Produced by Brian Coe, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by University of California libraries)









[Illustration: Cover]

[Illustration: End paper left]

[Illustration: End paper right]




TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR




  TRUE STORIES
  OF THE
  GREAT WAR

  TALES OF ADVENTURE--HEROIC DEEDS--EXPLOITS
  TOLD BY THE SOLDIERS, OFFICERS, NURSES,
  DIPLOMATS, EYE WITNESSES

  _Collected in Six Volumes
  From Official and Authoritative Sources_
  (_See Introductory to Volume I_)

  VOLUME I

  Editor-in-Chief
  FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.)
  Editor of The Search-Light Library

  1917
  REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY
  NEW YORK




  Copyright, 1917, by
  REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY




TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR


INTRODUCTORY


Thirty million soldiers, each living a great human story--this is the
real drama of the Great War as it is being written into the hearts and
memories of the men at the front. If these soldiers could be gathered
around one camp-fire, and each soldier could relate the most thrilling
moment of his experience--what stories we would hear! "Don Quixote,"
the "Arabian Nights," Dante's "Inferno," Milton's "Paradise Lost, and
Regained"--all the legends and tales of the world's literature out-told
by the soldiers themselves.

It is from the lips of these soldiers, and those who have passed
through the tragedy of the war--the women and children whose eyes have
beheld the inferno and whose souls have been uplifted by suffering
and self-sacrifice--the generations will hear the epic of the days
when millions of men gave their lives to "make the world safe for
Democracy." The magnitude of this gigantic struggle against autocracy
is such that human imagination cannot visualize it--it requires one to
stand face to face with death itself.

A member of the British War Staff estimates that more than a million
letters a day are passing from the trenches and bases of the various
armies "to the folk back home." Another observer at the General
Headquarters of one of the armies estimates that more than a million
and a half diaries are being kept by the soldiers. It is in these
words, inscribed by bleeding bodies and suffering hearts, that
posterity is to hear _True Stories of the Great War_.

It is the purpose of these volumes, therefore, to begin the
preservation of these soldiers' stories. This is the first collection
that has been made; it is in itself an historic event. The manner in
which this service has been performed may be of interest to the reader.
It was my privilege to appoint a committee, or board of editors, to
collect stories from soldiers in the various armies--personal letters,
records of personal experiences, reminiscences, and all other available
material. An exhaustive investigation has been made into the files of
European and American periodicals to find the various narratives that
have "crept into print."

More than eight thousand stories were considered. The vast amount of
human material would require innumerable volumes to preserve it. It
was the judgment of the committee that this documentary evidence could
be brought into practical limitations by selecting a sufficient number
of narratives to cover every human phase of the Great War and preserve
them in six volumes.

This first collection of "True Stories" forms what might be termed a
"story-history" of the Great War, although all chronological plan is
purposely avoided in order to preserve the story-teller's "reality"
rather than the historian's record.

These volumes are in the nature of a "Round Table" in which soldiers,
refugees, nurses, eye-witnesses--all gather about the pages and relate
the most thrilling episodes of their war experiences. We hear the tales
of the soldiers who invaded Belgium, through the campaigns and battles
on all the fronts, to the landing of the American troops in France.
Diplomats tell of the scenes at the outbreak of the war; despatch
bearers relate their missions of danger from Paris to Berlin, London,
Vienna, Petrograd; refugees describe the flight of the Belgians, the
exodus of the Serbians, the invasion of Poland. Emissaries at General
Headquarters tell of their dinners with the Kaiser and the Crown
Prince, with Hindenburg and Zimmerman, and describe the scenes inside
the German empire. Soldiers from the Marne, the Aisne, Verdun--relate
their experiences. We listen to passengers tossed into the sea from
the _Lusitania_; revolutionists who overthrew the Czar in Russia;
exiles returning from Siberia. We hear the tales of the fighters from
South Africa, Egypt, Turkey; stories from the Far East along the seas
of China. The lieutenant of the _Emden_ relates his adventures. There
are stories told by Kitchener's "mob"; the "fighting Irish," Scottish
Highlanders, the Canadians, the Australians, the Hindus. The French
hussars and poilus tell of their experiences; the Italians in the Alps,
the Austrians in the Carpathians--the stories cover the whole world and
every race and nation.

These personal narratives reveal the psychology of war in all its
horrible reality--modern warfare on its gigantic scale--the genius
of invention and organization applied to destruction. They reveal,
moreover, the psychology of human nature and human emotions in all
their moods and passions. The first impression is of the physical
horror of the war, but this is soon overcome by the higher spirituality
that impels men to sacrifice their lives for civilization and humanity.
The stories sink at times into grossest brutality only to rise to the
heights of nobility on the part of the sufferers. Officers tell of
the charges of their battalions; the men in the trenches tell of the
"nights of terror"; spies tell of their secret missions; nurses deliver
the death-messages of the dying; priests tell how they carry the Cross
of Christ to the bloody fields; the prisoners tell the "inside story of
the prisons"; aviators relate their death-duels in the air; submarine
officers tell how they torpedo and capture the enemies' ships. There is
testimony from the lips of women who were ravaged; children who were
brutally mutilated; witnesses who saw soldiers crucified; soldiers
lashed to their guns; babies torn from their mothers' arms; homes in
flames and ruins, cathedrals desecrated.

And yet there is an undercurrent of humanity in these human documents.
In their physical aspect they are almost beyond human belief--but there
is a certain spiritual force running through them. There is a nobility
in them that rises above all the physical anguish.

These stories (and this war) reveal the souls of men as has nothing
before in modern times. The war has taught men "how to die." These
men have lost all fear of death. They have traveled the road of the
crucifixion and stood before Calvary; they have caught a glimpse of
something finer, nobler, truer than their own individual existence.
Through suffering and self-sacrifice they have risen to the noblest
heights. They have found something that we who have not faced death in
the trenches may never find--they have felt an exaltation in mind and
body that we may never know. There is the fire of the Old Crusaders
about them; they have caught the realization of the glory of humanity
as they march into the face of death. It is interesting to observe
that wherever the story-teller is fighting for a principle, he sees no
horror in war or death. It is only where he thinks of his individual
suffering, where his thoughts are of his own physical self, that he
complains.

And there is even humor in these stories; we see men laughing at
death; we see the wounded smiling and telling humorous tales of their
suffering; there is irony, cajolery, good-natured satire, and loud
outbursts of laughter. And there is tenderness in them--kindness,
gentleness, devotion, affection, and love. We find in them every
human passion--and every divine emotion. They form a new insight into
character and manhood--they inspire us with a new and deeper faith in
humanity.

The committee in making these selections found that many of the human
documents of the Great War are being preserved by the British, French,
and German publishing houses, but it is the American publishers who are
performing the greatest service in the preservation of war literature.
We have given consideration wherever possible to the notable work that
is being done by our American colleagues. While we have selected from
all sources what we consider to be _the best stories of the war_,
giving full recognition in every instance to the original sources, it
is a pleasure to state that our American periodicals have been given
the preference. They cordially co-operated with us in this undertaking
and we trust the public will show their due appreciation. We would
especially call attention to the list of books and publishers recorded
in the contents pages of the several volumes; also to the periodicals
which are preserving many of the human stories of the war. These will
form the basis for much of the literature of the future.

As editor-in-chief of these volumes, I desire further to give full
recognition to my associates: Mr. M. M. Lourens, of the University of
Leyden; Mr. Egbert Gilliss Handy, founder of The Search-Light Library;
Mr. Walter R. Bickford, former managing editor of The Journal of
American History; and the staff of investigators at The Search-Light
Library who made the extensive researches and comprehensive
bibliographies--covering the whole range of literature on The Great
War--required as a basis for the production of these books.

  FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER.




CONTENTS


  The Board of Editors in accordance with the plan outlined in
  "Introductory" for collecting the "Best Stories of the War," has
  selected this group of stories for VOLUME I from the most authentic
  sources in Europe and America. This volume includes 170 episodes and
  tales of adventure told by twenty-six story-tellers--Soldiers, Staff
  Observers, Officers, Despatch Riders, Cavalrymen, Aviators, Nurses,
  Prisoners, Raiders, Secret Service Men and American soldiers. Full
  credit is given in every instance to the original sources.


  VOLUME I--TWENTY-SIX STORY-TELLERS--170 EPISODES

  =STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO CAUSED THE WORLD WAR=           1
  "HOW I MET THE KAISER, CROWN PRINCE AND ARCHDUKE"
  Told by Hall Caine
  (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)

  =MY VISIT TO KING ALBERT--THE KING WHOSE THRONE IS
    THE HEARTS OF HIS PEOPLE=                                   8
  "I AM BOUND ON A MISSION FROM THE PRESIDENT OF
  FRANCE"
  Told by Pierre Loti
  (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)

  ="VIVE LA FRANCE"--HOW THEY DIE FOR THEIR COUNTRY=           23
  LAST MESSAGES OF FRENCH SOLDIERS
  Told by Rene Bazin
  (Permission of Current History)

  =FOR GOD AND ITALY--BREATHING DEATH WITH THE ITALIANS=       29
  "WHERE MINUTES ARE ETERNAL"
  Told by Gabriele D'Annunzio
  (Permission of London Telegraph)

  =THE BLOOD OF THE RUSSIANS IN FIGHT FOR LIBERTY=             36
  "THE DESERTED BATTLEFIELDS I HAVE SEEN"
  Told by Count Ilya Tolstoy
  (Permission of Current History)

  =MY EXPERIENCES IN THE WAR HOSPITALS OF RUMANIA=             44
  THE HORRORS OF THE LITTLE BALKAN KINGDOM
  Told by Queen Marie of Rumania
  (Permission of Philadelphia Public Ledger)

  ="WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST"--VISITS TO
    THE GENERAL STAFF=                                         49
  Told by Sven Hedin
  (Permission of John Lane Company)

  ="THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND"--WITH KITCHENER'S
    ARMY IN FRANCE=                                            73
  STORIES STRAIGHT FROM THE TRENCHES
  Told by Captain Ian Hay Beith
  (Permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company)

  =SOME EXPERIENCES IN HUNGARY=                                97
  IN THE PALACE OF PRINCE AND PRINCESS K----
  Told by Mina Macdonald
  (Permission of Longmans, Green and Company)

  ="FORCED TO FIGHT"--THE TALE OF A SCHLESWIG DANE=           117
  "WHAT MY EYES WITNESSED IN EAST PRUSSIA"
  Told by Eric Erichsen
  (Permission of Robert M. McBride and Company)

  ="ADVENTURES OF A DESPATCH RIDER"=                          133
  AN OXFORD MAN WITH THE MOTORCYCLISTS
  Told by Capt. W. H. L. Watson
  (Permission of Dodd, Mead and Company)

  =WITH A B.-P. SCOUT IN GALLIPOLI--ON THE TURKISH FRONTIER=  155
  A RECORD OF THE BELTON BULLDOGS
  Told by Edmund Yerbury Priestman
  (Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company)

  ="IN THE FIELD"--THE STORIES OF THE FRENCH CHASSEURS=       165
  IMPRESSIONS OF AN OFFICER OF LIGHT CAVALRY
  Told by Lieut. Marcel Dupont
  (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)

  ="FIELD HOSPITAL AND FLYING COLUMN"--IN RUSSIA=             181
  JOURNAL OF AN ENGLISH NURSING SISTER
  Told by Violetta Thurston
  (Permission of G. P. Putnam's Sons)

  =AN UNCENSORED DIARY--FROM THE CENTRAL EMPIRES=             192
  AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN COPENHAGEN
  Told by Ernesta Drinker Bullitt
  (Permission of Doubleday, Page and Company)

  ="A STUDENT IN ARMS"--IN THE RANKS WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY=   209
  RESURRECTION OF THE SOUL ON THE BATTLEFIELD
  Told by Donald Hankey
  (Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company)

  ="THE RED HORIZON"--STORIES OF THE LONDON IRISH=            217
  THE MAN WITH THE ROSARY
  Told by Patrick MacGill
  (Permission of George H. Doran Company)

  =MY TRIP TO VERDUN--GENERAL PETAIN FACE TO FACE=            225
  FROM GRAVES OF THE MARNE TO HILLS OF THE MEUSE
  Told by Frank H. Simonds
  (Permission of American Review of Reviews)

  =UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES--WITH AMERICAN ARMY IN FRANCE= 246
  STORIES OF AMERICAN TROOPS ON ROAD TO FRONT
  Told by Lincoln Eyre, with Pershing's Army
  (Permission of New York World)

  =WITH THE SERBIAN STOICS IN EXILE--UNDER THE GERMAN YOKE=   257
  EXPERIENCES IN THE FLIGHT TO ALBANIA
  Told by Gordon Gordon-Smith
  (Permission of New York Tribune)

  =TALES OF THE TANKS--WITH THE ARMORED MONSTERS IN
  BATTLE=                                                     274
  ADVENTURES AS ROMANTIC AS MEDIAEVAL LEGENDS
  Told by the Men in the Tanks

  ="MY ESCAPE FROM THE TURKS DISGUISED AS A WOMAN"=           288
  THE STORY OF A WONDERFUL FEAT
  Told by Private Miron D. Arber
  (Permission of Wide World Magazine)

  =TALES OF GERMAN AIR RAIDERS OVER LONDON AND PARIS=         306
  "HOW WE DROP BOMBS ON THE ENEMIES' CITIES"
  Told by the Air Raiders Themselves
  (Permission of New York American)

  =TALES FROM SIBERIA--WHEN THE PRISON DOORS OPENED=          316
  JOURNEY HOME OF A HUNDRED THOUSAND EXILES
  Told by (name withheld), an Eye-Witness
  (Permission of New York Evening World, Los Angeles Times,
  and Literary Digest)

  =SURVIVORS' STORIES OF SINKING OF THE "LUSITANIA"=          325
  "HOW WE SAW OUR SHIP GO DOWN--TORPEDOED BY A
  GERMAN SUBMARINE"
  Told by Passengers of the Ill-Fated "Lusitania"

  =WITH THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS ON THE FIELDS OF FRANCE=        340
  PERSONAL EXPERIENCES DIRECT FROM THE FRONT
  (Permission of New York Sun)




[Illustration: Photo by International News Service.
ON OBSERVATION DUTY
_A Better Defense Against Enemy Eyes Than Against Bullets or Shells!_]

[Illustration: "Canadian War Records, Copyright Reserved."
A NERVE-RACKING JOB
_Watching Artillery Fire From an Advance Pit in No-Man's-Land_]

[Illustration: POUNDING AT LONG RANGE
_A Battery of Heavy Howitzers Doing its Part in Hammering the Enemy
into Proper Condition for a Charge_]

[Illustration: © International News Service.
FORWARD!
_A Few Minutes Later These Britishers Were in the German Trenches_]




STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO CAUSED THE WORLD WAR

"_How I Met the Kaiser, Crown Prince and Archduke_"

_Told by Hall Caine, Famous British Novelist, Who Offered All to His
Country_

  This celebrated novelist, since the outbreak of the War, has fought
  a noble battle for the Anglo-Saxon race with the "pen that is
  mightier than the sword." His appeals to America have been the voice
  of a world patriot calling in the name of humanity. He presents the
  great actors in vivid pen pictures, the Kaiser, the Crown Prince,
  the Archduke. The following pen sketches are from "The Drama of 365
  Days," by permission of the publishers _J. B. Lippincott Company_:
  Copyright, 1915.

[1] I--PEN PORTRAITS OF THE KAISER

Other whisperings there were of the storm that was so soon to burst
on the world. In the ominous silence there were rumours of a certain
change that was coming over the spirit of the Kaiser. For long years he
had been credited with a sincere love of peace, and a ceaseless desire
to restrain the forces about him that were making for war. Although
constantly occupied with the making of a big army, and inspiring
it with great ideals, he was thought to have as little desire for
actual warfare as his ancestor, Frederick William, had shown, while
gathering up his giant guardsmen and refusing to allow them to fight.
Particularly it was believed in Berlin (not altogether graciously) that
his affection for, and even fear of his grandmother, Queen Victoria,
would compel him to exhaust all efforts to preserve peace in the
event of trouble with Great Britain. But Victoria was dead, and King
Edward might perhaps be smiled at--behind his back--and then a younger
generation was knocking at the Kaiser's door in the person of his
eldest son, who represented forces which he might not long be able to
hold in check. How would he act now?

Thousands of persons in this country had countless opportunities
before the war of forming an estimate of the Kaiser's character. I had
only one, and it was not of the best. For years the English traveller
abroad felt as if he were always following in the track of a grandiose
personality who was playing on the scene of the world as on a stage,
fond as an actor of dressing up in fine uniforms, of making pictures,
scenes, and impressions, and leaving his visible mark behind him--as in
the case of the huge gap in the thick walls of Jerusalem, torn down (it
was said with his consent) to let his equipage pass through.

In Rome I saw a man who was a true son of his ancestors. Never had
the laws of heredity better justified themselves. Frederick William,
Frederick the Great, William the First--the Hohenzollerns were all
there. The glittering eyes, the withered arm, the features that gave
signs of frightful periodical pain, the immense energy, the gigantic
egotism, the ravenous vanity, the fanaticism amounting to frenzy, the
dominating power, the dictatorial temper, the indifference to suffering
(whether his own or other people's), the overbearing suppression of
opposing opinions, the determination to control everybody's interest,
everybody's work--I thought all this was written in the Kaiser's
masterful face.

Then came stories. One of my friends in Rome was an American doctor who
had been called to attend a lady of the Emperor's household. "Well,
doctor, what's she suffering from?" said the Kaiser. The doctor told
him. "Nothing of the kind--you're entirely wrong. She's suffering from
so and so," said the Majesty of Germany, stamping up and down the room.
At length the American doctor lost control. "Sir," he said, "in my
country we have a saying that one bad practitioner is worth twenty good
amateurs--you're the amateur." The doctor lived through it. Frederick
William would have dragged him to the window and tried to fling him out
of it. William II put his arm round the doctor's shoulder and said, "I
didn't mean to hurt you, old fellow. Let us sit down and talk."

A soldier came with another story. After a sham fight conducted by the
Kaiser the generals of the German army had been summoned to say what
they thought of the Royal manoeuvers. All had formed an unfavourable
opinion, yet one after another, with some insincere compliment, had
wriggled out of the difficulty of candid criticism. But at length came
an officer, who said:

"Sir, if it had been real warfare to-day there wouldn't be enough wood
in Germany to make coffins for the men who would be dead."

The general lived through it, too--at first in a certain disfavour, but
afterwards in recovered honour.

Such was the Kaiser, who a year ago had to meet the mighty wind of
War. He was in Norway for his usual summer holiday in July, 1914, when
affairs were reaching their crisis. Rumour has it that he was not
satisfied with the measure of the information that was reaching him,
therefore he returned to Berlin, somewhat to the discomfiture of his
ministers, intending, it is said, for various reasons (not necessarily
humanitarian) to stop or at least postpone the war. If so, he arrived
too late. He was told that matters had gone too far. They must go on
now. "Very well, if they must, they must," he is reported to have said.
And there is the familiar story that after he had signed his name
on the first of August to the document that plunged Europe into the
conflict that has since shaken it to its foundations, he flung down his
pen and cried, "You'll live to regret this, gentlemen."


II--PEN-PORTRAIT OF THE CROWN PRINCE

And then the Crown Prince. In August of last year nine out of every ten
of us would have said that not the father, but the son, of the Royal
family of Germany had been the chief provocative cause of the war.
Subsequent events have lessened the weight of that opinion. But the
young man's known popularity among an active section of the officers of
the army; their subterranean schemes to set him off against his father;
a vague suspicion of the Kaiser's jealousy of his eldest son--all these
facts and shadows of facts give colour to the impression that not least
among the forces which led the Emperor on that fateful first of August
to declare war against Russia was the presence and the importunity of
the Crown Prince. What kind of man was it, then, whom the invisible
powers of evil were employing to precipitate this insensate struggle?

Hundreds of persons in England, France, Russia and Italy must have
met the Crown Prince of Germany at more or less close quarters, and
formed their own estimates of his character. The barbed-wire fence
of protective ceremony which usually surrounds Royal personages,
concealing their little human foibles, was periodically broken down in
the case of the Heir-Apparent to the German Throne by his incursion
every winter into a small cosmopolitan community which repaired to the
snows of the Engadine for health or pleasure. In that stark environment
I myself, in common with many others, saw the descendant of the
Fredericks every day, for several weeks of several years, at a distance
that called for no intellectual field-glasses. And now I venture to
say, for whatever it may be worth, that the result was an entirely
unfavourable impression.

I saw a young man without a particle of natural distinction, whether
physical, moral, or mental. The figure, long rather than tall; the
hatchet face, the selfish eyes, the meaningless mouth, the retreating
forehead, the vanishing chin, the energy that expressed itself merely
in restless movement, achieving little, and often aiming at nothing
at all; the uncultivated intellect, the narrow views of life and the
world; the morbid craving for change, for excitement of any sort; the
indifference to other people's feelings, the shockingly bad manners,
the assumption of a right to disregard and even to outrage the common
conventions on which social intercourse depends--all this was, so far
as my observation enabled me to judge, only too plainly apparent in the
person of the Crown Prince.

Outside the narrow group that gathered about him (a group hailing,
ironically enough, from the land of a great Republic) I cannot remember
to have heard in any winter one really warm word about him, one story
of an act of kindness, or even generous condescension, such as it
is easy for a royal personage to perform. On the contrary, I was
constantly hearing tales of silly fooleries, of overbearing behaviour,
of deliberate rudeness, such as irresistibly recalled, in spirit if not
in form, the conduct of the common barrator in the guise of a king,
who, if Macaulay's stories are to be credited, used to kick a lady in
the open streets and tell her to go home and mind her brats.


III--PEN-PORTRAIT OF THE ARCHDUKE FERDINAND

Then the Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungary, whose assassination was
the ostensible cause of this devastating war--what kind of man was he?
Quite a different person from the Crown Prince, and yet, so far as I
could judge, just as little worthy of the appalling sacrifice of human
life which his death has occasioned.

Not long before his tragic end I spent a month under the same roof
with him, and though the house was only an hotel, it was situated in
a remote place, and though I was not in any sense of the Archduke's
party, I walked and talked frequently with most of the members of it,
and so, with the added help of daily observation, came to certain
conclusions about the character of the principal personage.

A middle-aged man, stiff-set, heavy-jawed, with a strong step, and a
short manner; obviously proud, reserved, silent, slightly imperious,
self-centred, self-opinionated, well-educated in the kind of knowledge
all such men must possess, but narrow in intellect, retrograde in
sympathy, a stickler for social conventions, an almost unyielding
upholder of royal rights, prerogatives, customs, and usages (although
by his own marriage he had violated one of the first of the laws of his
class, and by his unfailing fidelity to his wife continued to resist
it), superstitious rather than religious, an immense admirer of the
Kaiser, and a decidedly hostile critic of our own country--such was
the general impression made on one British observer by the Archduke
Ferdinand.

The man is dead; he took no part in the war, except unwittingly by the
act of dying, and therefore one could wish to speak of him with respect
and restraint. Otherwise it might be possible to justify this estimate
of his character by the narration of little incidents, and one such,
though trivial in itself, may perhaps bear description. The younger
guests of the hotel in the mountains had got up a fancy dress ball,
and among persons clad in all conceivable costumes, including those of
monks, cardinals, and even popes, a lady of demure manners, who did
not dance, had come downstairs in the habit of a nun. This aroused the
superstitious indignation of the Archduke, who demanded that the lady
should retire from the room instantly, or he would order his carriage
and leave the hotel at once.

Of course, the inevitable happened--the Archduke's will became law,
and the lady went upstairs in tears, while I and two or three others
(Catholics among us) thought and said, "Heaven help Europe when the
time comes for its destinies to depend largely on the judgment of a man
whose bemuddled intellect cannot distinguish between morality of the
real world and of an entirely fantastic and fictitious one."

