My Five Years in Germany: An Epilogue of the 1917 Peace

May 17th, 1917

This bloody affair is finally over. Apparently the soldiers of the French army simply had enough and the Germans found out about it, at least if the papers from the states are to be believed. Hopefully this means we will get some proper food again once the royal navy stops its blockade. Either way, I’m going out with the other chaps at the embassy for a Bier and celebrating.

May 20th, 1917

I may have celebrated prematurely. Dear diary, please do not get the wrong impression. The news this morning that the peace has been put to paper in Chur is great news, no doubt. The bad news is that apparently the French where more stingy than the British when it came to territorial compensation. As I was so politely informed by Washington this morning, there is to be held a referendum in that territory that lies between France and Germany and the very mention of whose name could get me lynched by either party should I decide to pronounce it in a way not to their liking. For a brief moment, I felt sympathy for the poor boy that would have to keep tabs on that whole affair. That is, until I learned it was to be my job.

I briefly considered suicide, but I am enough of a patriot that I am willing to sacrifice my mental and even physical wellbeing for the sake of my country. Regardless, if a week from now my corpse will have ended up somewhere in the French German hell’s bells, a ditch in the countryside of this previously alluded to region, I would very kindly ask that the gentleman or perhaps lady that stumbles upon this diary of mine could get it delivered to the dear old states, and perhaps even get it to my relatives should they find the time. Just put down James Watson Gerard Jr. and I’m sure it’ll find its way.
 
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Uhm the 1917 army mutinies did not see the French army abandon their posts it was more about not launching more bloody offensives and less about ending the war
 
May 27th, 1917

The peace seems to hold so far, so today the ministry deemed it safe enough to actually send me over to have a look at the damn place. I was forced out of the embassy in the ungodly hours of the morning and put on what I assume was once upon a time a cab, but was now more akin to a ramshackle machine equal parts taxi, truck and ambulance. At the very least I could not fault the skill of the driver, for I arrived in good order just in time for my train to Strasbourg. The ride itself was fairly unremarkable, save for the inordinate amount of soldiers onboard. Apart from an Austrian fellow eagerly sketching a picture of every station we stopped at all the soldiers onboard seemed so… Worn, I suppose. Like they had spent years under the yoke of the pharaohs in Egypt with no Moses to come deliver them, except these men had only spent months at the front. Based on what the papers say, I hardly fault them.


I finally arrived in Strasbourg sometime after lunch, with only a minor delay due to traffic. I was greeted by one Rudolf Schwander and his entourage, which seemed to consist of two soldiers that had been honorably dismissed, their missing leg and arm respectively making it obvious as to why. The road to the local government office was by carriage and surprisingly smooth. It seems the city itself has not suffered as hard as some other areas. Then again, it is entirely possible they are simply showing me the least ruined parts to give off a good impression. I was graciously allowed to get myself established in the small guest room and promptly fall asleep for a few hours. Dinner was to be “Cervelat” (some local cuisine) and beer and I must say that the Alsatians know their beer and sausage as well as any German I have ever had the pleasure of dining with. I suppose that for the sake of posterity and political neutrality, I should add that this aforementioned personal statement does not mean I am biased towards the German claim to the region in any manner. If I practice in the diary enough I might even keep my tongue in my mouth long enough to get out of here alive.


May 28th, 1917

As I feared, it appears I am but yet another clown at the circus here. Unlike yesterday I at least woke up late enough to get breakfast before heading out with my good friend Rudolf to begin the monumental task before me. So, at high noon today I finally found myself face to face with a proper Alsatian, a man of the arts named René Beeh.

“So, what’s your opinion of the situation here in the contested territories? Do you lean one way or the other in regards to the coming referendum?”

“Ah, it’s all petty nonsense Mein Herr. As someone who up until recently was stuck in the trenches, I hope for peace more than anything. Truth be told, whilst Alsace will always be my home, I am thinking of immigrating abroad once I get the chance. That said, we Alsatian have always been the only ones who looked after each other and always will.”

“I see. Is this opinion of your widely held, would you say?”

“Yes, at least among the people I’ve discussed the whole thing with so far. Frankly, we have not had much time to discuss it at all in these parts.”

“Of course. Well, thank you for your time.”

Before leaving I bought one of the man’s marvelous paintings as a souvenir. He looked at me as if I was some sort of apparition once I handed him the money, but I assured him I was indeed a living human and that the money was no forgery. The rest of the day was a dull-as-rocks examination of Alsatian industry that I am afraid would make me perish of boredom should I transcribe it in full here, so I will refrain. Rumors down at the local bar would have it that some drunk French soldiers got into a fistfight with some locals in a border village just yesterday, but I personally refuse to believe it. The air itself here is tense enough that an argument like that would most likely threaten to reignite the whole darn war. Whelp, I suppose a few more months here won’t hurt. That is, unless I manage to fiddle everything up.
 
June 1st, 1917

It seems I have underestimated the weight of my assignment and I now fear that I still do not yet fully comprehend it. I suppose the best I can hope for is that it gradually sinks in until I can finally grasp just what role I’m playing here. The source of my small bout of anxiety is none other than the American envoy to British Palestine, who made the inexplicable choice to stop by in one of the most hotly contested areas of the civilized world to, as he put it “see what was going on”. As he later confided in me that he had not the slightest clue what he was supposed to be doing over there I came to understand his reasoning more and I am sad I couldn’t help him as much as I wished. What’s next, a visit from the head of Mandatory Persia? Or worse yet, what if a cavalcade of diplomats insists on meeting me on their way to whatever is left of Austria? Perish the thought.

June 2nd, 1917

I had the pleasure of finally meeting someone from the diplomatic corps in Berlin again and was surprised at how my heart stung like I had not seen a german parade uniform for years, yet it has barely been a few weeks. The pleasure was short-lived however, as I was promptly verbally assaulted by the Kaisers representative for the crime of not letting the Kaiser cross into what was rightful German territory for a medal ceremony to reward the brave heroes of the Empire. Unfortunately for me I have no control over this and must have been enforced by the measly few border guards that the league of nations have seen fit to supply us with. I promptly reminded him that even if I somehow removed the guards in contravention of my directive as a neutral party, that would only increase the risk of French rioters, communards or what have you to cross onto what he himself declared rightful German soil. That seems to have put a lid on his rage for the moment and he returned to berlin in much the same mood as he arrived. I will dispatch a communiqué to Geneva to ask for more men, but I doubt much will come of it.
 
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