
silence as the reader ran through the items until he gravely announced
the latest intelligence--Russia and Germany had declared war. The news
was official. For a second a profound silence reigned. Then there broke
out a further outburst of wild, maniacal cheering, above which, however,
could be heard hysterical screams and shrieks from women, especially
from those bound for Russia, which they now realised they would never
reach.

I saw at once that it was hopeless to get to my destination, as the
Russo-German frontier was now closed. But as it was quite as impossible
to turn back I decided to push on to Berlin there to await events. So
far Britain was not involved and might even keep clear of the tangle.
This I might say was the general opinion on the train. The remainder of
the journey to the capital was now far more exciting, and the animated
conversation served to while away the tedium of the slow travelling,
although the latter part was completed in darkness, the train running
into Berlin at 1.30 in the morning of August 3rd, the journey from
Flushing having taken about 18 hours.

The platform at Berlin was overrun with officials of all sorts and
descriptions, ranging from puny collectors to big burly fellows
smothered with sufficient braid and decorations to pass as
field-marshals. But one and all seemed to be entrusted with swords too
big for them which clanked and clattered in the most nerve-racking
manner. They strutted up and down the platform with true Prussian
arrogance, jostling the fatigued, cursing the helpless who lounged in
their path, ignoring the distress of the children, sneering at the
pitiful pleadings of the women--in fact caring about nothing beyond