       *       *       *       *       *

(Hall Caine in his pen portraits from the War describes "A Conversation
with Lord Roberts"; "The Motherhood of France"; "The Russian Soul";
"The Soul of Poland"; "The Part Played by Italy," and sixty-two
dramatic sketches.)

FOOTNOTES:

[1] All numerals throughout these volumes are for the purpose of
enumerating the various stories and episodes herein told--they have no
relation to the chapters in the original sources.




MY VISIT TO KING ALBERT--THE KING WHOSE THRONE IS THE HEARTS OF HIS
PEOPLE

"_I Am Bound on a Mission from the President of France_"

_Told by Pierre Loti, of the French Academy, and Captain in the French
Navy_

  This master of the modern school of French letters offered his
  services to his Country at the outbreak of the War. As Captain
  Julien Viaud, of the Naval Reserve, this famous author was assigned
  to the dockyards. He longed for more active service and appealed to
  the Minister of Marine: "I should accept with joy, with pride, any
  position whatsoever that would bring me nearer to the fighting line,
  even if it were a very subordinate post, one much below the dignity
  of my five rows of gold braid." With his masterful touch Pierre
  Loti is immortalizing the War in literature. The story here told
  of his visit to King Albert, of Belgium, is from his notable story
  entitled "War" in which he describes with simple but touching words
  his encounters with wounded soldiers, sisters of mercy and homeless
  little Belgian orphans. This one story from his book of twenty-five
  inspiring chapters is reproduced by permission of his publishers, _J.
  B. Lippincott Company_: Copyright 1917.


I--"ON MY WAY TO GENERAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE BELGIAN ARMY"

To-day on my way to the General Headquarters of the Belgian Army,
whither I am bound on a mission from the President of the French
Republic to His Majesty King Albert, I pass through Furnes, another
town wantonly and savagely bombarded, where at this hour of the day
there is a raging storm of icy wind, snow, rain, and hail, under a
black sky.

Here as at Ypres the barbarians bent their whole soul on the
destruction of the historical part, the charming old town hall and
its surroundings. It is here that King Albert, driven forth from his
palace, established himself at first. Thereupon the Germans, with that
delicacy of feeling to which at present no one in the world disputes
their claim, immediately made this place their objective, in order to
bombard it with their brutal, heavy shells. I need hardly say that
there was scarcely anyone in the streets, where I slowed down my motor
so that I might have leisure for a better appreciation of the effects
of the Kaiser's "work of civilisation"; there were only some groups
of soldiers, fully armed, some with their coat-collars turned up,
others with the back curtains of their service-caps turned down. They
hastened along in the squalls, running like children, and laughing
good-humouredly, as if it were very amusing, this downpour, which for
once was not of fire.

How is it that there is no atmosphere of sadness about this half-empty
town? It is as if the gaiety of these soldiers, in spite of the
gloomy weather, had communicated itself to the ruined surroundings.
And how full of splendid health and spirits they seem! I see no more
on any faces that somewhat startled, haggard expression, common at
the beginning of the war. The outdoor life, combined with good food,
has bronzed the cheeks of these men whom the shrapnel has spared,
but their principal support and stay is their complete confidence,
their conviction that they have already gained the upper hand and are
marching to victory. The invasion of the Boches will pass away like
this horrible weather, which after all is only a last shower of March;
it will all come to an end.


II--"I CAME UPON A LITTLE KNOT OF FRENCH SAILORS IN THE STORM"

At a turning, during a lull in the storm, I come very unexpectedly
upon a little knot of French sailors. I cannot refrain from beckoning
to them, as one would beckon to children whom one had suddenly found
again in some distant jungle, and they come running to the door of my
car equally delighted to see someone in naval uniform. They seem to
be picked men; they have such gallant, comely faces and such frank,
spirited eyes. Other sailors, too, who were passing by at a little
distance and whom I had not called, come likewise and surround me as
if it were the natural thing to do, but with respectful familiarity,
for are we not in a strange country, and at war? Only yesterday, they
tell me, they arrived a whole battalion strong, with their officers,
and they are camping in a neighbouring village while waiting to "down"
the Boches. And I should like so much to make a _détour_ and pay them
a visit in their own camp if I were not pressed for time, tied down to
the hour of my audience with His Majesty. Indeed it gives me pleasure
to associate with our soldiers, but it is a still greater delight to
associate with our sailors, among whom I passed forty years of my
life. Even before I caught sight of them, just from hearing them talk,
I could recognise them for what they were. More than once, on our
military thoroughfares in the north, on a pitch-dark night, when it was
one of their detachments who stopped me to demand the password, I have
recognised them simply by the sound of their voices.

One of our generals, army commander on the Northern Front, was speaking
to me yesterday of that pleasant, kindly familiarity which prevails
from the highest to the lowest grade of the military ladder, and which
is a new tone characteristic of this essentially national war in which
we all march hand in hand.

"In the trenches," he said to me, "if I stop to talk to a soldier,
other soldiers gather round me so that I may talk to them too. And they
are becoming more and more admirable for their high spirits and their
brotherliness. If only our thousands of dead could be restored to us
what a benefit this war would have bestowed upon us, drawing us near
together, until we all possess but one heart."

It is a long way to the General Headquarters. Out in the open country
the weather is appalling beyond description. The roads are broken
up, fields flooded until they resemble marshes, and sometimes there
are trenches, _chevaux de frise_, reminding the traveller that
the barbarians are still very near. And yet all this, which ought
to be depressing, no longer succeeds in being so. Every meeting
with soldiers--and the car passes them every minute--is sufficient
to restore your serenity. They have all the same cheerful faces,
expressive of courage and gaiety. Even the poor sappers, up to their
knees in water, working hard to repair the shelter pits and defences,
have an expression of gaiety under their dripping service-caps. What
numbers of soldiers there are in the smallest villages, Belgian and
French, very fraternally intermingling. By what wonderful organisation
of the commissariat are these men housed and fed?

But who asserted that there were no Belgian soldiers left? On the
contrary, I pass imposing detachments on their way to the front, in
good order, admirably equipped, and of fine bearing, with a convoy of
excellent artillery of the very latest pattern. Never can enough be
said in praise of the heroism of a people who had every reason for not
preparing themselves for war, since they were under the protection
of solemn treaties that should have preserved them forever from any
such necessity, yet who, nevertheless, sustained and checked the brunt
of the attack of the great barbarism. Disabled at first and almost
annihilated, yet they are recovering themselves and gathering around
their sublimely heroic king.


III--"WE ARRIVE AT LAST--I SEE THE KING"

It is raining, raining, and we are numb with cold, but we have arrived
at last, and in another moment I shall see him, the King, without
reproach and without fear. Were it not for these troops and all these
service motor cars, it would be impossible to believe that this remote
village was the General Headquarters. I have to leave the car, for
the road which leads to the royal residence is nothing more than a
footpath. Among the rough motor cars standing there, all stained with
mud from the roads, there is one car of superior design, having no
armorial bearings of any kind, nothing but two letters traced in chalk
on the black door, S.M. (_Sa Majesté_), for this is _his_ car. In this
charming corner of ancient Flanders, in an old abbey, surrounded by
trees and tombs, here is his dwelling. Out in the rain, on the path
which borders on the little sacred cemetery, an aide-de-camp comes to
meet me, a man with the charm and simplicity that no doubt likewise
characterise his sovereign. There are no guards at the entrance to the
dwelling, and no ceremony is observed. At the end of an unimposing
corridor where I have just time to remove my overcoat, in the embrasure
of an opening door, the King appears, erect, tall, slender, with
regular features and a surprising air of youth, with frank eyes, gentle
and noble in expression, stretching out his hand in kindly welcome.

In the course of my life other kings and emperors have been gracious
enough to receive me, but in spite of pomp, in spite of the splendour
of some of their palaces, I have never yet felt such reverence for
sovereign majesty as here, on the threshold of this little house,
where it is infinitely exalted by calamity and self-sacrifice; and
when I express this sentiment to King Albert he replies with a smile,
"Oh, as for my palace," and he completes his phrase with a negligent
wave of the hand, indicating his humble surroundings. It is indeed a
simple room that I have just entered, yet by the mere absence of all
vulgarity, still possessing distinction. A bookcase crowded with books
occupies the whole of one wall; in the background there is an open
piano with a music-book on the stand; in the middle a large table,
covered with maps and strategic plans; and the window, open in spite
of the cold, looks out on to a little old-world garden, like that of
a parish priest, almost completely enclosed, stripped of its leaves,
melancholy, weeping, as it were, the rains of winter.

After I have executed the simple mission entrusted to me by the
President of the Republic, the King graciously detains me a long time
in conversation. But if I felt reluctant to write even the beginning
of these notes, still more do I hesitate to touch upon this interview,
even with the utmost discretion, and then how colourless will it seem,
all that I shall venture to say! It is because in truth I know that
he never ceases to enjoin upon those around him, "Above all, see that
people do not talk about me," because I know and understand so well
the horror he professes for anything resembling an "interview." So
then at first I made up my mind to be silent, and yet when there is
an opportunity of making himself heard, who would not long to help to
spread abroad, to the utmost of his small ability, the renown of such a
name?

Very striking in the first place is the sincere and exquisite modesty
of his heroic nature; it is almost as if he were unaware that he
is worthy of admiration. In his opinion he has less deserved the
veneration which France has devoted to him, and his popularity among
us, than the least of his soldiers, slain for our common defence.
When I tell him that I have seen even in the depths of the country,
in peasants' cottages, the portraits of the King and Queen of the
Belgians in the place of honour, with little flags, black, yellow and
red, piously pinned around them, he appears scarcely to believe me; his
smile and his silence seem to answer:

"Yet all that I did was so natural. Could a king worthy of the name
have acted in any other way?"

Now we talk about the Dardanelles, where in this hour serious issues
hang in the balance; he is pleased to question me about ambushes in
those parts, which I frequented for so long a time, and which have
not ceased to be very dear to me. But suddenly a colder gust blows in
through the window, still opening on to the forlorn little garden. With
what kindly thoughtfulness, then, he rises, as any ordinary officer
might have done, and himself closes the window near which I am seated.

And then we talk of war, of rifles, of artillery. His Majesty is well
posted in everything, like a general already broken in to his craft.


IV--"A GREAT WARRIOR IN THE MIDST OF AN ARMY OF HEROES"

Strange destiny for a prince, who, in the beginning, did not seem
designated for the throne, and who, perhaps, would have preferred
to go on living his former somewhat retired life by the side of his
beloved princess. Then, when the unlooked-for crown was placed upon
his youthful brow, he might well have believed that he could hope for
an era of profound peace, in the midst of the most peaceful of all
nations, but, contrary to every expectation, he has known the most
appallingly tragic reign of all. Between one day and the next, without
a moment's weakness, without even a moment's hesitation, disdainful of
compromises, which for a time, at least, though to the detriment of the
civilisation of the world, might have preserved for a little space his
towns and palaces, he stood erect in the way of the Monster's onrush, a
great warrior king in the midst of an army of heroes.

To-day it is clear that he has no longer a doubt of victory, and
his own loyalty gives him complete confidence in the loyalty of the
Allies, who truly desire to restore life to his country of Belgium;
nevertheless, he insists that his soldiers shall co-operate with all
their remaining strength in the work of deliverance, and that they
shall remain to the end at the post of danger and honour. Let us salute
him with the profoundest reverence.

Another less noble, might have said to himself:

"I have amply paid my debt to the common cause; it was my troops who
built the first rampart against barbarism. My country, the first to be
trampled under the feet of these German brutes, is no more than a heap
of ruins. That suffices."

But no, he will have the name of Belgium inscribed upon a yet prouder
page, by the side of Serbia, in the golden book of history.

And that is the reason why I met on my way those inestimable troops,
alert and fresh, miraculously revived, who were on their way to the
front to continue the holy struggle.

Before him let us bow down to the very ground.

Night is falling when the audience comes to an end and I find myself
again on the footpath that leads to the abbey. On my return journey,
along those roads broken up by rain and by military transport wagons,
I remain under the charm of his welcome. And I compare these two
monarchs, situated, as it were, at opposite poles of humanity, the
one at the pole of light, the other at the pole of darkness; the one
yonder, swollen with hypocrisy and arrogance, a monster among monsters,
his hands full of blood, his nails full of torn flesh, who still dares
to surround himself with insolent pomp; the other here, banished
without a murmur to a little house in a village, standing on a last
strip of his martyred kingdom, but in whose honour rises from the
whole civilised earth a concert of sympathy, enthusiasm, magnificent
appreciation, and for whom are stored up crowns of most pure and
immortal glory.


V--A LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE BATTLEGROUNDS OF FRANCE

(Another Story Told by Pierre Loti)

  The blood of the masters is drenching the soil of France. The great
  academicians are willing to die that their beloved France may live.
  Here we stand on the battleground with this great French novelist,
  whose impressions are told in _Current History_.

This is the first time that I have found myself so absolutely and
infinitely alone, in the midst of this stage setting of immense
desolation, which to-day, as it chances, is sparkling with light, and
is only the more mournful for that. Until I reach the little wood to
which an errand of duty calls me I need think of nothing; I need not
occupy myself with anything; I need not avoid the shells, which would
not give me time to avoid them, nor even choose the spot to set my foot
down, since it sinks in everywhere equally. And so it comes that I
drift back again to the mood of former days, to my mood of mind before
the war, and all these things to which I have grown used I see and
judge as though they were new.

Only a score of months ago who would have imagined such a face of
things? Thus, these countless excavations--white, because the soil of
this region is white--excavations that stretch on all sides and which
mark across the wilderness multitudes of zebra-tracings--is it possible
that they mark out the only paths along which our soldiers of France
can move to-day with a sort of half security?... Little sunken ways,
some of them full of curves, some of them straight, which have been
named "guts," and which we have had to multiply, to multiply to such a
point that the earth is furrowed by them to infinity! What an enormous
sum of toil they represent, these mole paths, lying in a network over
hundreds of leagues! If we add the trenches, the shelter caves, all
these catacombs that plunge down into the hearts of the hills, one's
mind stops dead before such a total of excavation, that might seem the
work of centuries.

And these things that look like fishing nets stretched on all sides.
If one were not informed in advance and accustomed to them, could one
divine what they can possibly be? You might think that gigantic spiders
had been spinning their webs among these myriads of posts, sometimes
planted in straight lines, sometimes forming circles or half moons,
tracing across the wide expanse designs that must be cabalistic in
order better to ensnare and envelop the Barbarians. And besides they
have terribly reinforced them, multiplying them twice, nay, ten times,
since my last passage, these stake nets, and our web-spinning soldiers
have had to make among them turnings and passages, with the enormous
reels of barbed wire which they carry under their arms.

But there is one thing that you can understand at the first glance,
and which adds to the grim horror of the whole scene, and that is the
inclosures sprinkled here and there, the wooden fences that shut in
closely packed groups of poor little burial crosses, made of two pieces
of wood. That you can tell at once, alas! and see exactly what it is!
Here they lie, therefore, under the thunder of the big guns, as though
the battle was not yet finished for them, our dear departed ones, our
unknown, magnificent heroes--whom even those who weep for them cannot
now come nigh, because death is passing ceaselessly in the air above
their silent little gatherings.

Ah! To complete the unreality of it all, here comes a black bird of
gigantic wing-stretch, a monster of the apocalypse, that flits past
noisily high above me. He flies on toward France, seeking doubtless the
more sheltered region where women and children begin to be found, with
the hope of slaughtering some of them.


VI--"I LOOK DOWN ON THE TERRIBLE LANDSCAPE"

I walk on, if one call it walking, this wearisome and inexorable
process of plunging through the mud. And finally I arrive at the little
grove of trees where we are to meet. I am glad of it, for my helmet
and cloak had become a heavy burden under this unexpectedly burning
sun. It happens that I am the first to arrive; the officer whom I have
summoned--to discuss new defense works, new lines of stake nets, new
burrows--is without doubt that blue outline making its way hither, but
he is still distant, and I have still a few moments to continue my
meditation of the way hither before it is time to become once more
concentrated and exact. It is clear that the place is not left entirely
alone, for these poor, half-stripped branches offer no more resistance
than mere sheets of paper to the huge humming beetles that pass through
them from time to time; but all the same a little wood like this keeps
you company, shuts you in, spreads something of illusion about you.

I am on a bit of rising ground, from which I look down on all
the terrible landscape, the succession of monotonous hillocks
zebra-streaked by whitish "guts," and the few trees disheveled by
shrapnel bullets. In the further distances these intertwined wires,
stretched in all directions, sparkle in the sun, somewhat like "the
Virgin's threads," which spread over the meadows in Spring. And on all
sides the detonations of artillery keep up their accustomed rumble,
which goes on unceasingly here, night and day, like the roar of the
ocean against the cliffs.

Ah! the huge bird has found some one to speak to in the air! I see
it all at once assailed by a host of those little tufts of white
cotton--bursting shrapnel--which look so innocent, but which are so
perilous for birds of its breed. It turns about hastily; its crimes are
put off for another time.

From behind a nearby rising ground come forth a group of men in blue,
who will reach me before the officer who is coming over there. It is
the chance one, the one among thousands of these little processions
which one meets incessantly, alas! along the battle front, and which
form, so to speak, part of the stage setting. At its head four soldiers
are carrying a stretcher, and others are following, to relieve them.
Attracted also by the illusory protection of the branches, they stop
instinctively at the entrance of the little wood to take breath and
change shoulders. They come from the first-line trenches, which are
three or four kilometers away, and are carrying a "gravely wounded"
man to an underground hospital, which is some quarter of an hour away.
They also had not foreseen this vicious sun that scorches one's head;
they are wearing their helmets and cloaks, and they feel the weight of
them as much as that of the precious load which they take such pains to
carry steadily; more, they drag along, on each foot, a thick shell of
sticky mud which gives them feet like elephants, and the sweat runs in
big drops over their fine, tired faces.

"What is the matter with your wounded man?" I ask in a low voice.

In still lower voices they answer me: "He is ripped up the belly--oh!
the trench surgeon told us that...." They finish the sentence only
with a shake of the head, but I understand. For the rest, he has not
stirred. His poor hand remains pressed to his brow and his eyes,
doubtless to protect them against the baking sun, and I ask: "Why did
you not cover his face?" "We did put a handkerchief over it, Colonel,
but he took it away; he said he would rather have it like that, so that
he can still see something between his fingers."


VII--HOW GLORIOUS IS THE SPIRIT OF FRANCE

Ah! but the two last men, besides sweat, have broad smears of blood
across their faces and running down their necks. "Oh, nothing much the
matter with us, Colonel!" they tell me; "we got that as we came along.
We started to carry him along the 'guts,' but it shook him too much;
so we came on outside in the open." Poor, admirable dreamer! To save
their wounded man from jolting they have risked all their lives! Two
or three of these huge death beetles which ceaselessly hum past have
smashed themselves near them against the stones and have sprinkled them
with their fragments; the Germans do not take the trouble to shoot at
a single passerby like myself, but a group, and especially a litter,
is irresistible for them. Of the two who are streaming with blood, one
is, perhaps, not much the worse, but the other has an ear torn off, and
hanging only by a shred of skin.

"You must get your wound dressed by the surgeon immediately, my
friend," I say to him.

"Yes, Colonel, we are on our way there to the hospital. It suits
exactly."

That is the only thing that has occurred to him to say in complaint:
"It suits exactly." And he says it with such a fine, quiet smile, while
thanking me for taking an interest in him.

I hesitate to go closer to look at their gravely wounded man, who has
remained without stirring, for fear I might disturb his last thoughts.
I do go close to him, however, very gently, because they are going to
carry him away.

Ah! He is a mere lad! A village boy; one can guess that at once by his
bronzed cheeks, which have just begun to grow pale. The sun, as he
wishes, floods his handsome 20-year-old face, which is at the same time
vigorous and candid, and his hand is still held like a guard before his
eyes, which are set and seem no longer to perceive anything. They must
have given him morphine to keep him from suffering too much. Humble
child of our countryside, brief little life, what is he dreaming of, if
he is still dreaming? Perhaps of his kerchiefed mamma, who wept happy
tears every time she recognized his childish writing on an envelope
from the front? Or is he dreaming of the farm garden that held his
earliest years?

I see on his breast the handkerchief with which they tried to cover his
face; it is of fine linen, embroidered with a Marquis's coronet--the
coronet of one of his bearers. He had wanted "to go on seeing things,"
doubtless in his terror of the great night. But even this sun, which
must dazzle him, will soon cease suddenly to be recognizable for him;
to begin with, it will be the half-darkness of the hospital, and,
immediately afterward, will begin for him the long inexorable night, in
which no sun will ever dawn again.




"VIVE LA FRANCE"--HOW MEN DIE FOR THEIR COUNTRY

_Last Messages of French Soldiers_

_Told by Rene Bazin, Member of the French Academy_

  Behind the dry official reports of military events is a vast fund
  of emotional human stories. Glimpses of this side of the Great War
  are found in private letters, personal experiences, and thrilling
  episodes of courage, humor, or pathos which are being preserved in
  the New York Times _Current History_.


I have heard magnificent sayings of our soldiers; others have been
written to me by those who heard them. I would not have them perish.
It seems to me that they naturally form a part of the epoch we are
living through; that they are good to read and meditate on, unconscious
testimonies of that which historians will call the new life of France,
of that which has ever been her deeper life, widened and developed in
this hour of trial.

Therefore I shall record here not all these sayings and traits, but
some of them.

At B., in the hospital of the Grand Hotel, a wounded soldier was to
have a limb amputated. But he was so weak that the surgeon hesitated.

"If we could only give him some blood!"

"If that is all that is needed I am ready to give it!" answers another
wounded soldier, a Breton.

The transfusion is made. The staff of the hospital, touched by the
devotion of this wounded soldier, who was known to be very poor, made
a little collection here and there, very quietly, and gathered five
hundred francs, which they took great satisfaction in offering to him.
One day one of them came close to his bed, spoke of the service he had
rendered, thanked him and offered him the money. Mark his answer:

"Oh, no! I give my blood; I do not sell it!"

A very young soldier from the North, with a beardless and rather
childish face, is stretched at the back of a trench, dying from a
terrible shell wound in the stomach. In spite of the frightful wound he
does not complain, he does not repine, and in his wide, upward-gazing
eyes one could just perceive the expression of sadness which he often
had. For since mobilizing he had received no news from his home in
the occupied territory. His comrades are doing what they can for him,
offering him water to drink, unbuttoning his tunic, trying to stanch
the blood. Opening his eyes, which he had kept for a long moment
closed, and no longer with an expression of suffering, he said to one
of his comrades, a big, hairy fellow who was bending over him:

"Friend, you must not tell mother what a frightful wound I had! A
bullet is better than what I have!" Then he distributed a few little
things he had in his pocket--his knife, his purse, a corkscrew, a
tinder-box--a last testament soon ended. Finally, with difficulty, he
opened his notebook and, setting himself to write, though he could no
longer see very clearly, he traced a few lines. When he had finished
his soul departed.... Three minutes later, as the word of his end
spread along the trench, at this time not under heavy bombardment by
the enemy, a Captain arrived, smeared with mud up to the shoulders. He
saw the soldier. "Oh, poor boy! One of my bravest!" Respectfully he
took the notebook, which had fallen on the ground, opened it and read:
"Au revoir, father; au revoir, mother; au revoir, little sisters; I am
dying for my country. Vive la France!"

Sergeant Raissac of Beziers was mortally wounded in an assault on
a German trench. When they lifted his body his hand still held a
photograph representing his mother, his sisters and himself, and on
the back of the picture he had managed to write, with his last effort,
"Adieu! No tears, but a Christian acceptance. I am at peace with God."

