moving when the door was flung open, I was grabbed by the coat-collar
and the next moment found myself skating across the roadway on my back.
I jumped up, somewhat ruffled at this rude handling, to learn that it
was an officer who had treated me so unceremoniously. I had no redress.
Berlin was under martial law. The uniform of the military came before
the mufti of the civilian.

Unable to find another vehicle I turned into the first place I found
open. It was an all-night café. It was packed to suffocation with German
soldiers and the feminine underworld of Berlin. There was a glorious
orgy of drunkenness, nauseating and debasing amusement, and the
incoherent singing of patriotic songs. The other sex appeared to have
thrown all discretion and womanliness to the winds. A soldier too drunk
to stand was assisted to a chair which he mounted with difficulty. Here
he was supported on either side by two flushed, hilariously-shouting,
partially-dressed harpies. He drew off his belt--his helmet had already
gone somewhere--and pointing to the badge he shouted thickly and
coarsely, "Deutschland, Deutschland, Gott mit uns"--(Germany, Germany,
God is with us). Metaphorically he was correct, because the words are
printed upon the belt of every German soldier, but if the Almighty was
with that drunken, debased crowd that night, then Old Nick must have
been wearing out his shoes looking for a job.

When the crowd caught sight of me, which was some time after my entrance
because I had dropped unseen into a convenient corner, they rushed
forward and urged me to participate in their revels. I declined. They
had been hurling distinctly uncomplimentary and obscene epithets
concerning Britain through the room. My decision was construed into an
affront to the All-Highest. A big, burly, drunken soldier wanted to
fight me. The crowd pressed round keenly anticipating some fun. We