They did not try to kill him with a
table-knife. He did not put poison in the soup.
That young waiter had served in a hotel in Manchester, where he had
served a friend of mine, to whom he now expressed his opinion on the
folly of the war, and the criminality of his war lords, and things in
general. Among these last he uttered an epigram which I remember for
its brutal simplicity. It was when a staff-officer of ours, rather the
worse for wine, had been making a scene with the head waiter, bullying
him in a strident voice.
"Some English gentlemen are swine," said the young waiter. "But all
German gentlemen are swine."
Some of our officers and men billeted in houses outside Cologne or
across the Rhine endeavored to stand on distant terms with the "Huns."
But it was impossible to be discourteous when the old lady of the
house brought them an early cup of coffee before breakfast, warmed
their boots before the kitchen fire, said, "God be praised, the war is
over." For English soldiers, anything like hostility was ridiculous in
the presence of German boys and girls who swarmed round their horses
and guns, kissed their hands, brought them little pictures and gifts.
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