Yesterday, during his two days' leave, I met the son of a poor
countrywoman, a workman whom I have loved for a long time. When I took
leave of him, saying, "Good luck to you, Marcel!" he looked up with
unreproaching eyes and answered me: "On the one side, and on the other,
I fear nothing!" And this meant: "Life? Death? What does it matter? I
am ready!"

What does all this signify? It is the poetry of chivalry that
continues; it is the unfinished Crusade; it is God making Himself
manifest through purified France.

Those who seek the sublime will find nothing grander.


II--THE YOUNG HEROES OF FRANCE

_Told by Maurice Barrès, in memory of Max Barthou, who volunteered at
eighteen_

I believe that young heroes abound at this moment when every family is
cruelly involved in the war. The son dreams of helping his father, his
elder brothers, of joining them, of avenging them. Are his city and
his home invaded? With his whole heart he tries and examines himself
as to what his duty and his honour demand. I remember how the minds of
my companions, some 10 years old, and our slightly older brothers were
fired in 1870....

Do you wish me to bring you my contribution to the monument of our
young patriots?

First, a little story. On Nov. 24, 1914, on a cold day, about 3 in
the afternoon, the Prussians, whom they call "Boches," are once again
trying to cross the frontier, to enter France. It is very cold, there
is a high wind, and snow covers the ground. Who tells the story? A
workman at the front, who, from the neighbourhood of Pont-à-Mousson,
writes to his two little children at his home at Neuillez sur Marne.
They gave me his letter. I should spoil it if I retouched it. I
transcribe it just as it is:

"My dear little Marcella, this story, which happened to some French
soldiers, you are to tell to your little Charlie and your companions,
and you are to show them how two little children saved the lives of
twenty-eight papas.

"In a lonely farmhouse a detachment of reservists, composed of thirty
men, are resting from the labours of the night in an underground
cellar, waiting for the next night to begin their work again and
accomplish their mission.

In a room about them, two children, Liza and John, are sitting beside
their mamma near the fire. All three talk the old country dialect.
All at once the mother rises, runs to the door and sees some horsemen
coming from a distance.

"'My children,' she says, pressing them to her heart, 'I think the
Prussians are coming. They will see that we have lodged and fed French
soldiers, and they will surely want to make us tell where they are.
They will take them and shoot them.'

"'We must say they have gone away there, just in the opposite
direction!' said little John.

"'Oh, no!' said their mamma; 'if we deceive them with a lie they will
come back and take vengeance. Listen rather! I shall speak to the
Prussians only in dialect, and they won't understand a word. Do you
also do as I do, and, to everything they say, answer always in the
same phrase, in dialect.'

"The clatter of hoofs was heard, and the rattle of weapons.

"'Courage, my children!' said their mamma. The door opens. The Boches
enter. They ask questions, but the mother's answers are unintelligible
to them.

"'Look at these two children! They must learn French at school,' said
the officer, who spoke a little French.

"One of the Germans seized little Lisa, while another caught little
John.

"'Where is your father?' he asked in a harsh voice. 'Where are the
French that passed here?'

"Lisa raised her blue eyes to this foreign soldier and, all trembling,
replied in dialect. John did the same. The soldiers, irritated,
suspecting a trick, searched the house, but did not find the trap-door
which had been previously covered with dirty straw. They threatened
to cut the children's throats. They told them they would kill their
mother, too, if they did not answer. The poor children began to cry,
but, faithful to their mother's directions, they repeated, through
their tears, the same phrase.

"The French soldiers who were in the cellar and who heard everything
through a ventilator felt their blood boil, and, but for their officer,
would have come forth to protect the poor children, and, without doubt,
would have been killed, for they were outnumbered.

"The Prussians did not think that such young children, threatened
with death, would be capable of such heroic discretion; they ended by
believing that they could not make themselves understood and rode away.

"And that is how two little children, Lisa, aged 8, and John, aged
10, by their obedience to their mother and by courage kept thirty men
from being killed, twenty-eight wives still have their husbands, and
forty-seven little children have their papas. Among these forty-seven
little children my little Marcella and my little Charlie will perhaps
see their papa again."

I leave this story in its fine simplicity. A workman who had become a
soldier chats with his children far away. But the chief attraction in
it for me is that the fact reported is quite authentic. I know the farm
in the district of Meurthe et Moselle, and later on I shall tell its
name, as well as those of the farmer's wife and the two children, who
have received a well-earned reward.




FOR GOD AND ITALY--BREATHING DEATH WITH THE ITALIANS

"_Where Minutes Are Eternal_"

_Told by Gabriele D'Annunzio, Italy's Most Famous Living Poet and a
Lieutenant in the Italian Navy_

  The great D'Annunzio, like most of the famous poets, painters, and
  composers of Europe, is offering his life to his country. He is a
  Lieutenant in the Italian Navy. Occasionally some word is heard from
  him in which we see war through the eyes of the poet. He sent this
  graphic description of his experiences as a mine-layer to the _London
  Telegraph_ of December 29, 1915.


I--A POET AT SEA WITH THE ITALIAN NAVY

It can be said of the Italian war what Percy Bysshe Shelley said of
the Medusa's head which he saw in Florence, and which he attributed to
Leonardo da Vinci: "Its beauty and its horror are divine."

This night of danger and death is one of the sweetest that ever spread
its blue veil over the face of the heavens. The sea darkens, and in
its innumerable pulsations the nocturnal phosphoresence is already
discernible. Here and there the rippled surface of the sea glitters
with an internal light as a quivering eyelid, disclosing mysterious
glances. The new moon is like a burning handful of sulphur. Ever and
anon the black cloud of smoke rising from the funnels hides it or
appears to drag it in its spirals like a moving flame.

Life is not an abstraction of aspects and events, but a sort of
diffused sensuousness, a knowledge offered to all the senses, a
substance good to touch, smell, taste, feel. In fact, I feel all the
things near to my senses, like the fisherman walking barefooted on
the beach covered with the incoming tide, and who now and then bends
to identify and pick up what moves under the soles of his feet. The
aspects of this maritime city are like my passions and like the
monuments of Nineveh and Knossus, places of my ardor and creations of
my fancy, real and unreal, products of my desire and products of time.
This city is one of those tumultuous harmonies whence often the most
beautiful elements of my art are born. Nothing escapes the eyes Nature
gave me, and everything is food for my soul. Such a craving for life is
not unlike the desire to die in order to achieve immortality.

In fact, to-night death is present like life, beautiful as life,
intoxicating, full of promises, transfiguring. I stand on my feet,
wearing shoes that can easily be unlaced, on the deck of a small
ironclad on which there is only space enough for the weapons and the
crew. Steam is up. The black smoke of the three funnels rises toward
the new moon, shining yellow in the cloud, burning like a handful of
sulphur. The sailors have already donned life-saving belts and inflated
the collars which must support the head in the agony of drowning. I
hear the voice of the second officer giving the order to place in the
only two boats the biscuits and the canned meat.

A young officer, muscular, but agile as a leopard, who has Boldness'
very eyes, and has to his credit already an admirable manoeuvre in
conducting the destroyer from the arsenal to the anchorage, pays
for the champagne. We drink a cup sitting around the table on which
the navigation chart is spread, while the commander of the flotilla
dictates, standing, to the typist the order of the nocturnal operation,
which is to be issued to the commanders of the other ships. A
suppressed joy shines in the eyes of all. The operation is fraught with
danger, is most difficult, and the cup we drink may be our last.

An ensign, who is little more than a boy, and a Sicilian, who resembles
an adolescent Arabian brought up in the court of Frederick of Serbia,
rubs in his hands a perfumed leaf, one of those leaves which are grown
in a terra cotta vase on the parapets of the windows looking into the
silent lanes of the city. The perfume is so strong that every one of us
smells it with quivering nostrils. That single leaf on that terrible
warship, where everything is iron and fire, that leaf of love, seems to
us infinitely precious, and reminds us of the gardens of Giudecca and
Fondamenta Nuove left behind.

The commander continues to dictate the order of the operation with
his soft Tuscan accent, with some same telling words that Ramondo
d'Amoretto Manelli used in the epistle he sent to Leonard Strozzi
when the Genoese were vanquished by the navy of the Venetians and
Florentines.


II--"WE ARE GOING TO PLANT MINES ON A HOSTILE COAST"

Ours is a marvelous exploit. We are going to plant mines near the
enemy's coast, only a bare kilometer from its formidable batteries. The
ensign fastens the black collar around his neck, and will presently
inflate it with his breath.

We are ready. We sail. The firmament over our heads is covered with
smoke and sparks. Along the gunwale, on each side of the ship, the
enormous mines in their iron cages rest on the supports projecting over
the water. The long torpedoes are ready for the attack, protected by
their iron tubes, with their bronze heads charged with trytol, beasts
in ambuscade. The sailors, their heads covered, are grouped around the
guns, whose breeches are open. All the available space is strewn with
weapons and contrivances, and full of alert men. In order to go from
stern to prow it is necessary to crouch, bend, pass under a greasy
torpedo, leap over outstretched sailors, strike the leg against the
fastening of a torpedo, squeeze against a hot funnel, entangle one's
self in a rope, receive squarely in the face a dash of foam while
grasping the railing.

I ascend the bridge. We are already clear of the anchorage. It is dark.
The moon is dipping in the sea. In an hour it will have disappeared.
The ship quivers at the vibration of the machinery. The funnels still
emit too much smoke and too many sparks. On board all the lights are
out, even the cigarettes. Darkness enshrouds alike both prow and stern.
The last order megaphoned resounds in an azure dotted with sparks and
stars--which are only inextinguishable sparks. A light mist rises from
the water. The wake foams, and the sea ahead parts in two broad furrows
along the sides of the ship, giving forth, now and then, strange
reflections.

Following in our wake the second destroyer looms up darkly, and after
her all the others in line. When the route is changed to reconnoitre
the coast, from the great central wake many oblique ones part,
designing an immense silver rake.

The commander is against the railing, leaning out toward darkness,
with his whole soul in his scrutinizing eyes. Now and then he turns
his ruddy face and transmits an order with exact and sharp words. The
helmsman at the wheel never once removes his eyes from the compass,
lighted by a small lamp in a screened niche. Clearly he is a man of
the purest Tyrrenean race, a true comrade of Ulysses, with a face
which seems to have been modeled by the trade wind. Near by is the
signal box. "Half Speed," "Full Speed," "Slow," "Stop." Through
the speaking tube the orders are transmitted to the engine room.
"Four--Three--Zero."

We are making twenty-three knots an hour. The foam of the great wake
glitters under the stern lights. "A little to the right."

The navigating officer is bending over the chart, held down by lead
weights covered with cloth, measuring, figuring with the compass and
the square, under the blue light of a shaded lamp. A great shooting
star crosses the August sky, disappearing toward the Cappella.


III--A DRAMATIC MOMENT IN THE NIGHT

Impatience gnaws my heart. I strain my sight to discern in the darkness
the signal which has been prearranged. Nothing is to be seen yet. I
descend from the ladder and move toward the stern, skirting the row of
torpedoes, leaping over the outstretched sailors. From the stern the
dark silhouettes of the other destroyers in line are visible. All of
a sudden the signal is flashed in the direction of the prow. We are
nearing the spot of our operation. Every will is strained.

"One--Two--Zero."

The speed is reduced to six knots. The funnels still emit too much
smoke and too many sparks. The commander is furious. Orders are
megaphoned and every word seems to crowd the adventurous air with
danger. The manoeuvre is executed with sort of rhythmic precision.
Maintaining their distance, and one by one, every ship files to the
starboard of us, standing black over the foaming wake, lighted every
now and then by a strange phosphorescence.

"On reaching the eastern route for the planting of the mines,
extinguish the stern lights," cries the megaphone. Under the playing
searchlights the enemy's coast is clearly visible. We are in low water,
and the speed is further diminished.

"One--Zero--Zero."

We almost touch bottom, and proceed by feeling our course ahead. We
also take soundings continuously to avoid running aground. The ships
seem to pant and puff grievedly, as great mammals in danger of running
ashore.

"Reverse engines. Full speed!"

One of the ships feels she cannot manoeuvre any longer, having actually
struck bottom, and endeavors to free herself. She lies ahead of us,
and within speaking distance. We see the water glitter under the blue
light of her stern lanterns. It seems to us now that every other ship
is in danger. The sky is veiled. Long Medusan tresses of clouds drag
the constellation as the net drags silvery fishes. The engines throb
painfully.

The commander is there, all soul, defying the darkness with his eyes.
What if at that moment the enemy should sight us?

"The _Invitto_ leads."

His clear orders through a series of manoeuvres draw away the flotilla
from the shallow waters and on to the safe course. Beyond, on the
shore, the enemy's searchlights are seen crossing each other like white
blades. Under the light the shore seems so near as to give one the
illusion of being about to drop anchor. We are all tensely waiting. In
a few seconds we shall be in the prearranged spot. Minutes seem hours.
The rubber stoppers have been removed from the tubes. The mines are
ready, on their supports, to be lowered into the sea. The sailors await
the order standing.


IV--"WE BREATHE DANGER AND DEATH"

The minutes are eternal. We may be detected every second. The shore is
only a mile from us. The funnels are our despair. They still emit too
much smoke and sparks. At last a warning is heard from the bridge.

"Ready."

The Lieutenant looks at his watch, lighting the dial with the lamp
hidden in his hand. The enormous mines, whose heads are charged with
destruction, are there silent, like gigantic, gray, petrified sea
Medusas, fixed on their support, whose double tooth projects over the
waters.

"Ready! Let go!"

The first mine rolls over with the sound of a shattering barrel, falls
in the foaming sea, disappears.

"Ready! Let go!"

Eighteen seconds elapse. The second falls, followed by the third,
fourth, and all the others, on every ship which maintains a diagonal
course nearing the coast. In three minutes the operation is over; the
mines are planted in the exact spot. The teeth of the crew gleam in a
wild smile. Each sailor sees in his heart the enemy's battleships rent
and sinking.

"Four--Three--Three--Zero."

We assume our position at the head of the line, returning on our course
with the initial speed. The ships seem now to me to be quivering with
warlike joy. In the distance over the mainland the white beams of the
searchlights still cross each other. Ever and anon a rocket explodes.
Our wake now is so beautiful as to resemble a whirling milky way. A
sailor mounts the bridge and gives us a cup of steaming coffee, whose
aroma titillates our nostrils and our heart. We light our cigarette.

But here is a Marconigram.

"Look out, two submarines are lying in wait for you on the safe route."

And in the first quiver of dawn, with expanded lungs, we again breathe
danger and death.




THE BLOOD OF THE RUSSIANS IN FIGHT FOR LIBERTY

"_The Deserted Battlefields I Have Seen_"

_Told by Count Ilya Tolstoy, Son of the late Count Leo Tolstoy, Famous
Russian Novelist_

  Count Tolstoy has been serving with the Red Cross branch of the
  Russian Army. During these tragic experiences, he kept a war diary on
  the battlefields. This is the first English translation of excerpts
  from this diary, translated from the Russian by Miss I. Rojansky for
  _Current History_--Copyright 1916 by Otis F. Wood.


I--"I CAN SEE THE SCENE UNFOLDING BEFORE MY EYES"

The war relics of devastated structures leave a sad and painful
impression. Of the many deserted battlefields which I have seen during
the two years past, the nameless little graves faintly marked with
little wooden crosses, of the deserted trenches, nothing gave me so
much food for deep and sad reflection as the bare and lonely chimneys
projecting from amid piles of rubbish, melancholy blackened pots, the
scattered remnants of domesticity; a smashed pail, a broken wheel, a
binding of a torn book, the splinters of what was once a crib.

To think that hereabout dwelt a family; that they were contented and
possibly happy! Those walls, stripped and crumbled, what have they not
seen!

It always seems to me that an event having occurred at a given place,
the memory of the occurrence attaches permanently to it. Whenever I
happened to find myself in a locality in which some memorable events
had taken place I could not think of those events without at the
same time visualizing the surroundings amid which they occurred; and
the more recent the occurrence, the more vividly I can see the scene
unfolding itself before my eyes.

The vast number of such impressions which the present war has produced
make a film, vivid and endless.


II--"I REMEMBER ... A HORRIBLE TALE"

I remember one such pile of ruins, which I saw not far from the road
leading to Jaroslav. This ruin remained permanently fixed in my memory
by reason of a horrible tale connected with it.

Some time ago there lived on a farm a well-to-do Galician gardener.
When the war broke out he was drafted into the army. He went
forth, leaving behind him a wife and three small children. Shortly
following his departure, troops commenced appearing in the immediate
neighborhood. At first came small detachments, but these were quickly
followed by more formidable bodies. In a short time lines of trenches
were dug on both sides of the farm and real warfare began.

The firing was continuous. The family sought safety in the corners
of their hut. They hid in the cellar under the heaps of beets and
potatoes, but the children soon became accustomed to the hissing of
bullets and lost all fear of them.

The wounded soldiers, for the most part Austrians, began crawling
toward the farm. There they bound up their wounds. The children
looked on and sometimes gave aid, holding with their tiny fingers the
blood-soaked cotton, or winding long and transparent bandages around
the wounded limbs. They became accustomed to pain and to the groans of
the dying, and in their naive and simple way rendered all the help of
which they were capable.

At night, when darkness fell and when firing from both sides would
cease, the Austrian relief workers would come, place the wounded on
long and unsteady stretchers, and carry them to the rear. On one
occasion the wounded sent the eldest girl to the pond to fetch some
water. She stayed away for a long, long time. Later she was found lying
on the grass with a bullet in her slender little shoulder. The pails
lay near her empty.

During the night she, too, was placed on a stretcher and was carried
away. With her went the mother and the rest of the children. From that
night on the farm remained forsaken.

The wounded, however, continued crawling to the hut, their numbers
increasing from day to day. At times the litter bearers could not
manage to look into the farm, and the wounded lay for days at a stretch
without aid.


III--"THERE WAS NO ONE TO BURY THE BODIES"

At the end of October a serious cholera epidemic broke out among the
Austrian troops. From that time on there appeared among those creeping
toward the lonely farm large numbers of emaciated and pale-blue
forms--shadows of men. On reaching the farm they fell on to the straw,
coiled and groaned in agony, and for the most part remained lying
there, silenced by everlasting sleep.

There was no one to bury the bodies, and they gradually began
decomposing. On top of those bodies fell more and more. It became
impossible to live amid these hellish surroundings, and if by chance
some unfortunate wounded happened to come along most of them would
leave the little hut and limp ahead, preferring to dare the firing
line rather than be stifled in this horrible atmosphere of death and
stench.

The engagements, having lasted several weeks, became more and more
stubborn. The trenches crept nearer and nearer, until they resembled
two live, gigantic horns about to embrace each other. Presently one of
the Austrian trenches came so near the farm that the house became an
obstacle to firing, and an order was issued to apply the torch to the
incumbrance.

It was a dangerous task; all knew through experience that the Russians
keep a sharp lookout on all that transpires in the enemy line and do
not allow to pass with impunity the most insignificant move on the part
of the enemy. At night the men, while smoking, would lie low at the
very base of the trench, as the mere striking of a match sufficed to
draw fire from the opposite lines.

As a result of some faint noise or a slight movement, vigorous firing
would not infrequently burst out all along the line, and instead of
getting the much-needed rest, the soldiers would pass nights on their
feet and remain fatigued from sleeplessness and nervous exertion.

A young Second Lieutenant, recently promoted, and clean-shaven,
volunteered to apply the torch. Though an ambitious man, he was at
the same time limited and cowardly. He always tried to conceal his
cowardice under a mask of arrogance, pushing his way forward whenever
there was an opportunity to get into the spotlight and have his name
mentioned. To brace himself, the officer emptied a large glass of
spirits, and, taking along one of the men, left a cozy, sheltered
trench and began feeling his way across the fields.


IV--THE TORCH AT THE HOUSE OF DEATH

The night was dark as a grave, and over the lowland of the garden
hung a thick, milky fog. The feet sank deep into the sticky, soaking
mud. The Lieutenant's assistant went slowly, bent to the ground and
breathing heavily.

They continued on their way without seeing anything ahead. Though the
distance between them and their object was only 200 yards, it seemed
to them from time to time as if they had lost their bearings and were
going in the wrong direction.

Soon they were aware of a heavy, suffocating smell; the next moment
there loomed up before their eyes a sombre silhouette of a building. It
stood there enveloped in fog.

Reaching a corner of the house, the Lieutenant stopped short, drew from
his ulster a big field revolver and whispered to the man to come near.

It seemed that his main care was not to carry out the task he had
undertaken, but to hide conveniently from the Russian fire, and then
slip off to the rear as soon as the house caught fire. He figured that
while the flames were spreading over the structure, and before they had
reached the last wall, he could quietly and without the least danger
remain under shelter. As soon as the fire enveloped the structure, and
before the walls began crumbling, he would run back in time to avoid
exposure by the conflagration.

With this in view, he gave orders to his subordinate to pile up straw
on the side of the building directly facing the trenches. In the
meantime the officer, having taken shelter behind the opposite wall,
lit a cigar and remained waiting for developments.

A few moments of long and painful suspense followed. The poor
Lieutenant was in a state of frenzy. It was not the personal danger
alone that now excited his imagination. He was tormented by the mystic
fear of that which he was about to carry out. In the darkness he drew
a sombre sketch of all that was hidden behind the wall, the inevitable
which he was to face within a few moments.

How many of them are there? In what stage of decomposition? How do they
lie?

The officer suddenly recalled a conversation in which some one had told
him that when the flames touched the dead in the crematory they coiled
and twisted as if alive. In his excited imagination he quickly pictured
a wild dance of the dead which was about to begin.

"When they calm down," he thought, "after they are burned, as soon as
roast meat is scented I will run, and then let the Russians shoot at
them. All I have to do is to get away in time. If we were only done
with this! Quick! Quick!"

At this moment he became aware of a pleasant smell of straw smoke, and
immediately afterward the opposite corner of the structure burst into
a bright flame. Almost simultaneously with the flash firing began from
the Russian trenches, and it seemed to the officer that a few bullets
hissed near him.

The soldier succeeded in pouring a great quantity of kerosene into the
interior of the house. The fire spread with unusual swiftness. In two
minutes the structure was all ablaze.


V--"THESE WERE THE HORRIBLE VISIONS"

The officer stood at the open door, watching curiously the interior of
the main room. Scattered all over the floor there lay contorted and
twisted forms. They lay in irregular heaps. It was an appalling and
gruesome sight. From somewhere protruded some one's long, bare legs;
near the wall lingered a lonely arm, curled, swollen, and slightly
lifted, it hung in a threatening posture; from under a tattered old
military coat projected a thick brush of black-blue hair; and at some
distance, leaning on the furnace, there half sat the mighty figure of a
stately corpse. The majestic body was bent in gloom, two huge, rough,
and calloused hands supporting a big head.

Suddenly it seemed to the Lieutenant as if he heard some one groan.
The sound became more and more audible, coming nearer and nearer;
one voice, a second, somebody called, a cry rang out, and suddenly
pandemonium broke loose. Air-rending cries came from all sides, and men
began to drop, one by one, falling about the officer and stretching at
his feet. Some fell straight from the ceiling to the earthen floor,
others came creeping down the ladder; they dropped into the flames,
choking and writhing in deadly agony.

The officer, half dead from fright, drew his revolver and opened fire.
He ceased firing when his supply of bullets gave out. His ammunition
gone, the Lieutenant threw down the weapon and ran. No one will ever
know the number of unfortunates he thus killed. All I know is that
of all the men hiding in the garret of that farm only one was saved.
It was he who told me this terrible tale. He did this while lying in
one of our hospitals. According to his version, there were at the
time in the building a great number of wounded soldiers, who had come
there during the last engagement. When fire was set to the house,
they endeavored to get down. All perished. Some were burned alive,
while others were shot to death by their own officer. Among those
who perished was also the soldier who had served as the Lieutenant's
assistant.

These were the horrible visions. I saw them every time I chanced to
pass the ruined and devastated spot.

