FLIGHT FROM GERMANY.

Stratford Evening Post, Volume XXXX, Issue 35, 28 September 1914, Page 6

FLIGHT FROM GERMANY.

ON THE OUTBREAK OF WAR. ' A correspondent of one of the London newspapers gives a vivid account of his flight from Germany on the outbreak of war. \

Leipsig, he writes, has been pursuing its ordinary routine for the last two or three day's. The good ladies of the pension have been a little anxious, it is true, and 3nce there was a distant sound of men singing in the street; but, on the whole, Leipsig has been enjoying its exhibition and caring for its visitors as usual, until yesterday (Friday) afternoon.' Then, like a thunderclap, a few lines of tape news, published outside the “Tageblatt” pavilion in the brought us all face to face with a very dreadful reality'. We saw the crowd pres'sing round to read, and then going silently away “His Majesty the King and Emperor has declared a state of war for his Royal domains (Reichsgebiet).” That was all, hut no one could doubt now that we stood before a great and immediate danger which, in the mid be of all these token of civilisation' and culture, had seemed impossibly remote. The exhibition was already emptying, and we betook ourselves by tram to our lodging. On the way a man flrith newspaper fly-leaves hoarded us. He distributed them to all, but would take no money: “The German Ambassador at St. Petersburg reports the general mobilisation of the Russian fleet and army. . Whereupon his Majesty the Emperor has commanded recognition of a state of urgent danger of war. Detailed measures of mobilisation have already this evening been prepared. It is believed that to-night 'an ultimatum will he presented to Russia.” * . Still unwilling to realise the presence of the terrible spectre, we ask the Consul for advice. “Go at once, to-night,’’ he replies, he is ifi no doubt at all. “To-morrow you may, not be able to get through.” So we determine on flight. THE LAST TRAIN; At the pension the grim truth has been before us. The poor Russian girl has been warned by the police to go. Alone and bi'oken with grief, she has to leave her kind friends at once, and is clinging to them all in turn. But everyone is leaving. Thank God, at least that, if it must come, it should be now, when nearly all the girls have already gone home. We try to console the ladies, while with simple German hospitality they press us at least to eat and drink before we start. Eggs there are none to be got; the shop* are queues deep already' in anticipation of the coming scarcity. Goodbye, good-by r e, and au revoir when these bitter days shall have passed.

The station is crowded, and Hie Flushing train is late. Somehow or other we scramble into anywhere, in the corridor, on the luggage —as long as we get into the train. The night is an uneasy nightmare The broken sleep of a night journey has intervals of half-heard shouting voices on and off the train. Everyone is in a state of unwonted excitement. All kind of rumours fly about. “The Emperor has declared war already, tonight,” -“The Dutch refuse to allow the boats to go.” They say this is to be the last train to get through. Lights flash- in our eyes, and we hear a roar of voices singing. Surely, Hanover! Yes; and they sing, “Die Wacht am Rhein” louder and louder. The tune, begun on the platform, rings through the streets as we skirt the totvn. On, on, while at every stop more travellers crowd into the overloaded train. MILITARY ENERGY. At last/the German frontier is reached, and an officer steps into the carriage. “Are you all Englishmen here?” he asks. “No; I’m a German,” says the man in the corner, and he begins a voluble explanation. “Step out, then,” he is told; “we must speak to you.” Presently he returns; he has established his own freedom from service, but his motorbicycle has been detained, for use, if need be, for army purposes. With the frontier Dutch stations- begins a never-ceasing evidence of military energy. Every place we pass full of soldiers. Wo can see the cavalry collecting masses of country horses, and on arriving at Flushing we find a boat discharging masses of soldiers on the pier, and there is a warship on the lookout- outside the harbor.

we are asked whether we are Englishmen, before we go aboard the peaeclnl packet, and after three hours’ delay the crowded boat leaves the uneasy shores of Europe for the cal.n~ er atmosphere of England, still, to judge irom her tourist lists, half incredulous of the dire reality of what is afoot among the unhappy nations of Europe. Even now as we near Queensborough we can see destroyers prowling up and down, watching the ships that come in and go out, and the port authority has just shouted through his megaphone that ours is the last boat to come in to-night.