The fate of the vain and unhappy officer does not in the least concern
me. I am not even disposed to blame him for his weakness. For this we
can only pity a man. One is bound to pity also those who met death at
his hands.

But for some reason or other I cannot help remembering the wounded
little girl. There she lay, dying from loss of blood; there at the
turning of the footpath, near the two little birch trees.




MY EXPERIENCES IN THE WAR HOSPITALS OF RUMANIA

_The Horrors of the Little Balkan Kingdom_

_Told by Queen Marie of Rumania_

  Driven into exile with her many subjects, who had to retreat before
  the Hun just as the Belgians and Serbians were forced out of their
  peaceful homes in the debacle of war, Queen Marie of Rumania turned
  to the pen, and with it pictured the horrors that have engulfed
  the pretty little Balkan kingdom. Queen Marie was married to King
  Ferdinand in 1893, and was then the Princess Marie of Edinburgh,
  the daughter of Alfred I, Duke of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha, Prince of
  Great Britain and Ireland. Noted for her beauty, idolized by her
  people, she has devoted herself to Red Cross work and the care of
  her stricken people ever since the entry of Rumania into the war. In
  devoting her pen to the cause of her adopted country, Queen Marie has
  followed the example of her husband's aunt, the late Queen Elizabeth
  (Carmen Sylva), whose charming books of poetry and prose deal almost
  entirely with the customs and folklore of Rumania. In this article in
  the _Philadelphia Public Ledger_ Queen Marie gives a graphic picture
  of war-torn Rumania.


I--"I WATCH MY RUMANIANS GO TO WAR"

The trains are passing ... passing ... and the cargo they are hurrying
thither is the youth of our country and the hope of our homes....

By thousands they are massed together; they sit on the roofs of the
wagons, they hang on to their sides, they balance themselves in
perilous positions, but all of them are gay, ... they shout, they sing,
they laugh....

And the trains pass, pass ... all day the trains pass.... With hands
full of flowers we hurry to the stations; our hearts are heavy; we long
to say words they will remember, to tell them what we feel, but their
voices raised in chorus drown all we would say.

One cry is on every lip when they see me, "We are going! Going gladly,
going to victory, so that you may become Empress--Empress of all the
Rumanians!" There is hardly a voice that does not say it; it is the cry
of every heart; they hope it, they believe it, they mean it to me, and
I smile back at them offering them my flowers, which they clutch at
with eager hands.

And thus the trains pass ... pass....


II--"THE SOLDIERS SHOWERED ME WITH FLOWERS"

One evening the sun was going down in glowing glory, turning all it
shone over into glittering gold. I was late, other duties having kept
me back; the train I had come to greet was already moving away.

In joyous crowds the young soldiers thronged the carriages; others had
been before me to deck their caps, their tunics, even their horses
and cannons, with bright violet asters of every shade. The prodigious
radiance of sunset fell over all those flowers, enhancing their beauty,
as though even the heavens were doing their utmost to render more
blessed the departure of those eager boys, who so gayly were going to
death.

Hurriedly I ran toward the moving carriages, distressed at being late.
A great shout mounted from a thousand throats as they recognized me and
a shower of flowers fell at my feet.

From their caps, their tunics, their cannons they tore away the flowers
that had been given them to shower them over their Queen, while the
usual chorus mounted to the skies: "May you become Empress--Empress of
all the Rumanians."...

And always more flowers fell over me; my arms were full; my hands could
hardly hold them; the ground was purple where I stood....

Long did I remain there after the train had disappeared. A trail of
smoke against the orange sky alone marked its passage, and all those
fading flowers at my feet.

As one looks at the incomprehensible, I gazed at those two long rails
running into the infinite, there seeming to join their separate ways,
and wondered toward what fate those youths were hurrying; wondered if
their dream would be realized; especially I wondered how many would
come back....

The sun had set, the smoke had dissolved into nothing; the voices of
my soldiers were but a remembrance ... slowly I turned my foot toward
home....


III--"I BEND OVER THE SUFFERING FACES"

All day long I have been moving among the wounded, wandering from ward
to ward--they all want me to come among them, each soldier desirous to
see his Queen....

Never do I leave a call unanswered; everywhere do I go; no sight is too
sad, no fatigue is too great, no way too long, but sometimes it is to
me as though I were wandering through some never-ending dream.

Bed beside bed they lie there, and all eyes meet me, follow me, consume
me; never before have I known what it means to be the prey of so many
eyes.... They seem to be drawing my heart from my bosom, to be a weight
I can hardly bear!

I bend over suffering faces, clasp outstretched hands, lay my fingers
upon heated brows, gaze into dying eyes, listen to whispered
words--and everywhere the same wish follows me: "May you become
Empress--Empress of all the Rumanians!" Stiffening lips murmur it to
me, hopeful voices cry it out to me; it goes with me wherever I move:
"What matters our suffering as long as you become Empress--Empress
of all the Rumanians!" Infinitely touching are the words when they
mount toward me from the beds of so many wounded, who see in me the
realization, the incarnation of the dream for which they are giving
their lives.

It makes me feel so small, so humble before their stoic endurance;
tears come to my eyes and yet, because of the beauty of it, I have a
great wish to thank God.

Why should I be chosen to represent an ideal? Why should just I be the
symbol? What right have I to stand above them, to buy glory with the
shedding of their blood?...

And always more tenderly do I pass from bed to bed....

That was at a time when hope still sang in every soul, when in the
first enthusiasm all hearts beat in unison, when belief in glorious
victory gladdened the day....

But much later, under widely different circumstances in quite another
place, the same words were said to me by one who could not see my face,
for that morning he had been trepanned; his bandaged head was lying in
a pool of blood....

Some one told him that his Queen was beside him, that she had come to
see him, to inquire about his sufferings; to help him if he needed help.

A groping hand was stretched out toward me; I took it in mine,
whispering words of comfort; bending low toward the parched lips that
were murmuring something that at first I could not understand. The man
had no face, no eyes; all was swathed in blood-stained cloths. Then,
as though from very far, came the words, the same brave words: "May the
great God protect you. May He let you live to become Empress--Empress
of all the Rumanians!"


IV--"I PRAYED TO GOD TO LISTEN"

It was to me as though something very wonderful had quite suddenly
descended upon the distress of my soul, something very holy, very
beautiful; but that was almost more than I could bear.... Touching had
been that wish when hope shone before us like a star, but now it was
more than touching, it was grand and sacred, for it was pronounced at
an hour when darkest disaster had overthrown our land, when inch by
inch our armies were retreating before the all-invading foe. There in
that chamber of suffering those dying lips still spoke of the hope they
clung to, of the dream that, in spite of sacrifice, death and misery,
one day must surely come true....

That dying man was but one of many, a voice out of the unknown, a
martyr without a name; but his words had gone home to my heart.

As I bent over him, laying my hand gently upon his crimson-stained
rags, I prayed to God to listen to his wish; prayed that the blood of
so many humble heroes should not be given in vain; prayed that when
that great hour of liberation should sound at last an echo of the shout
of victory that that day would sound over all our land should reach the
heart of this nameless one beyond the shadow into which he was sinking,
so that even beyond the grave he should still have a share in the glory
his living eyes were not destined to see....




"WITH THE GERMAN ARMIES IN THE WEST"--VISITS TO THE GENERAL STAFF

_Told by Sven Hedin, Noted Swedish Explorer--Authorized Translation
from, the Swedish by H. G. Dewalterstorff_

  This is one of the most remarkable narratives of the War. It is a
  great historical record, as well as a fascinating story of personal
  experiences. Dr. Sven Hedin is one of the great Swedish explorers
  and historians. His record as a man of intrepid daring is known
  throughout Europe. By special permission of the Kaiser, Dr. Hedin
  was commissioned to visit and observe the German Armies in Belgium
  and France. He is the friend of Kings and was received with open
  arms at the headquarters of the general staff of the German Army.
  These experiences he describes in a volume entitled "With the German
  Armies in the West," which is one of the few War books which has been
  accepted by the German government as a true record. Dr. Hedin's talks
  with the Kaiser, the Crown Prince, and the Army Officers, with his
  journeys along the battle grounds of the Western front, allow us to
  look behind the scenes for the first time. A few selections from his
  remarkable tales are here given by permission of his publishers _John
  Lane Company_.

[2] I--"ON MY WAY TO WILHELMSTRASSE, BERLIN"

The rain falls thick and heavy and patters down on the dripping lines
outside my balcony. Berlin is dull and miserable in the autumn when the
rain sweeps its long, monotonously straight streets with their heavy,
dark houses. Not even the trooping of the colors and the march past
at midday raise the drooping spirits, and only a few pedestrians with
open umbrellas join the band and march in step with the soldiers. No
calls are made, no visits paid, for the whole of the aristocracy is in
mourning for lost relatives and everybody's thoughts are centered on
the war. Nobody feels inclined for the futile pleasures of ordinary
times when the newspapers speak of a father who has lost four sons at
the front, or of a mother whose three sons have each died a hero's
death for Emperor and country. But no complaints are heard, no tears
seen. In the streets one seldom sees signs of mourning. There is
perhaps a tacit convention not to express in black and white the
sorrow which is felt at the bottom of the heart, but to make the grief
subservient to the proud consciousness that the beloved one has fallen
for his country, never to return!...

But the rain keeps on falling and beats against the window-panes.
I hurry downstairs, jump into a taxi and in a few minutes I am
sitting in an elegant drawing-room at the dainty new residence of
the Swedish Minister, at the corner of Friedrich Wilhelmstrasse and
Tiergartenstrasse, chatting with old friends--needless to say, about
the war. When I last met Count Taube in Berlin, I had just returned
from a long journey in the Far East. Now I stood on the threshold of a
new journey, which might be infinitely longer than the last! Later in
the day I visited another nobleman, Prince von Wedel, whom I had met
in Vienna when he was ambassador there, and in Strassburg when he was
Governor. We had much to talk about, but what is there to discuss in
these days but the great and bloody drama which occupies everyone's
thoughts--the War!

My most important visit in Berlin was to the Foreign Office. But before
narrating what took place there I must say a few words about the
reasons which led up to my journey. It was desirable that no one in
a responsible position in Sweden should have an inkling of my journey
to the front. Our country belonged to the neutral states, and thus no
authority must entertain the slightest shadow of suspicion that I was
traveling on any sort of secret mission. No,--the reason was a very
simple one. Only a few days' journey away the greatest war of all time
was being waged. It was clear that the outcome of this struggle would
decide the political development for the next fifty or hundred years,
or perhaps longer. In any case its shadows must envelop the remainder
of the lives of the present generation....

Once this war is over, whole libraries of books will be written about
it. I do not think it an exaggeration to say that on the western front
alone upwards of a million and a half diaries are being kept at the
present moment. In all directions, in all fighting units down to the
company, the platoon and the battery, official war journals are being
kept and accounts of the fighting are being prepared from the bedrock
furnished on the one hand by the draft of outgoing reports and on the
other by incoming papers, orders, reports and communications. The
soldiers record their own personal experiences, the officers their
military observations. Many a notebook has no doubt protected a heart
or checked the death-dealing bullet. Thus the sections of the German
General Staff, whose task it will be in due course to prepare the
materials, will be occupied for many years to come with this monumental
labor.

When I went out to the front, it was clearly established in my mind
that my narrative would be quite different from the military accounts.
I was not going to devote any attention to matters of purely military
science, which could only be dealt with by experts.


II--"I MEET HERR VON ZIMMERMANN"

I am standing on the doorstep and ringing the bell at the Foreign
Office at 76 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin.

The Under Secretary of State, Herr von Zimmermann, who is acting
Foreign Minister in Berlin whilst His Excellency von Jagow is at the
Main Headquarters, received me with open arms and said that all he knew
was that I was to proceed straightway to the said Headquarters.

"But where are the Main Headquarters?" I asked.

"That is a secret," Herr von Zimmermann answered, with a smile.

"Good, but how am I to get there?"

"Oh, the Chief of the Great General Staff, Colonel-General von Moltke,
has given instructions that a car is to be kept at your disposal. You
may decide yourself when you would like to start. An officer and an
orderly will accompany you, and if you like you can travel to the Main
Headquarters day and night without stopping, or you can choose your own
road and time. In fact, you are at liberty to do as you like."

"And afterwards?"

"After that your fate will rest in the hands of His Excellency von
Moltke. No doubt he will map out a plan for your journey. The only
thing you have to think about now is to get to him."

"And where shall I find the car?"

"This paper will tell you."

Herr von Zimmermann handed me a permit from the Great General Staff
which read as follows: "The bearer of this permit is entitled to use
the relays of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps to the Main
Headquarters. Everything that can in any way expedite his journey is to
be placed at his disposal."


III--"MY ARRIVAL AT THE GREAT GENERAL STAFF IN LUXEMBURG"

Still as ignorant regarding the whereabouts of the Main Headquarters
as when we left Berlin, we set out from Treves in the morning of the
18th of September, recrossed the Moselle, and cast a glance up at the
heights from which on August 4th Frenchmen in mufti were heliographing
to the airships, who wanted to know how the German mobilization was
getting on. At the flying station we stopped a moment to have a look at
the _Taubes_ in their canvas sheds....

Now we begin to look about. Yes, it is obvious that the Main
Headquarters are still at Luxemburg. Sentries at the entrances to all
hotels, soldiers everywhere, officers rushing past in motor-cars. In a
market-place large tents have been put up for horses, and round them
walk the sentries smoking their pipes; in another open space there are
rows of motor-cars laden with petrol and oil in cylinders.

We must observe becoming military precision in our search and
consequently make at once for the house where the Great General Staff
has taken up its quarters, and which in ordinary times is a Luxemburg
school. Von Krum gets down and soon returns with the intimation that
we must report ourselves to a Lieutenant-Colonel Hahnke. He sent us
off to the Chief of the General Staff, His Excellency von Moltke, who
with his charming Swedish Countess has just sat down to dinner at the
_Kölnischer Hof_, where they reside. The Countess was on a short visit
to Luxemburg in the service of the Red Cross. Here I felt almost as if
I were at home, for I had many times been a guest in their hospitable
home in Berlin. As calm as if he had been on manoeuvers, the Chief lit
his cigar and made detailed enquiries about my plans and wishes. I
said I wanted to go to the front and see as much as I might be allowed
to, mentioning that it was my intention subsequently to describe what
I had seen of the war with my own eyes. If possible I wanted to get an
impression of a modern battle, and hoped also to get an opportunity of
visiting the occupied parts of Belgium.

The Chief thought for a moment. Permission to visit the front had
already been granted to me by the Emperor, and it only remained to
decide which would be the best place for me to begin my observations.
The army of the German Crown Prince was the nearest, only a couple of
hours away. The Chief would arrange everything for my journey, and I
was shortly to receive details of the programme. "Of course, there can
be no question of safety in the fighting zone," he said, "it is not far
away. If you listen you can hear the thunder of guns from Verdun."...

It would take too long to describe all the interesting acquaintances I
made in Luxemburg and to introduce to the reader all the eminent men
with whom I spoke during the two days I spent in this little town.
Suffice it to mention the Imperial Chancellor von Bethmann Holweg, the
Foreign Minister von Jagow, the War Minister Lieutenant-General von
Falkenhayn, and the Chief of the Imperial Volunteer Automobile Corps
the young Prince Waldemar, son of Prince Henry.

The Main Headquarters are the head or rather the brain of the army
in the field, where all plans are made and from which all orders are
issued. It is an incredibly complicated apparatus with an organization
of which every detail has been prepared in advance. When an apparatus
of this kind is installed in a small town like Luxemburg, all hotels,
schools, barracks, Government offices, as well as a number of private
houses, have to be requisitioned for billets. The invaded country
has no alternative but to resign itself to its fate. But nothing is
taken promiscuously, everything will be made good after the war. The
War Ministry is housed in an hotel, the General Staff--as already
mentioned--in a school, the officers of the automobile corps, in a
private house, and so on. The Commander-in-Chief, von Moltke, resided
at the _Kölnischer Hof_, the Imperial Chancellor and the Foreign
Minister in an exceptionally elegant private house, whilst the
Emperor's personal staff and suite were stopping at the _Hotel Staar_,
where a room was also placed at my disposal....


IV--"AN INVITATION TO DINE WITH THE EMPEROR"

Directly I arrived in Luxemburg, I was honored with an invitation
to dine with the Emperor William the following day at one o'clock.
Most of the guests were stopping at the _Hotel Staar_, and the cars
were to leave there in good time. I went with Adjutant-General,
Lieutenant-General von Gontard, Acting General à la suite. The street
close to the Imperial residence was railed off, the barriers being
withdrawn by the soldiers to let our car pass. The Emperor lived in
the house of the German Minister and had his private apartments on the
first floor. On the ground floor was the chancellerie, where enormous
maps of the theaters of war were mounted on easels, and next to it was
the dining-room, quite a small apartment.

The guests, all in field uniform, without any display, for-gathered in
the chancellerie. I myself was dressed in the most flagrant, everyday
clothes--in the field nothing is carried for show. Among the Emperor's
suite I recognized a couple of old acquaintances, the Headquarters
Commandant, Adjutant-General, Colonel-General von Plessen, and
the President of the Navy Council, Admiral von Müller, of Swedish
descent, who spoke Swedish as fluently as German. The others were his
Excellency von Treutler and Lieutenant-General Baron Marschall, Colonel
von Mutius, acting aide-de-camp, the Princes Pless and Arnim and the
Emperor's body-physician, Dr. Ilberg. We were thus ten all told.


V--"THE DOOR OPENED ... EMPEROR WILLIAM ENTERED"

At the stroke of one the door from the vestibule was opened and Emperor
William entered with a firm, quiet step. All glances were fixed on
the strongly built, well-knit figure. The room became as quiet as
the grave. One realized that one was in the presence of a great
personality. The little room, otherwise so humble, now had a deeper
significance. Here was the axis, the pivot round which the world's
happenings turned. Here was the center from which the war was directed.
Germany is to be crushed, so say its enemies. "_Magst ruhig sein_,"[3]
says the German army to its Fatherland. And here in our midst stands
its supreme war-lord, a picture of manliness, resolution and honorable
frankness. Around him flit the thoughts and passions of the whole
world. He is the object of love, blind confidence and admiration, but
also of fear, hate and calumny. Round him, who loves peace, rages the
greatest war of all times, and his name is ringed with strife....

Any feeling of timidity one may have had whilst waiting for the most
powerful and most remarkable man in the world vanished completely
once the Emperor, after a more than hearty handshake and a cheery
welcome, began to speak. His voice is manly and military, he speaks
extraordinarily plainly without slurring over a single syllable, he
is never at a loss for a word, but always strikes the nail on the
head--often in exceedingly forceful terms. He punctuates his sentences
with quick and expressive gestures. His speech flows smoothly, is
always terse and interesting and is often suddenly interrupted by
questions delivered with lightning precision, which one must endeavor
to answer equally quickly and clearly. A good answer never fails to
elicit the Emperor's approval. He is exceedingly impulsive and his
conversation is a mixture of earnest and jest. A ready repartee or an
amusing tale causes him to laugh so heartily that his shoulders shake
with it.

At the Emperor's bidding we passed into the dining-room. Admiral von
Müller sat on the left, I on the right of our august host, and opposite
him was Adjutant-General von Gontard. The table was simply laid. The
only luxury that could be discovered was a bell of gold placed in front
of the Emperor's cover, and which he rang when a new course was to be
brought in. The dinner was equally plain, consisting of soup, meat with
vegetables, a sweet dish and fruit with claret. I have seldom been as
hungry as when I rose from this table: not on account of the dishes,
but because there had not been a moment's silence up to the time
when the bell rang for the last time and bade the uniformed servants
withdraw our chairs as we rose. The Emperor talked to me all the time.
He began by reminding me of my last lecture in Berlin, at which he was
present, and he conjectured that Tibet, where I had passed through such
stirring times, would probably soon be the only country in the world
where peace reigned. Then we spoke of the political position and of the
storms that are sweeping over Europe....

On a table in the chancellerie were cigars and cigarettes round a
lighted candle. Here the conversation was continued with zest and
vigor, and jest and earnest, horrors of war and funny stories were all
jumbled together; finally the Emperor took his leave, wishing me a
successful and instructive trip, and went up to his apartments, where
no doubt piles of papers and letters, reports and telegrams awaited him.

The talk of the Emperor having aged during the war, and of the war with
all its labors and anxieties having sapped his strength and health, is
all nonsense. His hair is no more pronouncedly iron gray than before
the war, his face has color, and far from being worn and thin, he
is plump and strong, bursting with energy and rude health. A man of
Emperor William's stamp is in his element when, through the force of
circumstances, he is compelled to stake all he possesses and above all
himself for the good and glory of his country.


VI--"I GO TO SEE THE CROWN PRINCE"

I returned to the _Hotel Staar_ just in time to meet the young
lieutenant who had been instructed by General Moltke to take me to the
Headquarters of the Crown Prince's Army. His name was Hans von Gwinner
and he is the son of the great banker and Bagdad Railway magnate in
Berlin. He was a wide-awake and capable young fellow and drove his car
himself. I sat down beside him, whilst the orderly accompanying us took
his seat inside.

It poured with rain as we left the town. The road was slippery, but
we had studded tires and the lieutenant drove at terrific speed. We
had started off rather late and we wanted to get in before dark. It is
better thus, otherwise one is not entirely safe from the attentions of
_franctireurs_. A whole lot of them had recently been caught by the
Fifth Army and shot without hesitation....

We stop outside the house in which the General in Command of the 5th
Army has taken up his quarters. I was able to speak there without
difficulty to one of my friends from the Main Headquarters, Landrat
Baron von Maltzahn, Member of the Reichstag and a personal friend of
the Crown Prince. He was able to give me the welcome news that I was
expected and that I must hurry in order to be in time for supper, which
was served at eight o'clock. So we drove at once up to the little
French château, where His I. & R. Highness had elected to stay. Here I
said good-bye to my excellent friend Lieutenant von Gwinner and thanked
him for his companionship. Thus he, too, disappears from my horizon,
and I stand before a new association of acquaintances and friendships.

Footmen in military uniforms at once took charge of my baggage and
conducted me to my room on the first floor, next door to the Crown
Prince's private apartments. A few minutes before eight the acting
Lord-in-Waiting, Court-Marshal von Behr, knocked at my door. He was
a pleasant young man of distinguished and attractive appearance, and
he had come to bring me in to supper. We went out through the upper
vestibule and down the stairs, from the landing of which we were
fortunate enough to witness a pleasing ceremony. In the lower hall
stood a number of officers in line, and opposite them some twenty
soldiers formed up in the same way. Then came the Crown Prince William,
tall, slim and royally straight, dressed in a dazzling white tunic and
wearing the Iron Cross of the first and second class; he walked with
a firm step between the lines of soldiers. An adjutant followed him,
carrying in a casket a number of Iron Crosses. The Crown Prince took
one and handed it to the nearest officer, whom he thanked for the
services which he had rendered to his Emperor and country, and then
with a hearty handshake he congratulated the hero whom he had thus
honored.

When all the officers had received their decorations, the reward for
their bravery, the turn came of the soldiers, the ceremony being
precisely the same as with the officers; but I found it hard to
distinguish what the soldiers said in their loud, rough and nervous
voices. At last I distinguished the words: _Danke untertänigst
Kaiserliche Hoheit_ (I humbly thank your Imperial Highness).


VII--"AT SUPPER WITH THE CROWN PRINCE"

When the knights of the Iron Cross had taken their departure, we went
down into the hall, where the Crown Prince stepped up to me and bade me
heartily welcome to his Headquarters and to the seat of war. The meal,
which might as well have been called dinner as supper, was attended by
the following gentlemen: Lieutenant-General Schmidt von Knobelsdorff,
Chief of Staff of the 5th Army, Court-Marshal von Behr, Chief of the
Medical Corps, Body-Physician Professor Widenmann, Majors von der
Planitz, von Müller, personal Adjutant to H.I. & R.H., and Heymann,
Lieutenant von Zobeltitz and a few members of the Staff, who arrived
later after the day's work in the field and took their seats at the
lower end of the table.

Would you like to know what the German Crown Prince, the Crown Prince
of Prussia, eats for supper? Here is the menu: cabbage soup, boiled
beef with horseradish and potatoes, wild duck with salad, fruit,
wine, and coffee with cigars. And what would you say the conversation
was about? It is hard to say exactly, but we traveled over almost
the whole world with the ease bred by familiarity. The Crown Prince,
like the Emperor, began with Tibet, and from there it was but a step
across the Himalayas to the palms of the Hugli Delta, the pagodas
of Benares, the silver moonlight over Taj Mahal, the tigers of the
jungle and the music of the crystal waves of India beating against the
rocks of Malabar point. We also spoke of old unforgettable memories
and of common friends who now love us no longer--of the brave and
famous Kitchener, the conqueror of Omdurman and South Africa, of the
Maharajahs and their fairy-like splendor at Bikanir, Kutch Behar,
Gwalior, Kashmir and Idar.

We also talked about the war and its horrors, and the terrible
sacrifices it demands. "But it cannot be helped," said the Crown
Prince, "our Fatherland asks us to give all we have, and _we will, we
must_ win, even if the whole world takes up arms against us."

"Is not the calm here wonderful! We seem to be living to-night in the
most absolute peace, and yet it is but a couple of hours' drive to the
firing line," observes my Imperial host after listening to a short,
concise and satisfactory report made in a ringing voice by an officer
who has just entered. "Yes, your Imperial Highness, I had imagined
the Staff Headquarters of an army to resemble a buzzing beehive, but
now that I have the reality before me, I find no trace of anxiety or
nervousness, nothing but calm and assurance everywhere. But what I
should like to see most of all would be a battle, for I suspect that in
common with most other civilians I have formed an erroneous opinion on
this subject."

The Crown Prince smiles and answers: "Yes, battle painters like
Neuville and Détaille would have little use for their art in these
days. Of the fighting men one sees practically nothing, for they
are concealed by the ground and in the trenches, and it is rather
dangerous to get too close to a bayonet charge--unless one's duty takes
one there."

What life and spirit at the Crown Prince's Headquarters! Everything was
gay with the freshness of youth, and devoid of restraint. No trace of
the stiffness of court ceremonial. Even General Schmidt, who usually
maintained the strictest discipline, was infected by the prevailing
spirit of camaradie. But owing to the terrible burden of work which
rested on the shoulders of the Chief of Staff, it was not unusual for
him to come in for his meals after the others. The supper, or rather
the talk after it, went on till about eleven--these were the only hours
when one could meet in quiet, for during the day everyone was busy with
his duties, and the Crown Prince then occupied his post as commanding
officer at suitable points at the front.

The château where we were staying belonged to an aristocratic French
lady--if I remember rightly her name was du Vernier. When the war
broke out she moved to Bordeaux. On her return after the contest she
will find her château, her estates and the beautiful park in the same
condition as when she went away. There was a certain aristocratic
grandeur about the château, though signs of decay were already making
themselves apparent. On the mantelpiece in my room stood a pendulum
clock of gilt bronze of an antique mythological design, and on each
side stood a couple of gorgeous candelabra. The walls were decorated
with a few unassuming pictures, amongst them a portrait of an old
French warrior.

I open my window, it is pitch-dark outside, and the rain falls close
and heavy upon the trees and lawns outside. Tired after a somewhat
ambitious day's work, I hurry to bed, the more so as I suspect the next
day's programme to be no less exacting....


VIII--WITH THE GERMAN SOLDIERS--"TO VICTORY OR DEATH"

But events move all too fast. Observations and impressions follow so
quickly upon one another that it is difficult to assimilate them all.
The whole road is full of supply columns moving southward, and we meet
innumerable empty transport lorries on the way north, to be reloaded
at some railway station. Here we also see fresh young troops, all
strapping fellows, who have come direct from Germany to go straight
to victory or death. All are jolly and eager; truly, they look as if
the whole affair were to them but an autumn manoeuver, and as if they
felt no trace of excitement. They march along with easy bearing and
sing merry soldiers' ditties under the leaden skies now darkening this
unhappy, bleeding France. They light their pipes and their eternal
cigarettes, laugh and chat--as if they were going to a picnic in the
country. In reality they are going out to fill the gaps made by the
French fire in the ranks of their comrades. They are _Ersatstruppen_,
i.e., reinforcements, but I do not see a single face which betrays the
slightest feeling that death is near. They hear the thunder of the guns
better than we do, for the humming of the car drowns all other sounds.
But they seem to delight in the dull music, and yet their place is far
in advance of the artillery positions. _Ersatstruppen!_ it means that
their duty is to _replace_ the fallen, and that the same fate awaits
themselves. Yet they are gay and happy. "_Dulce et decorum est pro
patria mori._"...

We now begin to notice that we are approaching the firing line. The
whole road is encumbered with troops. Here comes a detachment of
wounded on foot, with bandages round heads and hands, or with the arm
in a sling. We meet an empty ammunition column, an endless string of
rattling wagons.

The artillery ammunition column which we are just now passing is an
impressive sight. The noise of these vehicles, dull and heavy, is
quite different from that of the empty wagons on our left, but then
they are loaded to the top with heavy ammunition, shells for 21-cm.
mortars at Septsarges and neighbouring villages. Every ammunition
wagon--consisting of limber and wagon body--with its team of six horses
requires the services of six men. Three of them--drivers--ride on the
off-side horses, two are seated on the limber, and one facing the rear
on the wagon body. They are armed with Mauser pistols fastened on the
left side of the belt, but the swords of the drivers are securely
strapped on to the left side of the saddle.

The horses are fat and sleek, and pull without exerting themselves
unduly. They move at a walking pace--anything else would be impossible
on this road. It is a far finer sight to see one of these columns
trundling along at full speed with the horses moving at a sharp trot
or gallop. Even at the pace at which they are now travelling these
endless columns are an impressive and attractive sight. What does it
matter if the helmets, in order not to glitter and attract attention,
are concealed by a cover which even hides the spike surmounting them;
what does it matter if the men's uniforms are of the same dirty grey as
the clay and mud of the soil? The whole team looks picturesque enough
with its massive, solid wagon, its pole, its leather fittings and its
harness.

Tramp, tramp go the horses' hoofs, and behind them comes the rattling
of the heavy wagons. One rider sings, another whistles and a third is
shouting at a refractory horse. Behind sit a couple of men rolling
cigarettes, which by the way is more difficult than it sounds when a
wagon is jolting up and down. This column also has a mounted escort.
The train is wound up by a field kitchen with a couple of store wagons
on which a few bundles of firewood are also lying. Without ceasing,
this eternal tramp, tramp, keeps dinning into our ears as the columns
slowly travel southward, a never-ending stream of warriors, horses,
ammunition and provisions.


IX--"WE DROVE THROUGH A ROARING SEA OF LOUD HURRAHS"

It was still daylight when we returned to our domicile, where the Crown
Prince, just back from his day's work, was resting in the doorway. A
moment later I went out for a walk in the town. At the bridges over
the Meuse I was stopped by the sentries, who in authoritative but
invariably polite tones asked to see my _Ausweis_. That they found me
suspicious-looking, ambling along as I did with a sketch-book under my
arm, was not to be wondered at. Only one of them, an honest Landwehr
man, declared categorically that my pass was not sufficient. "Oh," I
said. "The name of the Chief of the General Staff of the Field Army,
General Moltke, does not impress you?" "No, the permit must be viséd by
the 5th Army," he replied. A couple of his comrades saved the situation
after reading the permit, and declared that General Moltke was good
enough for them....

It had been arranged that at about half-past six I should look out for
the Crown Prince and his staff as they passed through Dun on their
way back from Romagne. The time was approaching, and we were on the
watch. The traffic had not decreased at all, rather the reverse. For
a moment it looked like a block, and it would have been a nice thing
if the Crown Prince had arrived just then. We crossed the bridge and
were outside the town, when the aristocratic-looking cars, bearing
the mark, _General Ober Kommando V. Armee_, came tearing along at full
speed. Beside the chauffeur of the first one sat the Crown Prince
himself in a cloak with a high collar. He made a sign to me to get
in and I took my seat behind him. Then he talked for a while to the
officers of the lines of communications, and after that we started. But
now the pace was slow, as we happened to meet an infantry regiment.
The men took hold of their helmets by the spike, raised them aloft and
gave a rousing cheer, as if they were charging a French position. But
this time the cheer was meant for the Commander of the 5th Army and the
heir to the throne, and we drove through a roaring sea of loud hurrahs.
Gradually the ranks thinned out and finally came the stragglers--for
there are footsore men even in the best marching army of all--in small
groups of two or three, but they cheered as wildly as the rest. Last of
all a solitary man stood by the side of the road. He, too, joined in
with all the strength of his lungs. When the Crown Prince had reassumed
his motor goggles and turned up the collar of his cloak he was not
easily recognised, especially by the men of the transport columns we
met, who had their horses to look after. But his Imperial and Royal
Highness turned half round to me and said unassumingly that nothing
pleased him more than to find that he was supported and understood
by the soldiers. He considered it the first duty of a prince to show
himself worthy of the confidence of his whole people, and for his own
part he could not imagine a greater happiness than to occupy such a
position in the minds of the German people.


X--"AT DINNER WITH THE CROWN PRINCE"

We reached home in due course and sat down to table. The spirits of
the company were as cheerful and unconstrained as usual, though one
would have expected high-sounding speeches, toasts and cheering.

Dinner had been going on for some time when Professor Widenmann, the
body-physician, came in and took his place. He had been at a hospital,
looking after our friend, Baron von Maltzahn, who had been the victim
of a motor accident in the course of the day. The car, while going at a
terrific pace, had skidded at a corner of the wet road and turned over.
Von Maltzahn lay underneath and had the whole weight of the car on his
chest. He had a couple of ribs broken, a broken leg, concussion of the
brain and general shock. His condition was rather alarming, but the
professor had good hopes of his recovery.

That professor is a man one would never forget. We took to each other,
more especially as he had travelled all over the world. He had seen a
great deal of Africa, and had been very near the summit of Kilima Njaro
when he was forced to turn back by wind and weather. We had mutual
friends far and near, and long after the others had gone to their rooms
we sat up chatting--on that evening, which was my last with the German
Crown Prince, the Crown Prince of Prussia.

On the following day, September 24, we made a very early breakfast,
after which the cars of the Chief Command of the Army again drove up to
the château. I thanked his Imperial and Royal Highness the Crown Prince
with all my heart for the great hospitality which had been shown me and
for all the memorable things I had had the opportunity of seeing while
with his proud army. After a vigourous shake of the hand and a friendly
_Auf Wiedersehen!_ the energetic young Imperial Prince got into his car
and went off to his duty.


XI--"I WAS ONCE MORE AT THE EMPEROR'S TABLE"

I was once more honoured with an invitation to dine at the Emperor's
table at one o'clock. Those present, apart from the Chamberlain,
included Herren von Plessen, von Gontard and von Busch, the latter
being the German Minister at Luxemburg, also the Emperor's Field
Chaplain and a couple of adjutants. In the forenoon news had been
received of the illness of Prince Oskar. He had contracted some sort
of heart complaint through over-exertion. I expected therefore to find
the Emperor a bit depressed, but there was no sign of it. He walked in
with youthful and military bearing, honoured me once more with a hearty
handshake and bade me welcome back from the 5th Army. Thereupon he took
a letter out of his pocket and asked me to read it through carefully.
Whilst His Majesty was talking to his suite, I read the letter. It was
addressed to the Emperor personally and was written by a sergeant who
had been at Prince Joachim's side when he was wounded. Now the sergeant
wanted to tell his august master how gallantly the Prince had borne
himself and what an example he had been to the soldiers. The letter was
simply and ingenuously written and showed how deep and strong is the
loyalty which binds the German Army to its supreme Chief and Emperor.
The loyalty and unity between Emperor and people, between Commander
and Army, form the firm and immovable rock on which the German Empire
has been built up. When the Emperor turned to me again and asked what
I thought of the letter, I merely answered: "It must be a pleasure to
your Majesty to receive such messages from the rank and file."

"Yes," he replied. "There is nothing that gives me so much pleasure
as these proofs of the faithful loyalty of my people and the close
bonds which bind me to my entire army. Such a letter as this I treasure
amongst my most valued possessions."

Then we talked about Prince Oskar's illness, and whilst on this topic,
the Emperor said: "So you see, now Hohenzollern blood, too, has flowed.
I have six sons and a nephew with me in the war and among the many
German Princes who are fighting at the front several have already given
their lives for Germany's sake."


XII--"SUPPER WITH CROWN PRINCE OF BAVARIA"

We were to drive to Douai, where we were invited to take supper at
8 P.M. with the ... Crown Prince of Bavaria. The distance
is nearly thirty-four kilometres and can easily be covered in
three-quarters of an hour, but the numerous posts stationed on the road
took up much of our time. It was five minutes to eight when we arrived.
An adjutant conducted us to a drawing-room, and we had not waited half
a minute when the Crown Prince entered.

He is one of those rare men whom all love and admire--all except the
English, for I think that even the French cannot help paying him a meed
of respect. In the German army he is looked upon as a very eminent
general--a born strategist and a thoroughly schooled soldier. As
regards appearance, manner and speech, he is fascinating and congenial
in the highest degree, neither regal nor humble, but without artifice
and modest like an ordinary mortal. When one _knows_ that he has
recently experienced the greatest private sorrow which could befall
him, one fancies, perhaps, that one detects a trace thereof in his
features--an air of sadness--but otherwise he does not betray, by a
look or a sigh, how deeply he grieves over the death of the little
prince of thirteen, the darling of all Bavaria. When the country and
the empire are in danger, all private sorrows must be put aside!
The Crown Prince has no time to grieve or to think of the void and
bereavement which he will feel on his victorious return to Munich.
He lives for and with his army, and is like a father to each and all
of his soldiers. He devotes all his power of mind, all his physical
strength, all his time, to the one great object which dominates all
else in the minds of the whole German army.

Crown Prince Rupprecht walks in with brisk and easy stride, stretches
out his hands towards us and gives us a truly cordial welcome. And then
he adds half-humourously: "I expect some other distinguished guests at
my table to-night."

"Who can that be?" asks the Duke.

"The Emperor!" replies the Crown Prince, and clasps his hands together.

"The Emperor?" we cry, for we had no idea that His Majesty was in this
part of the country.

"Yes, the Emperor has visited several units in this neighbourhood
to-day, and has promised ... Hush, I hear his car!" and with that the
Crown Prince hurried out.

Meanwhile the Officers of the General Staff of the Army came to greet
us, and presently the Emperor's suite, among whom I knew several, also
entered. Before I had time to wonder where the supreme War-Lord himself
had gone, we were asked to step into the dining-room. The Emperor was
already seated at the table. We all stepped up to our chairs, but no
one seated himself. The Emperor sat with bowed head, looking very
grave. But suddenly his blue eyes flashed up, and he nodded kindly
in all directions. When he caught sight of me, he extended his hand
across the table and cried gaily: "_Guten Tag, mein lieber Sven Hedin;
es scheint Ihnen gut zu gefallen in meiner Armee_," a sentiment which I
confirmed with the greatest alacrity.

Perhaps it might amuse the reader to hear who were the ten people
seated round Crown Prince Rupprecht's table. Duke Adolf Friedrich of
Mecklenburg sat at the Emperor's right, and Prince Löwenstein at his
left. Right opposite the Emperor sat the Crown Prince--the host--with
Colonel-General von Plessen, Adjutant-General, at his right and myself
at his left. Next to me on the other side was Lieut.-General von
Marschall, with Colonel Tappen, of the Crown Prince's staff, on his
left. To the left of Prince Löwenstein sat General Falkenhayn, Minister
of War, and between him and General von Plessen the chief of the Crown
Prince's staff, General Krafft von Dellmensingen. At another table of
about the same size, covers had been laid for the other gentlemen of
the Emperor's and Crown Prince's staff and suite.


XIII--"THE WAR LORD IN JOLLY SPIRITS"

The Emperor was in brilliant spirits. I really do not know whether he
_can_ be otherwise, for whenever I have had the honour to meet him, he
has always been merry, amiable and witty. He can certainly express at
times in words of thunder his displeasure at some contemptible act on
the part of the enemy, but he is soon sunshine again and bursts into
irresistible laughter at some whimsical idea. He has a wonderful gift
of instilling life into a party and keeping the conversation at high
pitch--as he did here for over two and a half hours. He told us a great
deal of most interesting news, things which had happened in different
parts of the field during the last few days and which, at least to me
and to the Duke, were news indeed. If one asks the Emperor any question
about the conditions in more or less remote countries, as to which
sparse or contradictory information has come to one's ears, he will,
off-hand, and with a masterly marshalling of facts, deliver a veritable
lecture on its internal and external policy, its public sentiments, its
resources, and its military strength. I think I have never met a man
who can rival Emperor William in this respect.

He also possesses the faculty of grasping with lightning quickness
and judging the opinions expressed by others. He listened with the
liveliest interest to Crown Prince Rupprecht as the latter gave
him various details about his army, and to me when I described the
bombardment of Ostend.

It was past half-past ten when the Emperor laid down his cigar and
rose to say good-bye with that vigorous handshake which leaves its
mark on one's knuckles. The Crown Prince alone accompanied him out
into the hall, which immediately adjoined the dining-room and from
which a few steps led out into the road. A soldier stood ready holding
the Emperor's light greyish-blue cloak, with dark fur collar; another
handed him the plain Prussian officer's field-cap. After the host and
his guest had exchanged a few more words they went out to the car,
which drove off rapidly into the night.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in
original sources.

[3] From the line "_Lieb Vaterland magst ruhig sein_" ("Be undismayed,
dear Fatherland"), in _Die Wacht am Rhein_.




"THE FIRST HUNDRED THOUSAND"--WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY IN FRANCE

_Stories Straight from the Trenches_

_Told by Captain Ian Hay Beith, Famous Scotch Novelist with the Argyil
and Sutherland Highlanders_

  Ian Hay's collection of War stories is pronounced in England "the
  greatest book of the War." This Scotch novelist went to the trenches
  to fight with the Highlanders. He sends "back home" graphic and
  absorbing stories of a thousand heroes. They are full of humor, with
  bits of superb character drawing that make the men at the front seem
  like old friends. His division has been badly cut up and seriously
  reduced in numbers during the War; he has risen from a sub-lieutenant
  to the rank of Captain, finally to be transferred to the machine
  gun division and recommended for a military cross. The story of the
  first hundred thousand was originally contributed in the form of an
  anonymous narrative to _Blackwood's Magazine_. In a letter to his
  publishers, Capt. Beith describes the circumstances under which he
  is writing: "I write this from the stone floor of an outhouse, where
  the pigmeal is first accumulated and then boiled up at a particularly
  smelly French farm, which is saying a good deal. It is a most
  interesting life and if I come through the present unpleasantness
  I shall have enough copy to last me twenty years." His pictures of
  the Great Struggle, uniquely rich in graphic human detail, have been
  collected into a volume, "The First Hundred Thousand," by _Houghton,
  Mifflin and Company_, of Boston and New York, which is creating wide
  attention. One of the stories entitled, "The Front of the Front," is
  here retold by permission of his publishers.

[4] I--THE FRONT OF THE FRONT

We took over these trenches a few days ago; and as the Germans are
barely two hundred yards away, this chapter seems to justify its
title.... We find that we are committed to an indefinite period of
trench life, like every one else.

Certainly we are starting at the bottom of the ladder. These trenches
are badly sited, badly constructed, difficult of access from the rear,
and swarming with large, fat, unpleasant flies, of the bluebottle
variety. They go to sleep, chiefly upon the ceiling of one's dugout,
during the short hours of darkness, but for twenty hours out of
twenty-four they are very busy indeed. They divide their attentions
between stray carrion--there is a good deal hereabout--and our rations.
If you sit still for five minutes they also settle upon _you_, like
pins in a pincushion. Then, when face, hands, and knees can endure
no more, and the inevitable convulsive wriggle occurs, they rise in
a vociferous swarm, only to settle again when the victim becomes
quiescent. To these, high-explosives are a welcome relief.

The trenches themselves are no garden city, like those at Armentières.
They were sited and dug in the dark, not many weeks ago, to secure two
hundred yards of French territory recovered from the Boche by bomb and
bayonet. (The captured trench lies behind us now, and serves as our
second line.) They are muddy--you come to water at three feet--and at
one end, owing to their concave formation, are open to enfilade. The
parapet in many places is too low. If you make it higher with sandbags
you offer the enemy a comfortable target: if you deepen the trench you
turn it into a running stream. Therefore long-legged subalterns crawl
painfully past these danger-spots on all-fours, envying Little Tich.


II--STORY OF ZACCHAEUS: "HE LIVES UP A TREE"

Then there is Zacchæus. We call him by this name because he lives up
a tree. There is a row of pollarded willows standing parallel to our
front, a hundred and fifty yards away. Up, or in, one of these lives
Zacchæus. We have never seen him, but we know he is there; because
if you look over the top of the parapet he shoots you through the
head. We do not even know which of the trees he lives in. There are
nine of them, and every morning we comb them out, one by one, with a
machine-gun. But all in vain. Zacchæus merely crawls away into the
standing corn behind his trees, and waits till we have finished. Then
he comes back and tries to shoot the machine-gun officer. He has not
succeeded yet, but he sticks to his task with gentle persistence. He is
evidently of a persevering rather than vindictive disposition.

Then there is Unter den Linden. This celebrated thoroughfare is an old
communication-trench. It runs, half-ruined, from the old German trench
in our rear, right through our own front line, to the present German
trenches. It constitutes such a bogey as the Channel Tunnel scheme once
was: each side sits jealously at its own end, anticipating hostile
enterprises from the other. It is also the residence of "Minnie." But
we will return to Minnie later.

The artillery of both sides, too, contributes its mite. There is a dull
roar far in the rear of the German trenches, followed by a whirring
squeak overhead. Then comes an earth-shaking crash a mile behind us.
We whip round, and there, in the failing evening light, against the
sunset, there springs up the silhouette of a mighty tree in full
foliage. Presently the silhouette disperses, drifts away, and----

"The coals is hame, right enough!" comments Private Tosh.

Instantly our guns reply, and we become the humble spectators of an
artillery duel. Of course, if the enemy gets tired of "searching" the
countryside for our guns and takes to "searching" our trenches instead,
we lose all interest in the proceedings, and retire to our dugouts,
hoping that no direct hits will come our way.

But guns are notoriously erratic in their time-tables, and fickle in
their attentions. It is upon Zacchæus and Unter den Linden--including
Minnie--that we mainly rely for excitement.


III--STORY OF AYLING OF THE MACHINE GUNNERS

As already recorded, we took over these trenches a few days ago, in the
small hours of the morning. In the ordinary course of events, relieving
parties are usually able to march up under cover of darkness to the
reserve trench, half a mile in rear of the firing line, and so proceed
to their appointed place. But on this occasion the German artillery
happened to be "distributing coal" among the billets behind. This made
it necessary to approach our new home by tortuous ways, and to take to
subterranean courses at a very early stage of the journey. For more
than two hours we toiled along a trench just wide enough to permit a
man to wear his equipment, sometimes bent double to avoid the bullets
of snipers, sometimes knee-deep in glutinous mud.

Ayling, leading a machine-gun section who were burdened with their
weapons and seven thousand rounds of ammunition, mopped his steaming
brow and inquired of his guide how much farther there was to go.

"Abart two miles, sir," replied the youth with gloomy satisfaction. He
was a private of the Cockney regiment whom we were relieving; and after
the manner of his kind, would infinitely have preferred to conduct us
down half a mile of a shell-swept road, leading straight to the heart
of things, than waste time upon an uninteresting but safe _détour_.

At this Ayling's Number One, who was carrying a machine-gun tripod
weighing forty-eight pounds, said something--something distressingly
audible--and groaned deeply.

"If we'd come the way I wanted," continued the guide, much pleased with
the effect of his words upon his audience, "we'd a' been there by now.
But the Adjutant, 'e says to me----"

"If we had come the way you wanted," interrupted Ayling brutally, "we
should probably have been in Kingdom Come by now. Hurry up!" Ayling, in
common with the rest of those present, was not in the best of tempers,
and the loquacity of the guide had been jarring upon him for some time.

The Cockney private, with the air of a deeply-wronged man, sulkily led
on, followed by the dolorous procession. Another ten minutes' labored
progress brought them to a place where several ways met.

"This is the beginning of the reserve trenches, sir," announced the
guide. "If we'd come the way I----"

"Lead on!" said Ayling, and his perspiring followers murmured
threatening applause.

The guide, now in his own territory, selected the muddiest opening and
plunged down it. For two hundred yards or so he continued serenely upon
his way, with the air of one exhibiting the metropolis to a party of
country cousins. He passed numerous turnings. Then, once or twice, he
paused irresolutely; then moved on. Finally he halted, and proceeded to
climb out of the trench.

"What are you doing?" demanded Ayling suspiciously.

"We got to cut across the open 'ere, sir," said the youth glibly.
"Trench don't go no farther. Keep as low as you can."

With resigned grunts the weary pilgrims hoisted themselves and their
numerous burdens out of their slimy thoroughfare, and followed their
conductor through the long grass in single file, feeling painfully
conspicuous against the whitening sky. Presently they discovered, and
descended into, another trench--all but the man with the tripod, who
descended into it before he discovered it--and proceeded upon their
dolorous way. Once more the guide, who had been refreshingly but
ominously silent for some time, paused irresolutely.

"Look here, my man," said Ayling, "do you, or do you not, know where
you are?"

The paragon replied hesitatingly:--

"Well, sir, if we'd come by the way I----"

Ayling took a deep breath, and though conscious of the presence of
formidable competitors, was about to make the best of an officer's
vocabulary, when a kilted figure loomed out of the darkness.

"Hallo! Who are you?" inquired Ayling.

"This iss the Camerons' trenches, sirr," replied a polite West Highland
voice. "What trenches wass you seeking?"

Ayeling told him.

"They are behind you, sirr."

"I was just goin' to say, sir," chanted the guide, making one last
effort to redeem his prestige, "as 'ow----"

"Party," commanded Ayling, "about turn!"

Having received details of the route from the friendly Cameron, he
scrambled out of the trench and crawled along to what was now the head
of the procession. A plaintive voice followed him.

"Beg pardon, sir, where shall _I_ go now?"

Ayling answered the question explicitly, and moved off, feeling much
better. The late conductor of the party trailed disconsolately in the
rear.

"I should like to know wot I'm 'ere for," he murmured indignantly.

He got his answer, like a lightning-flash.

"For tae carry _this_," said the man with the tripod, turning round.
"Here, caatch!"


IV--A DAY'S WORK IN THE TRENCHES

The day's work in trenches begins about nine o'clock the night
before. Darkness having fallen, various parties steal out into the
No-Man's-Land beyond the parapet. There are numerous things to be done.
The barbed wire has been broken up by shrapnel, and must be repaired.
The whole position in front of the wire must be patrolled, to prevent
the enemy from creeping forward in the dark. The corn has grown to
an uncomfortable height in places, so a fatigue party is told off to
cut it--surely the strangest species of harvesting that the annals of
agriculture can record. On the left front the muffled clinking of picks
and shovels announces that a "sap" is in course of construction: those
incorrigible night-birds, the Royal Engineers, are making it for the
machine-gunners, who in the fullness of time will convey their voluble
weapon to its forward extremity, and "loose off a belt or two" in the
direction of a rather dangerous hollow midway between the trenches,
from which of late mysterious sounds of digging and guttural talking
have been detected by the officer who lies in the listening-post, in
front of our barbed-wire entanglement, drawing secrets from the bowels
of the earth by means of a microphone.

Behind the firing trench even greater activity prevails. Damage done to
the parapet by shell fire is being repaired. Positions and emplacements
are being constantly improved, communication trenches widened or made
more secure. Down these trenches fatigue parties are filing, to draw
rations and water and ammunition from the limbered wagons which are
waiting in the shadow of a wood, perhaps a mile back. It is at this
hour, too, that the wounded, who have been lying pathetically cheerful
and patient in the dressing-station in the reserve trench, are smuggled
to the Field Ambulance--probably to find themselves safe in a London
hospital within twenty-four hours. Lastly, under the kindly cloak of
night, we bury our dead.

Meanwhile, within various stifling dugouts, in the firing trench or
support trench, overheated company commanders are dictating reports
or filling in returns. (Even now the Round Game Department is not
entirely shaken off.) There is the casualty return, and a report on
the doings of the enemy, and another report of one's own doings, and a
report on the direction of the wind, and so on. Then there are various
indents to fill up--scrawled on a wobbly writing-block with a blunt
indelible pencil by the light of a guttering candle--for ammunition,
and sandbags, and revetting material.

All this literature has to be sent to Battalion Headquarters by one
A.M., either by orderly or telephone. There it is collated
and condensed, and forwarded to the Brigade, which submits it to the
same process and sends it on, to be served up piping hot and easily
digestible at the breakfast-table of the Division, five miles away, at
eight o'clock.


V--SOLDIERS' NIGHT AT THE FRONT

You must not imagine, however, that all this nightwork is performed in
gross darkness. On the contrary. There is abundance of illumination;
and by a pretty thought, each side illuminates the other. We perform
our nocturnal tasks, in front of and behind the firing trench, amid a
perfect hail of star-shells and magnesium lights, topped up at times by
a searchlight--all supplied by our obliging friend the Hun. We, on our
part, do our best to return these graceful compliments.

The curious and uncanny part of it all is that there is no firing.
During these brief hours there exists an informal truce, founded on
the principle of live and let live. It would be an easy business to
wipe out that working-party, over there by the barbed wire, with
a machine-gun. It would be child's play to shell the road behind
the enemy's trenches, crowded as it must be with ration-wagons and
water-carts, into a blood-stained wilderness. But so long as each
side confines itself to purely defensive and recuperative work, there
is little or no interference. That slave of duty, Zacchæus, keeps on
pegging away; and occasionally, if a hostile patrol shows itself too
boldly, there is a little exuberance from a machine-gun; but on the
whole there is silence. After all, if you prevent your enemy from
drawing his rations, his remedy is simple: he will prevent you from
drawing yours. Then both parties will have to fight on empty stomachs,
and neither of them, tacitally, will be a penny the better. So, unless
some elaborate scheme of attack is brewing, the early hours of the
night are comparatively peaceful. But what is that sudden disturbance
in the front-line trench? A British rifle rings out, then another,
and another, until there is an agitated fusilade from end to end of
the section. Instantly the sleepless host across the way replies, and
for three minutes or so a hurricane rages. The working parties out in
front lie flat on their faces, cursing patiently. Suddenly the storm
dies away, and perfect silence reigns once more. It was a false alarm.
Some watchman, deceived by the whispers of the night breeze, or merely
a prey to nerves, has discerned a phantom army approaching through the
gloom, and has opened fire thereon. This often occurs when troops are
new to trench-work.

It is during these hours, too, that regiments relieve one another
in the trenches. The outgoing regiment cannot leave its post until
the incoming regiment has "taken over." Consequently you have, for
a brief space, two thousand troops packed into a trench calculated
to hold one thousand. Then it is that strong men swear themselves
faint, and the Rugby football player has reason to be thankful for his
previous training in the art of "getting through the scrum." However
perfect your organization may be, congestion is bound to occur here
and there; and it is no little consolation to us to feel, as we surge
and sway in the darkness, that over there in the German lines a Saxon
and a Prussian private, irretrievably jammed together in a narrow
communication trench, are consigning one another to perdition in just
the same husky whisper as that employed by Private Mucklewame and his
"opposite number" in the regiment which has come to relieve him.

These "reliefs" take place every four or five nights. There was a time,
not so long ago, when a regiment was relieved, not when it was weary,
but when another regiment could be found to replace it. Our own first
battalion once remained in the trenches, unrelieved and only securing
its supplies with difficulty, for five weeks and three days. During all
that time they were subject to most pressing attentions on the part of
the Boches, but they never lost a yard of trench. They received word
from Headquarters that to detach another regiment for their relief
would seriously weaken other and most important dispositions. The
Commander-in-Chief would therefore be greatly obliged if they could
hold on. So they held on.

At last they came out, and staggered back to billets. Their old
quarters, naturally, had long been appropriated by other troops, and
the officers had some difficulty in recovering their kits.

"I don't mind being kept in trenches for several weeks," remarked their
commander to the staff officer who received him when he reported, "and
I can put up with losing my sleeping-bag; but I do object to having my
last box of cigars looted by the blackguards who took over our billets!"

The staff officer expressed sympathy, and the subject dropped. But not
many days later, when the battalion were still resting, their commander
was roused in the middle of the night from the profound slumber which
only the experience of many nights of anxious vigil can induce, by the
ominous message:--

"An orderly to see you, from General Headquarters, sir!"

The colonel rolled stoically out of bed, and commanded that the orderly
should be brought before him.

The man entered, carrying, not a despatch, but a package, which he
proffered with a salute.

"With the Commander-in-Chief's compliments, sir!" he announced.

The package was a box of cigars!

But that was before the days of "K(1)."

But the night is wearing on. It is half-past one--time to knock off
work. Tired men, returning from ration-drawing or sap-digging, throw
themselves down and fall dead asleep in a moment. Only the sentries,
with their elbows on the parapet, maintain their sleepless watch. From
behind the enemy's lines comes a deep boom--then another. The big guns
are waking up again, and have decided to commence their day's work by
speeding our empty ration-wagons upon their homeward way. Let them!
So long as they refrain from practising direct hits on our front-line
parapet, and disturbing our brief and hardly-earned repose, they may
fire where they please. The ration train is well able to look after
itself.

"A whiff o' shrapnel will dae nae harrm to thae strawberry-jam
pinchers!" observes Private Tosh bitterly, rolling into his dugout. By
this opprobrious term he designates that distinguished body of men,
the Army Service Corps. A prolonged diet of plum-and-apple jam has
implanted in the breasts of the men in the trenches certain dark and
unworthy suspicions concerning the entire altruism of those responsible
for the distribution of the Army's rations.


VI--DAYBREAK--"STAND TO ARMS!"

It is close on daybreak, and the customary whispered order runs down
the stertorous trench:--

"Stand to arms!"

Straightway the parapets are lined with armed men; the waterproof
sheets which have been protecting the machine-guns from the dews of
night are cast off; and we stand straining our eyes into the whitening
darkness.

This is the favorite hour for attack. At any moment the guns may open
fire upon our parapet, or a solid wall of gray-clad figures rise from
that strip of corn-land less than a hundred yards away, and descend
upon us. Well, we are ready for them. Just by way of signalizing the
fact, there goes out a ragged volley of rifle fire, and a machine-gun
rips off half a dozen bursts into the standing corn. But apparently
there is nothing doing this morning. The day grows brighter, but there
is no movement upon the part of Brother Boche.

But--what is that light haze hanging over the enemy's trenches? It is
slight, almost impalpable, but it appears to be drifting towards us.
Can it be----?

Next moment every man is hurriedly pulling his gas helmet over his
head, while Lieutenant Waddell beats a frenzied tocsin upon the
instrument provided for the purpose--to wit, an empty eighteen-pounder
shell, which, suspended from a bayonet stuck into the parados (or back
wall) of the trench, makes a most efficient alarm-gong. The sound is
repeated all along the trench, and in two minutes every man is in his
place, cowled like a member of the Holy Inquisition, glaring through an
eye-piece of mica, and firing madly into the approaching wall of vapour.

But the wall approaches very slowly--in fact, it almost stands
still--and finally, as the rising sun disentangles itself from a pink
horizon and climbs into the sky, it begins to disappear. In half
an hour nothing is left, and we take off our helmets, sniffing the
morning air dubiously. But all we smell is the old mixture--corpses and
chloride of lime.

The incident, however, was duly recorded by Major Kemp in his report of
the day's events, as follows:--

4.7 A.M.--_Gas alarm, false. Due either to morning mist, or
the fact that enemy found breeze insufficient, and discontinued their
attempt._

"Still, I'm not sure," he continued, slapping his bald head with a
bandanna handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlorine or bromine wouldn't do
these trenches a considerable amount of good. It would tone down some
of the deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Waddell, if I
give you a shilling, will you take it over to the German trenches and
ask them to drop it into the meter?"

"I do not think, sir," replied the literal Waddell, "that an English
shilling would fit a German meter. Probably a mark would be required,
and I have only a franc. Besides, sir, do you think that----"

"Surgical operation at seven-thirty, sharp!" intimated the major to the
medical officer, who entered the dugout at that moment. "For our friend
here"--indicating the bewildered Waddell. "Sydney Smith's prescription!
Now, what about breakfast?"


VII--NINE O'CLOCK--"A LITTLE MORNING HATE"

About nine o'clock the enemy indulges in what is usually described,
most disrespectfully, as "a little morning hate"--in other words, a
bombardment. Beginning with a _hors d'oeuvre_ of shrapnel along
the reserve trench--much to the discomfort of Headquarters, who are
shaving--he proceeds to "search" a tract of woodland in our immediate
rear, his quarry being a battery of motor machine-guns, which has
wisely decamped some hours previously. Then, after scientifically
"traversing" our second line, which has rashly advertised its position
and range by cooking its breakfast over a smoky fire, he brings the
display to a superfluous conclusion by dropping six "Black Marias" into
the deserted ruins of a village not far behind us. After that comes
silence; and we are able, in our hot, baking trenches, assisted by
clouds of bluebottles, to get on with the day's work.

This consists almost entirely in digging. As already stated, these
are bad trenches. The parapet is none too strong--at one point it has
been knocked down for three days running--the communication trenches
are few and narrow, and there are not nearly enough dugouts. Yesterday
three men were wounded; and owing to the impossibility of carrying a
stretcher along certain parts of the trench, they had to be conveyed
to the rear in their ground-sheets--bumped against projections, bent
round sharp corners, and sometimes lifted, perforce, bodily into view
of the enemy. So every man toils with a will, knowing full well that in
a few hours' time he may prove to have been his own benefactor. Only
the sentries remain at the parapets. They no longer expose themselves,
as at night, but take advantage of the laws of optical reflection,
as exemplified by the trench periscope. (This, in spite of its grand
title, is nothing but a tiny mirror clipped on to a bayonet.)

At half-past twelve comes dinner--bully-beef, with biscuit and
jam--after which each tired man, coiling himself up in the trench, or
crawling underground, according to the accommodation at his disposal,
drops off into instant and heavy slumber. The hours from two till five
in the afternoon are usually the most uneventful of the twenty-four,
and are therefore devoted to hardly-earned repose.


VIII--STORY OF AN AFTERNOON WITH CAPTAIN BLAIKIE

But there is to be little peace this afternoon. About half-past three,
Bobby Little, immersed in pleasant dreams--dreams of cool shades and
dainty companionship--is brought suddenly to the surface of things by--

"Whoo-oo-_oo_-oo-UMP!"--followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his
dugout. Earth and small stones descend in a shower upon him.

"Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch. Then he puts his head
out of the dugout.

"Lie close, you men!" he cries. "There's more of this coming. Any
casualties?"

The answer to the question is obscured by another burst of shrapnel,
which explodes a few yards short of a parapet, and showers bullets and
fragments of shell into the trench. A third and a fourth follow. Then
comes a pause. A message is passed down for the stretcher-bearers.
Things are growing serious. Five minutes later Bobby, having despatched
his wounded to the dressing-station, proceeds with all haste to Captain
Blaikie's dugout.

"How many, Bobby?"

"Six wounded. Two of them won't last as far as the rear, I'm afraid,
sir."

Captain Blaikie looks grave.

"Better ring up the Gunners, I think. Where are the shells coming from?"

"That wood on our left front, I think."

"That's P 27. Telephone orderly, there?"

A figure appears in the doorway.

"Yes, sirr."

"Ring up Major Cavanagh, and say that H 21 is being shelled from P 27.
Retaliate!"

"Verra good, sirr."

The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five minutes.

"Major Cavanagh's compliments, sirr, and he is coming up himself for
tae observe from the firing trench."

"Good egg!" observes Captain Blaikie. "Now we shall see some shooting,
Bobby!"

Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by an orderly, who
pays out wire as he goes. The major adjusts his periscope, while the
orderly thrusts a metal peg into the ground and fits a telephone
receiver to his head.

"Number one gun!" chants the major, peering into his periscope;
"three-five-one-nothing--lyddite--fourth charge!"

These mystic observations are repeated into the telephone by the
Cockney orderly, in a confidential undertone.

"Report when ready!" continues the major.

"Report when ready!" echoes the orderly. Then--"Number one gun ready,
sir!"

"Fire!"

"Fire!" Then, politely--"Number one has fired, sir."

The major stiffens to his periscope, and Bobby Little, deeply
interested, wonders what has become of the report of the gun. He
forgets that sound does not travel much faster than a thousand feet
a second, and that the guns are a mile and a half back. Presently,
however, there is a distant boom. Almost simultaneously the lyddite
shell passes overhead with a scream. Bobby, having no periscope, cannot
see the actual result of the shot, though he tempts Providence (and
Zacchæus) by peering over the top of the parapet.

"Number one, two-nothing minutes more right," commands the major. "Same
range and charge."

Once more the orderly goes through his ritual, and presently another
shell screams overhead.

Again the major observes the result.

"Repeat!" he says. "Nothing-five seconds more right."

This time he is satisfied.

"Parallel lines on number one," he commands crisply. "One round battery
fire--twenty seconds!"

For the last time the order is passed down the wire, and the major
hands his periscope to the ever-grateful Bobby, who has hardly got
his eyes to the glass when the round of battery fire commences.
One--two--three--four--the avenging shells go shrieking on their way,
at intervals of twenty seconds. There are four muffled thuds, and four
great columns of earth and _débris_ spring up before the wood. Answer
comes there none. The offending battery has prudently effaced itself.

"Cease fire!" says the major, "and register!" Then he turns to Captain
Blaikie.

"That'll settle them for a bit," he observes. "By the way, had any more
trouble with Minnie?"

"We had Hades from her yesterday," replies Blaikie, in answer to this
extremely personal question. "She started at a quarter-past five in the
morning, and went on till about ten."


IX--STORY OF "MINNIE--THE MOST UNPLEASANT OF HER SEX"

(Perhaps, at this point, it would be as well to introduce Minnie a
little more formally. She is the most unpleasant of her sex, and her
full name is _Minenwerfer_, or German trench-mortar. She resides,
spasmodically, in Unter den Linden. Her extreme range is about two
hundred yards, so she confines her attentions to front-line trenches.
Her _modus operandi_ is to discharge a large cylindrical bomb into the
air. The bomb, which is about fifteen inches long and some eight inches
in diameter, describes a leisurely parabola, performing grotesque
somersaults on the way, and finally falls with a soft thud into the
trench or against the parapet. There, after an interval of ten seconds,
Minnie's offspring explodes; and as she contains about thirty pounds of
dynamite, no dugout or parapet can stand against her.)

"Did she do much damage?" inquires the Gunner.

"Killed two men and buried another. They were in a dugout."

The Gunner shakes his head.

"No good taking cover against Minnie," he says. "The only way is to
come out into the open trench, and dodge her."

"So we found," replies Blaikie. "But they pulled our legs badly the
first time. They started off with three 'whizz-bangs'"--a whizz-bang is
a particularly offensive form of shell which bursts two or three times
over, like a Chinese cracker--"so we all took cover and lay low. The
consequence was that Minnie was able to send her little contribution
along unobserved. The filthy thing fell short of the trench, and
exploded just as we were all getting up again. It smashed up three or
four yards of parapet, and scuppered the three poor chaps I mentioned."

"Have you located her?"

"Yes. Just behind that stunted willow, on our left front. I fancy they
bring her along there to do her bit, and then trot her back to billets,
out of harm's way. She is their two o'clock turn--two A.M.
_and two_ P.M."

"Two o'clock turn--h'm!" says the Gunner major meditatively. "What
about our chipping in with a one-fifty-five turn--half a dozen H E
shells into Minnie's dressing-room--eh? I must think this over."

"Do!" said Blaikie cordially. "Minnie is Willie's Worst Werfer, and the
sooner she is put out of action the better for all of us. To-day, for
some reason, she failed to appear, but previous to that she has not
failed for five mornings in succession to batter down the same bit of
our parapet."

"Where's that?" asks the major, getting out a trench-map.

"P 7--a most unhealthy spot. Minnie pushes it over about two every
morning. The result is that we have to mount guard over the breach
all day. We build everything up again at night, and Minnie sits there
as good as gold, and never dreams of interfering. You can almost
hear her cooing over us. Then, as I say, at two o'clock, just as the
working party comes in and gets under cover, she lets slip one of her
disgusting bombs, and undoes the work of about four hours. It was a
joke at first, but we are getting fed up now. That's the worst of the
Boche. He starts by being playful; but if not suppressed at once,
he gets rough; and that, of course, spoils all the harmony of the
proceedings. So I cordially commend your idea of the one-fifty-five
turn, sir."

"I'll see what can be done," says the major. "I think the best plan
would be a couple of hours' solid frightfulness, from every battery we
can switch on. To-morrow afternoon, perhaps, but I'll let you know.
You'll have to clear out of this bit of trench altogether, as we shall
shoot pretty low. So long!"


X--HOW HOURS PASS IN THE DUGOUT

It is six o'clock next evening, and peace reigns over our trench. This
is the hour at which one usually shells aeroplanes--or rather, at which
the Germans shell ours, for their own seldom venture out in broad
daylight. But this evening, although two or three are up in the blue,
buzzing inquisitively over the enemy's lines, their attendant escort of
white shrapnel puffs is entirely lacking. Far away behind the German
lines a house is burning fiercely.

"The Hun is a bit _piano_ to-night," observes Captain Blaikie,
attacking his tea.

"The Hun has been rather firmly handled this afternoon," replies
Captain Wagstaffe. "I think he has had an eye-opener. There are no
flies on our Divisional Artillery."

Bobby Little heaved a contented sigh. For two hours that afternoon
he had sat, half-deafened, while six-inch shells skimmed the parapet
in both directions, a few feet above his head. The Gunner major had
been as good as his word. Punctually at one-fifty-five "Minnie's" two
o'clock turn had been anticipated by a round of high-explosive shells
directed into her suspected place of residence. What the actual result
had been nobody knew, but Minnie had made no attempt to raise her voice
since. Thereafter the German front-line trenches had been "plastered"
from end to end, while the trenches farther back were attended to
with methodical thoroughness. The German guns had replied vigorously,
but directing only a passing fire at the trenches, had devoted their
efforts chiefly to the silencing of the British artillery. In this
enterprise they had been remarkably unsuccessful.

"Any casualties?" asked Blaikie.

"None here," replied Wagstaffe. "There may be some back in the support
trenches."

"We might telephone and inquire."

"No good at present. The wires are all cut to pieces. The signallers
are repairing them now."

"_I_ was nearly a casualty," confessed Bobby modestly.

"How?"

"That first shell of ours nearly knocked my head off! I was standing
up at the time, and it rather took me by surprise. It just cleared the
parados. In fact, it kicked a lot of gravel into the back of my neck."

"Most people get it in the neck here, sooner or later," remarked
Captain Blaikie sententiously. "Personally, I don't much mind being
killed, but I do bar being buried alive. That is why I dislike Minnie
so." He rose, and stretched himself. "Heigho! I suppose it's about
time we detailed patrols and working parties for to-night. What a
lovely sky! A truly peaceful atmosphere--what? It gives one a sort of
Sunday-evening feeling, somehow."

"May I suggest an explanation?" said Wagstaffe.

"By all means."

"It _is_ Sunday evening!"

Captain Blaikie whistled gently, and said--

"By Jove, so it is." Then, after a pause: "This time last Sunday--"


XI--A SOLDIER'S SUNDAY AT THE FRONT

Last Sunday had been an off-day--a day of cloudless summer beauty.
Tired men had slept; tidy men had washed their clothes; restless men
had wandered at ease about the countryside, careless of the guns which
grumbled everlastingly a few miles away. There had been impromptu
Church Parades for each denomination, in the corner of a wood which was
part of the demesne of a shell-torn château.

It is a sadly transformed wood. The open space before the château,
once a smooth expanse of tennis-lawn, is now a dusty picketing-ground
for transport mules, destitute of a single blade of grass. The
ornamental lake is full of broken bottles and empty jam-tins. The
pagoda-like summer house, so inevitable to French château gardens, is
a quartermaster's store. Half the trees have been cut down for fuel.
Still, the July sun streams very pleasantly through the remainder, and
the Psalms of David float up from beneath their shade quite as sweetly
as they usually do from the neighborhood of the precentor's desk in the
kirk at home--perhaps sweeter.

The wood itself is a _point d'appui_, or fortified post. One has to
take precautions, even two or three miles behind the main firing line.
A series of trenches zigzags in and out among the trees, and barbed
wire is interlaced with the undergrowth. In the farthermost corner
lies an improvised cemetery. Some of the inscriptions on the little
wooden crosses are only three days old. Merely to read a few of these
touches the imagination and stirs the blood. Here you may see the names
of English Tommies and Highland Jocks, side by side with their Canadian
kith and kin. A little apart lie more graves, surmounted by epitaphs
written in strange characters, such as few white men can read. These
are the Indian troops. There they lie, side by side--the mute wastage
of war, but a living testimony, even in their last sleep, to the
breadth and unity of the British Empire. The great, machine-made Empire
of Germany can show no such graves: when her soldiers die, they sleep
alone.

The Church of England service had come last of all. Late in the
afternoon a youthful and red-faced chaplain had arrived on a bicycle,
to find a party of officers and men lying in the shade of a broad
oak waiting for him. (They were a small party: naturally, the great
majority of the regiment are what the identity-discs call "Pres" or
"R.C.")

"Sorry to be late, sir," he said to the senior officer, saluting. "This
is my sixth sh--service to-day, and I have come seven miles for it."

He mopped his brow cheerfully; and having produced innumerable
hymn-books from a saddle-bag and set his congregation in array, read
them the service, in a particularly pleasing and well-modulated voice.
After that he preached a modest and manly little sermon, containing
references which carried Bobby Little, for one, back across the Channel
to other scenes and other company. After the sermon came a hymn, sung
with great vigor. Tommy loves singing hymns--when he happens to know
and like the tune.

"I know you chaps like hymns," said the padre, when they had finished.
"Let's have another before you go. What do you want?"

A most unlikely-looking person suggested "Abide with Me." When it
was over, and the party, standing as rigid as their own rifles, had
sung "God Save the King," the preacher announced awkwardly--almost
apologetically--

"If any of you would like to--er--communicate, I shall be very glad.
May not have another opportunity for some time, you know. I think over
there"--he indicated a quiet corner of the wood, not far from the
little cemetery--"would be a good place."

He pronounced the benediction, and then, after further recurrence to
his saddle-bag, retired to his improvised sanctuary. Here, with a
ration-box for altar, and strands of barbed wire for choir-stalls, he
made his simple preparations.

Half a dozen of the men, and all the officers, followed him. That was
just a week ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

Captain Wagstaffe broke the silence at last.

"It's a rotten business, war," he said pensively--"when you come to
think of it. Hallo, there goes the first star-shell! Come along, Bobby!"

Dusk had fallen. From the German trenches a thin luminous thread
stole up into the darkening sky, leaned over, drooped, and burst
into dazzling brilliance over the British parapet. Simultaneously a
desultory rifle fire crackled down the lines. The night's work had
begun.

(Ian Hay relates innumerable stories, each filled with absorbing human
emotions. Among them are: "The Conversion of Private M'Slattery;"
"Shooting Straight;" "Deeds of Darkness;" "The Gathering of the
Eagles;" "The Battle of the Slag-Heaps," all of which are the
narratives of a trained novelist direct from the battlefield.)

FOOTNOTES:

[4] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in
original sources.




SOME EXPERIENCES IN HUNGARY

_In the Palace of Prince and Princess K----_

_By Mina MacDonald, English Companion to the Two Daughters of a
Hungarian Magnate_

  These experiences of an English girl throw a new light on the
  character of the Hungarian noble families. At the outbreak of the
  War, she was companion to the two daughters of a Hungarian Prince who
  resided in the vicinity of Pressburg. This gave her an opportunity
  of gauging the sentiments of those connected with the House of
  Hapsburg. They discussed the War with frankness in her presence.
  The family treated her precisely as one of their own and at no time
  considered her as an "enemy alien." In the preface to her narrative,
  Miss MacDonald says: "If other British subjects in Austria proper
  were treated more rigorously, they must lay the blame on instructions
  received from Berlin. My own experiences in the Hungarian family
  during the throes of a World War may, perchance, induce British (and
  American) readers to think more highly of the gallant Magyar race."
  Selections from her narrative are here presented by courtesy of her
  publishers, _Longmans, Green and Company_.

[5] I--THE CASTLE IN THE CARPATHIANS

The village of K---- stands in a pleasant mountain valley among the
White Carpathians on the borders of Moravia.... It cannot even lay
claim to the various dissensions of its neighbouring town S---- where
representatives of every race, religion, and political party to be
found in Austria and Hungary, keep the town like a boiling pot. It is
far otherwise in K---- which is solidly and frankly Clovak, Catholic,
and anti-Austrian. The peasants who, with the exception of the priest,
the schoolmaster and the inn-keeper, constitute the population of
village, are all dirty, drunken, hard-working, and intelligent.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Schloss is an old white building full of beauty and interest, built
on the hill below the village, in the midst of a park where Maria
Therese used to hunt.... The gardens which surround the Schloss are
so beautifully laid out and so ornamented with fountains and statues
that K---- is known to Hungarians as the Miniature Versailles; the head
gardener being a person of such serious importance in K---- that even
the Herrschaft at the Schloss speak of and treat him not as an ordinary
gardener but as a Man of Art. Indoors, too, the house confirms its
reputation of being a small Versailles, for the collection of pictures
and antiquities, begun centuries ago, is pursued by the Prince of
to-day with vigour, and carping guests have been heard to remark that
though there wasn't a chair in the Schloss but had a history and a
value that made ordinary mortals' hair stand on end, there also wasn't
one that offered any ease or comfort except in the Prince's den where
all was modern--but sacred to the Prince.

Life was always merry at the Schloss, and it was a very jolly party
that Excellenz von R---- found gathered there when she arrived hot and
cross from Vienna, on June 28, 1914, bringing her bad news. We were:
the Prince and Princess--the best-natured and most happy-go-lucky of
all hosts and hostesses; their daughters, Claire aged twenty-one,
fair, blue-eyed and very beautiful, and Billy aged eighteen, large
and dark and interested in all things pertaining to sport; General
T----, round, white-haired, and explosive--once Commandant of a very
famous Galician fortress, but now living in irksome retirement in
Vienna; his son Walther, a lieutenant of Uhlans, known to us as "The
Babe"; finally, myself, known to everybody as Jerry--a name which no
circumstances could make beautiful, and which became heart-breaking
when invariably pronounced there as "Sherry."

Everybody knew and liked Excellenz von R----, who was a very gay and
enterprising old lady, and Claire, Billy, and I who had looked forward
in pleasure to her coming, awaited her at the gates and clambered
into the carriage from both sides as it passed--for Jan, the coachman
who had driven Excellencies to and from the Schloss for the past
twenty-five years, found it beneath his dignity to stop at the gates to
take us in, so we tumbled in as best we could on and around Excellenz,
whose face was long and tragic.


II--"THE ARCHDUKE AND SOPHIE WERE SHOT TO-DAY"

"Ach, my dear children, have mercy on old bones! And I bring you bad
news! The Tronfolger and his wife were shot to-day in Sarajevo. Oh,
poor Sophie!" and Excellenz, who was an intimate friend of the Duchess,
burst into tears. "It's quite true too--official before I left Vienna
this afternoon."

But Jan was before her at the house and called as he drove up, to the
footman on the steps--

"Tronfolger mit Frau heute geschossen."

German, which he insisted on speaking, was not Jan's strong point.
The footman, a Bohemian and anti-Austrian, sniffed at this lack of
breeding, and answered very casually "So." Excellenz, though she was
still weeping, was very angry and shook her fist at Jan, but she got
her innings in the hall where the Princess was awaiting--in perplexity
as she saw Excellenz's wrath and tears.

"What, Francesca, you arrive in tears at K----?"

"Yes, I should think I do--it's too awful," and Excellenz sobbed out
her news.

"What nonsense!" said the Princess. "How can you believe these wild
stories? Besides, who would shoot that pair?"

"But it's official."

"What is official?" asked the Prince appearing.

"The Archduke and Sophie were shot to-day in Sarajevo."

"Then what the devil made them go there? They might know beforehand
that they wouldn't get out of there with whole skins," he replied,
greeting his guest.

In the drawing-room I found the General, who in the excitement of the
moment had been forgotten. He said as usual, "Pooh! that's not a funny
joke, Sherry."

"That may be; but it's official, and you ought not to receive your
'officials' with 'pooh,' but perhaps it's your way here. Here is
Excellenz von R---- in tears--she has brought the news from Vienna."

"Old wives' tales! I don't believe it."

Excellenz nevertheless persuaded him.

"Donnerwetter! Jesus Maria! And she tried to save him! Plucky
woman--always was plucky. Skinflint though--a skinflint. Too fond
of the Jesuits! This plot was arranged in Serbia, I'll stake my
life--stake my life. Ach, those Serbs! The scum of creation--scum of
creation! We must exterminate them one day. They have always been a
trouble, but this will bring about their end at last. Ach, the poor
Archduke and the poor Duchess! Ach! Pooh!"

"Personally," said the Prince, "I think you needn't be so angry with
the Serbs. They've done us a good turn really. The Archduke--it's
useless to pretend otherwise, General--was the best hated man in
Austria, and the Duchess the best-hated woman. Both cared only for the
Church. They won't really be regretted. The young Karl Franz Josef may
be the saving of Austria at a critical moment."


III--GLIMPSES OF THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS

Excellenz von R---- during her stay in K---- remained sad over the
murder of her friend, and no one spoke of anything but the political
complications which might ensue. The plot, it seemed, had been known
to the military and civil authorities in Sarajevo, and several arrests
made even before the tragedy. The Archduke was very uneasy, and asked
the Governor, General Potiorek, if it was safe to venture out to the
reception in the town hall. "Absolutely safe," General Potiorek was
unwise enough to reply, "I can stake my own life on your Highnesses'
safety."

After Excellenz von R---- returned to Vienna the Bores arrived _en
masse_ to spend the whole month of July in K----. They were the
Princess's young brother Count R----, his wife, and children, Elizabeth
and Stefan. It is not without reason that they are known as the Bores.
The Count was the most bearable of them--but even he was trying
to one's nerves in hot weather. He was gay and irresponsible--had
squandered his own fortune, and as much of his wife's as she would
allow him, at baccarat. His particular sin was his unfortunate habit
of writing verse to each and all of us and singing it, to his own
melodies, on every embarrassing occasion. His verse was clever--and
usually true, consequently it annoyed. The countess was a politician,
devoting her attentions to the General, who spent his days in trying
to avoid her.

"Jesus Maria!" he would say when, red and panting, he had made good his
escape. "In all my years in Bosnia and Galicia I never had anything
like this--pooh!"

Elizabeth--usually called Bethi--was sixteen, and Stefan was twelve.
Both were small but they overran the whole Schloss; no person or thing
was sacred to them, and no room escaped invasion.... Bethi was being
educated in the Convent of the Sacré Coeur in Budapest, where all
disliking her, the nuns advised her mother to have the girl's education
completed at home--an advice which we in Schloss K---- could so well
understand and sympathise with!...

The children were always first in church, occupying the most
comfortable chairs in the chancel. Once they actually established
themselves in the large velvet chairs placed for the Prince and
Princess. Billy could not succeed in dislodging them, and Claire and
I, on arrival, had to use force--to the amusement of all the peasant
children--which so insulted Stefan that he sulked during Mass till he
conceived the brilliant idea of stretching out his foot far enough
to trip up an altar boy. The priest stumbled in the "Lavabo inter
innocentes manus meas," and the old church servant, who had in earlier
days been the village schoolmaster, shot out of the sacristy, as was
his custom when the attention of the acolytes wandered, and soundly
cuffed the unfortunate altar-boy. Happily the Countess had seen, and
Stefan had a very bad quarter of an hour afterwards in the Schloss.


IV--DARK DAYS AFTER THE TRAGEDY

There were days of tension after the ultimatum went to Serbia. The
press was very restrained but clearly uneasy, and did not attempt to
justify the extravagant tone of the ultimatum. General opinion as to
whether the Serbs would fight or not was not very divided, and there
were few who did not agree that Serbia was never intended to fight. She
was simply to behave herself in future and Austria was to see that she
did it. General T---- was indignant at the ultimatum.

"Berchtold again! Soft-headed fool--pooh! There are so many ways
of getting what one wants--he must just choose this one! This way
may really lead to war, and we are not prepared--no money, no
munitions--nothing, nothing! Ach, it's an awful business! Perhaps
Serbia won't dare to fight ... if the Russians back her she will!"

"You surely can scarcely imagine that any country could take such an
ultimatum lying down?" I suggested.

"Pooh," he replied, "you can't deny that they've always been a thorn
in our flesh. But my country is mad--mad! Nobody seems to realise what
this can lead to. The Serbs are good fighters too. If Russia backs them
we're done for. Na, I must get back to Vienna now, for Walther will
have to go if there's war. Pooh--they're all crazy everywhere."

Even the Man of Art grew mournful among his rosebushes. He was Croatian
and bitterly anti-Austrian.

"Ach, Fräulein! There are sad days coming, for that wasn't an ultimatum
that went to Serbia--it was a declaration of war. The Serbs will fight,
Fräulein. I know the race; they are brave men such as we have in
Croatia. Of course they'll fight. They are real soldiers and have real
officers--old General Putnik--that's a man! They'll beat us, Fräulein,
and I'll have to go and fight against them too--against my own race.
Bah! we're slaves here in Austria."


V--THE PRINCE WAS "IRRITATED BY THE WAR"

Then came the Serbs' reply and the partial mobilisation of the Austrian
army. Everybody looked grave and the Prince became distinctly irritable.

"Just in the middle of the harvest, too! What a time of year to send
an ultimatum! How the devil do they expect me to get my harvest in, if
they take my men away? The lifting of the beets won't even begin for
six weeks yet."

"War will be finished by then," said Billy, "and Serbia will have
ceased to exist."

"And what of little Poli--the beautiful Dragoon with the sky-blue
coat?" asked Claire. "Won't you have to return to Göding and join your
regiment now?"

"This upsets all my plans for the summer," replied the soldier, "and
it's very annoying, and it's too bad of them to spring a war upon
peace-loving soldiers like this. They'll telephone to me if they want
me, and I won't move from here till they do."

"And if the telephone is out of order, as it usually is, you'll be shot
as a deserter," said Billy.

"Nevertheless, I won't go," said Poli, for the Einjährigerfreiwilliger
was a man of peace and did not appreciate a Government which enforced
days of warlike pursuits upon him each year.

But Poli had to go, for one morning about four o'clock, as the church
bells were ringing the Angelus, the order for a general mobilisation
was "drummed out"--in Hungary the town crier always uses a drum. Being
much too sleepy to grasp what he said, I promptly went to sleep again,
and in the morning discovered that I was the one person in the Schloss
who had not been at all upset by the news, and that I was regarded
by all as something approaching a monster of callousness. There was
the wildest confusion inside and outside the Schloss when I came
downstairs; all the outdoor servants had gathered in the courtyard to
say good-bye before leaving to report themselves at their "Kaders";
indoors the housemaids were crying as they went about their work, and
it was with difficulty that the Princess, Claire, and I managed at last
to get some sort of a breakfast served by a scared-looking butler. The
Prince and Billy had been up at the stables for some time, for the
officials had already arrived to claim the horses on the Government
list. "And all our riding-horses will have to go--every one of them,"
sobbed the Princess, "yes, even Hadur--nothing but Claire's little
horses, which are too young, and one other pair will be left."


VI--WEEPING PEASANTS FLOCK TO WAR

The road was simply alive--peasants leading in their horses, recruits
wearing the Hungarian red, white and green in their hats, cartloads of
Jews huddled together weeping and wailing because their Moishes and
Aarons had to go, wild-looking gipsies who had never done military
service, dancing and singing in the gladness of their hearts that when
others were taken they were left to steal and sing.

       *       *       *       *       *

The town of S---- was seething with excited gesticulating crowds of
people--all soldiers and recruits were drunk--the women-folk sobbing
and screaming--the gipsies who lived in the town drunken and singing
and dancing like their brethren in the country--every one was hurried
and anxious, men, women, children and horses were all mixed up and
military automobiles rushing about everywhere.... We reached the
Oberstuhlrichter's door in safety, but so bruised and breathless
that we could hardly move. Our friend, the Oberstuhlrichter was so
harassed and overworked, that he had nothing to say but--"For the love
of Heaven, my dears, go away. I really know nothing myself except that
Germany and Russia are now in the fray and I've got to get all the
recruits away from here at once. Now go away and leave me."


VII--THE WISDOM OF UNCLE PISTA

From him we went to Aunt Sharolta and Uncle Pista--in Hungary all
older people are addressed as uncle or aunt. Aunt Sharolta was nearly
blind, but wonderfully sweet and gentle; and Uncle Pista was small,
round and jovial--red-faced and white-haired. He always wore a piece of
plaster on his nose, and we often speculated as to what might be below
that plaster, for it certainly never was changed, and whether it had
originally been black or pink no one knew, for from time immemorial it
was grey. He was the most intrepid politician I have ever met. He had
learned geography sixty years ago, had forgotten it for fifty, and I
doubt if he rightly knew where Serbia lay from Austria. His daughters'
geographical views were based on their father's.

When, on this particular day, we appeared in their house, hot and
breathless and looking as if we had been picked out of the hay-stack,
we found Uncle Pista bemoaning his horses and saying that if this sort
of thing would continue he would have no nerves left. Aunt Sharolta was
turning out all her drawers for things to manufacture into comforts for
the soldiers, and having unearthed a piece of grey material embroidered
with rose-buds she was making it into a chest-protector.

"Our boys," she explained, "will die of cold in Russia, if we don't
make warm clothes for them."

"What's more to the point, my horses will die of cold in Russia,"
grumbled Uncle Pista.

"You don't think, then, that the Russians may break into Galicia?" I
suggested.

"What an idea! Our army won't let them. Russia will take six weeks
to mobilise--she can't do it in less--and by that time we shall have
finished off Serbia and we can join the Germans in Russia. It's a pity
though that the German Kaiser didn't keep quiet; of course he knows
best, but there's no question but the Tsar was very impertinent to him
lately, and William is hot-tempered. I've no doubt it's for the best,
and it's one of God's mercies that we have the Kaiser behind us to
help us against Russia. Our boys will be in St. Petersburg long before
Christmas."


VIII--THE PRINCE CALLED THEM ALL FOOLS

Partridge shooting opened on August 1st, and the Prince and
Billy--for the keepers were all away at their Kaders--collected some
beaters--among whom the naughty and clever Joszo, resplendent in carpet
slippers, a pair of old gaiters, and an old cartridge belt--and set
out to a melancholy half-hearted shoot, from which Billy returned in
a dismal humour. They had shot little and had thought all the time of
the men--German, Austrian, Russian, and French--who had shot with them
last year and who were now engaged in shooting one another; the Prince
had spoken all the time, too, of his friend the Grand Duke Nicholai
Nicholaievich, who had hitherto been such a charming and clever man,
but who, now that he was to lead the Russians, was nothing but a
mahogany-coloured giant; and it was a disgusting world, and how could
anybody ever be happy again....

The days that followed were very anxious. France, the newspapers said,
declared war on Germany; and Austria felt cross and shocked. How could
France declare war on any country when she was herself, as the whole
world knew, so little prepared? But there would be a revolution in
France, and Poincaré would be guillotined for rushing his country into
war like that. Oh, yes, all were agreed, nothing was surer than that
Poincaré would meet the traitor's death he deserved.... My return to
England had been planned for September, and I began to think that I
ought to try to leave at once, but this was laughed down.

"How do you propose to go, Jerry--by private balloon? For everything on
wheels is in the hands of the army at present. No, whatever happens you
must just stay with us--even if England should join in, you will easily
be home for Christmas--the war will be finished long before then. But
England won't fight, so why should we break our heads about it?"

I pointed out that treaty obligations would hardly allow Great Britain
to stand aside.

"Treaty obligations don't count any more," said the Prince; "the
Germans are in Belgium."

"Great Britain, I imagine, does not accept the German view of treaty
obligations. Can't you really see that Germany is committing a crime in
going through Belgium like that?" I asked the Prince.

"No, absolutely not, when the French were already in Belgium before
France declared war on Germany. And even supposing they were not there,
Germany would still be right in forcing her way through--it's a case
of the survival of the fittest. He's a nice fool that King of the
Belgians! He had simply to allow the Germans through, and he would have
been well paid for it by William. Old Leopold would not have been so
silly."

"There you are right," I said, "he probably would have sold his
country."

"Now, Jerry, don't be impertinent! Anything you say now will be used
against you if England declares war on us. Don't forget you're our
prisoner then."

       *       *       *       *       *

When the declaration of war did come it sobered us somewhat! The
Princess quickly recovered and said----

"Why do you worry about it, Jerry? It's not a matter between you and
me, but between Grey and Berchtold--let them scratch each other's eyes
out if they like. After all, I'm not sure that I'm so angry with them,
for it means that now you've got to remain here indefinitely--nolens
volens. I am very glad, for it will be fearfully dull here without our
usual big shooting parties. And now come and play bridge."

That was the way in which the Princess looked at it all the time. It
was impossible for me to persuade her that to have an enemy alien
in the house might be very unpleasant for her: she could never see
why, though England and Germany hated each other so cordially, she
and I could not remain the good friends we had always been and live
peacefully in the same house.

       *       *       *       *       *

It was very easy for us to disagree, for, after a course of the _Neue
Freie Presse_, the _Neues Wiener Tagblatt_ and the _Berliner Tagblatt_,
with the exception of myself and the servants--the majority of whom
were Slavs--the inmates of Schloss K---- were soon convinced that it
was England that had been behind the whole conflagration: that jealous
of Germany's dangerously increasing foreign trade, she sought to
cripple it by a war, and accordingly it was at England's suggestion
that Russia bribed the Serbs to assassinate the Archduke--an event
which the Entente felt would certainly force Germany's hand....

"We are not strong enough to do anything ourselves, and Germany is the
one hope of our existence. What can one do if one is so poor and so
divided as we are? Oh, but Willy will save us--a plucky dashing fellow
who will teach you all a lesson. You will shed bitter tears in England
yet."

"We shall see, when the war is over, who will laugh and who will cry,"
I would reply.


IX--THE ROMANCE OF MARISCHA

I have said that all the servants were anti-Austrian. I wrong Marischa
and probably also Therese. The latter was the maid who waited on me--a
Vienna girl whose views were probably orthodox enough.... She was a
scullery-maid--round as a barrel, with a large, good-humoured face,
was always in a hurry and always smiling, and dressed always in the
black and red costume of Moravia.... She had had a husband who left her
years ago, going to America, from where he wrote to say that he had had
enough of her and did not intend to return to her. Then Stefka Stefan
came into her life and she found him irresistible.... He was small,
sulky, and delicate looking, not as one pictures a hero of romance; but
he was very devoted to Marischa and, if she could have got a divorce
from her husband, he would have married her; but, as she explained to
me in her inimitable way, this wasn't possible.

"Priest say no divorce, so Marischa yes just live like that with
Stefan. Prince and Princess yes give Marischa and Stefan house.
Marischa's husband no good man, but Stefan yes good man and yes want to
marry Marischa: priest say no possible, so Marischa yes live just like
that with Stefan."

Nevertheless her romance was a very real grief to Marischa, for the
priest at confession would never give her absolution, and her enforced
abstinence from communion pained her more than it would many of her
class. The earthly tie was stronger and Stefka Stefan continued to work
in the garden at Schloss K---- and to live in Marischa's cottage. In
spite of many protests the Prince was obdurate and refused to send the
couple away, saying, with easy Hungarian carelessness, that the life in
Marischa's cottage was better and purer than in the next house where at
one side the gamekeeper beat his wife, and at the other the butler was
in turn beaten by his wife. Marischa's loyalty simply oozed out of her.

"Kaiser brave man, yes brave man. Kaiser fears only God, so God let
Kaiser win."

"Which Kaiser, Marischa?"

"German Kaiser. Our King Kaiser yes old man now not know like German
Kaiser yes know--fears God--fears God."

It was a pity to spoil this beautiful faith, so I always remained on
very good terms with Marischa, who always greeted me with a smile of
affection and pity that was touching.


X--STORIES THE PEASANTS BROUGHT HOME

News of great deeds soon came from Serbia, where the Austrians were
supposed to be already in the heart of the country. No lie was ever too
big for the Austrian papers, and the jubilation throughout the country
over the imaginary successes in Serbia knew no bounds....

The fields had become very empty and sad: instead of the crowds of
jolly handsome young peasant lads, singing their beautiful Slovak
songs as they worked, there were now only a few old men and women, and
gipsies who would follow one any distance begging all the time for "a
Kreutzer for the love of God, Mistress."

The men-servants who had gone to their Kaders soon began to return.
First came the Man of Art. We had all been sitting outside on the
terrace when we heard that this first of the heroes had returned, and
he was at once summoned to give his report. His heart was bad, so bad
that the doctor feared that the exertion of even a few days' military
service might kill him, therefore--with many shakes of his head--he
would never fight for his country.

"Where did they tell you that?" I asked.

"In Agram, Fräulein," very mournfully.

"They didn't expect you to believe it, I hope?"

But the Princess interrupted. "Don't ask these awkward questions,
Jerry. We're much too glad to have him back again to go very deeply
into the details of his terrible illness. And now, Herr Gärtner, give
us all your news of the war."

He did, and how they wished he didn't!

"The Herrschaft all thought Russia would take six weeks to
mobilise--well, the Russians are in Galicia now. Our armies there were
far too small and badly prepared, and they have been cut to pieces.
The great body of troops is being withdrawn from Serbia up to Galicia,
and we have had very serious reverses in Serbia too. It's our officers
that are no good. I travelled with a Bulgarian who had come from Moscow
to Agram through Roumania, and he says the Russian mobilisation is
complete, and that he didn't think there were so many men on earth
as he saw pouring through Moscow as the Siberian troops came up. The
Herrschaft cannot hear those things, as they sit in the gardens here
away from it all, but I know for a fact that the Russians are in
Galicia and Lemberg is about to fall."

"And yet the newspapers speak only of the success of our offensive
against Serbia," said Claire, in tears.

"Our newspapers are the most lying on earth, Highness, and I tell you
that Austria will lose, and lose badly in this war."

Consternation of all! An Englishwoman to hear all this!

"That will do," said the Prince, shortly, "and I should advise you
not to repeat in the village what you've just said, else you'll get
yourself into trouble." The Princess then hurried the offender off to
the gardens before more could be said.

In a few days the gamekeeper arrived back, to the annoyance of his
wife, who had hoped that the war would end her beatings for some time.
His uncle was an army doctor, and no reasonable being could expect the
gamekeeper to be strong and well in such circumstances--heart disease
again, of the most incurable kind. The butler and the first footman
returned from Bohemia--the one with varicose veins, and the other with
heart disease.

The newspapers were silent about the Russian front, but became more and
more triumphant about events in Serbia, where Conrad von Hötzendorf
expected the whole Serbian army to be surrounded in a few days by the
Austrians under General Potiorek, who, in his capacity of Military
Governor of Bosnia, when the Archduke and his wife were shot, had been
sent to punish the Serbs.

I soon began to receive and to send English letters through Rome, and
during the rest of the time I was in Hungary I had no trouble with my
mails, despite the fact that foreign correspondence was forbidden to
enemy aliens. It was very difficult for me to realise that I was an
enemy alien, for my liberties were hindered in no way....


XI--THE OLD ADMIRAL ARRIVES

At the end of the month the Admiral arrived from Vienna. He was no
longer young, but he was very enterprising, and, though for many years
retired, he now offered himself to his country, which was ungrateful
enough to evince no very pressing need of his services....

The Admiral brought us all the news of Vienna, which he described
as being in a state of wild enthusiasm and satisfaction. Day by
day Italy's declaration of war on the Allies was awaited, and, as
expectancy gradually died, Vienna's rage against Italy knew no bounds.
A popular joke in the city then was:--

"Was ist der Dreibund? Ein Zweibund und ein Vagabund!"

But, the Admiral assured us, everybody knew that the Zweibund would
win without the Vagabund: Willy would see to that; he had all that was
necessary to win a war, men, munitions, and brains. No, there never was
a man so plucky as Willy. The Admiral's thoughts, from force of habit,
lingered on things naval, and his morning greeting was, invariably--

"Good morning! To-day we shall hear something from the sea!"

We all grew impatient as time passed and the Admiral's big sea-battle
failed to take place. I once dared to suggest that the German Fleet was
afraid to come out. The Admiral's remaining hairs literally stood on
end.

"Afraid! Oh, Miss Jerry! You must have patience--they will come out in
time. What do you suppose Willy built his Dreadnoughts for? To sit in
the Kiel Canal, perhaps?"

There was never even a hint in the Austrian papers of any doings at sea
at all; but the Man of Arts knew of the clearing of enemy ships from
the seas by the Allied Fleets. It was in the Slav papers.

"But how do you manage to get those papers?" I once asked.

"Na, Fräulein; don't ask me that. To have that known is as much as
my life is worth. But you can be quite certain that I'm not the only
person here who gets them."

Japan's declaration of war was the surprise of the Admiral's life,
and his rage was almost classic. It was right, though, he said, for
the Allies to welcome the yellow Japs to their rainbow collection of
soldiers!

Uncle Pista was charmingly funny about Japan one afternoon when Claire,
the Admiral, and I went to tea to Aunt Sharolta.

"Japan will regret what she has done," and in anticipation of this his
face grew rounder and redder. "There won't be much left of her by the
time that Germany's done with her."

"How is Germany going to manage it?"

"By sending ships and men there, of course," he replied, contemptuously.

"And how will Germany manage that?" asked the Admiral, greatly amused.

"How!" repeated the old gentleman. "How does any ship go anywhere? By
crossing the sea, of course."

"What about the British Navy on the way?" asked Claire.

"Why--would the German boats go near the British Navy?" and Uncle Pista
was surprised and disappointed.

"Not intentionally--but they might find the British Navy difficult to
avoid," said the Admiral.

"Then they wouldn't avoid it at all," said Uncle Pista, recovering
his spirits. "They would just smash it up, as they're smashing up the
English in Flanders just now, and then go on, and they would be in
Japan in a few days."

"Good sailing!" commented the Admiral.

"Oh, yes, there will be an end of Japan and of England, too! Willy
will teach them the lesson they need. How glad I am that no child of
mine ever learned English!" By this time we were literally roaring with
laughter, and he paused in surprise. "What are you all laughing at? Am
I not right?" He had forgotten my nationality.

"Quite," I said, hoping he would continue. But Aunt Sharolta looked up
from the chest-protector she was sewing and said--

"It is useless for you to talk like that, Pista, when we are being
annihilated in Galicia and Serbia. Oh, yes, I know the newspapers are
very encouraging, but those who know say otherwise."

"Have patience! Have patience," said the Admiral. "Trust in Willy. And
mark my words, to-morrow we shall hear something from the sea."

(This English companion to a royal Hungarian family continues to relate
her experiences until the spring of 1915, when, despite the efforts of
her kind host and hostess, she escaped from the War-cursed country. She
tells how she made her way to Switzerland, via Vienna and Innsbruck,
and arrived safely at her home in London.)

FOOTNOTES:

[5] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
original sources.




"FORCED TO FIGHT"--THE TALE OF A SCHLESWIG DANE

"_What My Eyes Witnessed in East Prussia_"

_Told by Erich Erichsen, A Soldier in the German Army Translated from
the Danish by Ingebord Lund_

  This is a tragic story of a Dane who was forced to fight in the
  German Army. He was mobilized at the beginning of the War and
  forced to serve on the Western and Eastern fronts. He wrote the
  first revelations of life in the German trenches. This is the first
  authentic account of how Germany makes war from the lips of a German
  soldier. After being wounded, disfigured for life, and a cripple, he
  went home where his own father and mother hardly knew him. Twenty
  editions of his book have appeared in Danish but for obvious reasons,
  its sale in Germany has been prohibited. The experiences herein
  related are by permission of his American publishers, _Robert M.
  McBride and Company_.

[6] I--STORY OF SUFFERING ON THE RUSSIAN FRONT

On the East front I took part in the great offensive against the
Russians. My old comrade was there also; he was still alive. But there
were many new faces in my division. The bloody days before Liège,
the horrors of the fight through Belgium, and the long strife in the
trenches of Flanders, had cost many men their lives or their reason....

I remember how Belgium was laid waste. But to tell the truth, things
were much the same in East Prussia. Before the invasion, it was in many
parts a melancholy country. But it looked more pitiable than ever, as
we marched through it, with the Russians retreating before us. Trampled
fields, ploughed up by shells, burnt farms, property wantonly injured
or destroyed, towns in ruins and human beings in despair, robbed of
all they had, their happiness, their joy, their future. It was an
indescribable scene of misery and woe. But at the same time it was
exceedingly touching to see how the greater number of the people clung
to the devastated home, whose master was probably in the fighting line,
if he were not already killed. The wretched hovels and the ruined farms
still sheltered human creatures, who did their work as best they could,
and hid themselves from the night and the rain in some cramped space,
between half-charred boards and ends of beams, or whatever they could
find to hand.

It was misery. It was poverty. It was wretchedness. But it was
home--the one fixed point in their existence. If they once forsook
that, they were exposed to the merciless uncertainty of life. So they
clung to it obstinately and faithfully in spite of all they had to bear
and suffer, both when the Russians advanced, and when they retreated.
Among their other miseries they had also learnt to know famine. When
the Russians advanced, they did not leave much behind. Many a time
these people begged our last slice of bread from us, to stay the worst
of their hunger.

We gave to them willingly. I felt at times, that their lot was far
worse than ours. We indeed might lose our lives in many different ways,
and we also knew what it was to be hungry. But we had not to listen to
our children crying for food, or see our tiny infants sicken and die
because there was no milk to be had and the mother's breasts were empty.

I can well understand why wherever we came, the people greeted us as
their deliverers.

I understand their joy and their often boundless gratitude in word and
deed. I understand why the old men and the trembling women so often
fell upon our necks with tears of joy.

It must be heart-breaking to see the plot of ground you love laid
waste and trampled down, without being able to do anything to save it.
It must be still more heart-breaking to see the home that you have
cherished devoured by flames, and then, on dark and stormy nights,
taking your children by the hand or on your back, and followed by
terror-stricken women and bewildered old people, to flee from that
home and wander along toilsome roads to uncertainty, in company with
hundreds of others who know just as little where to go for help or
safety.

We met many such crowds of homeless wayfarers on our march, people who
could hardly drag themselves along for hunger and cold and terror.

There were miserable carts drawn by miserable, starved horses and
wretched bits of furniture, piled up anyhow in haste and fear. There
were people huddled together under the lee of a hedge or in a wood,
or sheltering in the holes they had dug into banks of earth or dykes,
wrapped in rags, starving with cold and still terror-stricken.
Men gazing towards the homes from which they had fled, looking in
bewilderment and despair at the down-trodden and ruined country;
women lying down and trying to warm their little ones at a naked,
impoverished breast, or groaning in misery and hopelessness over the
dying eyes of a child; old men and old women with only one wish in the
world--the sum and substance of their prayers from hour to hour being
that God would take them away from all this misery, which they could
not in the least comprehend and which they had not strength enough to
bear.


II--"WHAT APPALLING THINGS THEY TOLD US"

And what appalling things they told us, in trembling voices and shaking
with sobs!

Not only their homes, their domestic animals and their furniture had
been harried by fire and sword--it cannot be otherwise in war, I
suppose, for it has no mercy.

It had been here as it had been in Belgium--the soldiers were
intoxicated with savagery and the lust of destruction. In such an army
there may be a thousand scoundrels amongst a hundred thousand decent
men; but scoundrels create new scoundrels, drink begets coarseness,
and coarseness begets violence. Old men are mocked and tortured, women
outraged without mercy, and innocent little children are made to suffer
without pity. Men have to pay for their hate and their defiance, even
though honest and justifiable, with military retribution, merely
because one of them has been impudent. He has stirred up and set ablaze
passionate instincts that no one can quench.

I knew what might happen--I had been through the whole affair in
Belgium. I knew from experience all that they told me, and a great deal
more.... But I can assure you now, and I shall dare to say it on the
day I have to stand before my Eternal Judge, I have never of my own
impulse harmed any civilian; I have no murder or other deed of shame
on my conscience. The guilt of whatever I have had a share in doing is
entirely on the heads of those who could demand it of me. They could
demand of me that I should do my duty and whip me into doing it, or
shoot me if I refused. I had long since sworn loyalty to the colours.
That oath is sacred, like any other oath. And I was a subject of the
country I served and had to serve.

That being so, may I not be allowed to say that while I was appalled
at what I now saw, I was at the same time filled with a certain
satisfaction. It appalled me because all horror appals, yet at the same
time there was a certain satisfaction about it, because I saw in it a
just retribution for all that we had done in Belgium--a mild and very
lenient retribution, by the way.

Don't you think one may be allowed to say that without being stamped as
cruel and merciless?

There is, amongst my Russian experiences, an incident which I shall
always be glad to cherish with the warmest gratitude, because it
represents to me what we mortals usually call Nemesis--that is,
chastising justice, or whatever name you prefer to give it.

I call it the judgment of God because it seemed as if there was a
leading and guiding hand in it--a hand that struck one who was guilty
and gave atonement for two whose lives had been taken.

The rearguard to which I belonged--I think we were only a couple of
thousand men--had been billeted for a day in a fairly large village
not far from the Russian frontier. It was one of the first places to
be laid waste. There were not many farms or houses left that were not
in ruins. The cattle had been taken and the corn trodden down. Many
homes were quite deserted, and no one knew where the inmates were.
Besides, who could know at such a time, when each one had enough to do
to save himself and those belonging to him. Perhaps they were dead;
perhaps terror had driven them to madness; perhaps they had dragged
themselves along, weary to death, in the train of the fleeing crowds
and had fallen by the wayside in a ditch or at the edge of a forest,
left behind by the others who continued their insensate flight and took
heed of naught but themselves and their own affairs.

Perhaps they lay by the roadside gazing towards the home that was now a
ruin, at the fires blazing over the flat country, and up to the heavens
where it seemed to them that everything was forgotten--mercy, goodness,
justice.

Perhaps they murmured a prayer, the last, the very last, and then lay
down and waited for what was to come--for silent, reconciling death,
that would bring them peace and alleviation for all that they had not
been able to endure in a world that seemed to them to have been quite
forsaken by God.

I know that old men were found with their hands folded on their breasts
and the reconciling peace of death on their wasted, rigid faces.

I know that young women were found with their infants pressed close to
their bare breasts, as if trying to give them their last warmth, until
they had both gone into the land of everlasting peace, slain by cold
and hunger and terror.


III--STORY OF A PRUSSIAN MOTHER

In one of the poorest of the small houses in the village lived a
young woman. She had been beautiful, as women in villages often are, a
radiant figure of health and strength, with the perfume and sweetness
of the fields and their sunshine on her lips and in her eyes. She
seemed to be about half-way through her twenties. But now her face was
drawn and pale, and she dragged herself wearily about as if she were
ill.

I remember her home distinctly. It had been a little six-windowed
thatched house near the end of the village. Two of the windows belonged
to a room with an alcove and the kitchen. The other part of the house
had been allotted to the cow, the pigs, and the hens.

It was now almost in ruins. The roof was gone, the woodwork charred,
and the walls had tumbled down in a crumbling heap where the animals
had been. Only the little room with the alcove and the kitchen were
intact, but the window-panes were smashed, the door battered in, and
rags had been stuck in here and there as a slight protection against
wind and weather.

Behind the house there was a small, down-trodden garden, hedged about
with a dyke of willows and elders.

On the day when the Russians entered the village they ravaged it with
fire and sword in their savage exultation. It was said that many of
them were drunk. However that may have been, they forced their way
into farmsteads and houses, took what there was of cattle and fodder,
smashed everything to bits here and set on fire there, and did not deal
gently with the women in the houses.

The little house at the end of the village was also visited by a
soldier. He stormed and raged and shouted and spared nothing of the
little that could be spared. Finally he threw himself upon the young
wife and tried to take her by force.

Then the husband rushed upon him to save his wife's honour. He did not
succeed, and it cost him his life. He fell within the room, killed by
the blow of a sword on his head.

The soldier's savagery increased, and at last it completely mastered
him. He kicked the young woman till she was nearly beside herself with
terror, and stabbed her little boy, who was lying in the bed, with a
bayonet thrust.

Then only, and not till then, was he satisfied with his achievements.

The poor woman buried her husband and child the next day in a corner of
the garden and covered the little mound with flowers.

There was no one who could have helped her to give them Christian
burial. It then became clear to everyone that she had lost her reason.
She went about muttering continually, with a remote and strange look
in her tearworn eyes, that sometimes looked as if they were blind. She
would often sit for hours on the garden dyke beside the grave of her
husband and child.

It was extremely sad and pathetic, and heart-rending to see her sitting
there, sometimes till late at night, as if she were waiting for the two
to come back.

Sometimes she would lie down on the grave, pressing one cheek against
the ground, and she would lie a long time like that--sometimes until
she fell asleep. If anyone asked her why she lay there she stared
vacantly with a pair of bewildered, tear-bright eyes and answered
through her sobs that she could hear her little boy crying and calling
to her.


IV--"MY LOVELY LITTLE BOY--THEY KILLED HIM"

Every time a convoy of prisoners passed through the village she was
seized with restlessness. She was eager and quick in her movements and
she stood staring intently at those who passed by.

It seemed as if she were looking for one particular face amongst the
many hundreds, but when they had passed by she collapsed again and
dragged herself back to the house, or out to the dyke and the mound in
the corner of the garden.

Towards evening, on the day that we had entered the village, I was
standing outside her house with one of my comrades. She was going about
that evening moaning as she had never moaned before. Her hair was
hanging in matted strands about her face, and her clothes were nothing
but torn rags. It seemed as if she had torn them in her horror.

All the time she went on murmuring, between her moans: "My lovely
little boy--my lovely little boy!..."

Now and then she clenched one hand in the other or struck them both
against her forehead.

While we were standing by looking at her my lieutenant came up. He
tried to soothe her and patted her shoulder, but every time he touched
her she shuddered and seemed to shrink in sudden terror.

"My poor little boy!" she moaned. "They killed him. He was only six
years old and was lying in his bed. 'Pray to God,' I cried to him;
'pray to God.' I was lying on the floor by his bed and saw him fold his
hands in prayer, while he gazed at me in terror.

"But he who was standing over him did not spare him. He stabbed him
in the breast with his bayonet, and he kicked me along the floor.
My husband was lying murdered on the doorstep; his face was red with
blood; his forehead was cut open."

Her words came in rapid, violent gasps, while she pressed her hands
against her eyes as if to shut out all the horror she saw before her.

"But there _is_ justice in the world," she screamed. "There is justice.
I shall find him; I shall find him; I shall find him!..."

Then she grew a little calmer, and the lieutenant and I stood
whispering to each other about what we had just seen and about what we
had heard about her.


V--SHE FINDS AT LAST THE MAN WHO MURDERED

Some time after a convoy of prisoners passed by. There were about two
hundred men.

The instant the young woman saw the prisoners she rushed out on the
road. Meanwhile my captain had come up, too. He stood by her side and
closely watched her movements. She looked like an animal ready to
spring. Every muscle was tense, every nerve tightened, and meanwhile
her eyes scrutinized the prisoners as they passed by.

There was a strange, penetrating force in her eyes. They burned like
live coals. They flashed like rapiers.

Suddenly she rushed out and almost threw herself upon one of the
prisoners in the convoy. It stopped, and as she clenched her hands
threateningly in the air she screamed in mingled exultation and agony:
"It's he! It's he! I knew I should find him!"

At first the captive soldier stared at her in surprise. Suddenly a wave
of deep red suffused his face, and then he turned ashy grey and bent
his head. It looked as if he were slowly sinking on his knees.

The young woman went on crying: "It's he! It's he! I knew I should find
him!"

At last she laughed wildly, a laugh that was more like a mad shriek,
and then collapsed on the roadside while the froth oozed through her
tightly-closed lips.


VI--THE GUILTY MAN--AND JUSTICE

My friend ceased speaking for a moment, and I felt a prickling and
tingling all over me. It was emotion and uneasiness both in one.

I looked at him. His eyes had suddenly become bright and clear, and
there was a smile about his narrow lips of mingled sadness and joy.

I will not tell you anything more about it. I will not go further into
what happened. I will only add that half an hour later that man was no
longer among the living.

_We shot him._

Was it honourable and just? Is it never permissible to shoot a
prisoner? Perhaps--perhaps not. I don't wish to dispute about it with
anybody. In this case that question does not interest me in the least.
I don't care whether it was lawful or not.

I will only honestly and openly declare that to me this little incident
stands out, amongst all the appalling things I saw, as something
infinitely beautiful and exalted.

I felt that at that moment I had seen cold, stern Justice face to face.


VII--STORY OF A GERMAN SOLDIER'S HOME-COMING

The day I went home was terribly long. It seemed to me as if my journey
would never come to an end....

I was so deeply stirred that I could have wept. My lips quivered and my
breast was as empty as if all the air had been pumped out of my lungs.

As the train glided into the small station I pulled down the window and
looked out.

It was all so joyously familiar. The name with the foreign,
snarling sound. The station-master, erect and stiff, like the old
non-commissioned officer with a big German beard that he was. The
flowers on the window-sills of the station-house. The faces of the
station-master's wife and children against the window-panes. The smell
of asphalte from the sun-baked platform.

And over there--why, that was my father, _my_ dear, dear old father! He
seemed to me to have aged a good deal. His broad back, which before had
been so straight and so proudly erect, was bent and tired; and his face
looked worn as if after a long illness.

His glance went down the train from carriage to carriage. I waved my
hand to him and called out:

"Father!"

He turned at the sound and stared at me a moment.

At first a startled look seemed to pass over his face. A sudden wonder,
as when you see something you have not expected, and then it seemed to
me that he tottered backwards a step or two when he understood who it
was that had called. He bent his head and pressed his hand to his eyes.

I think he was weeping.

Then I jumped out of the carriage, and the next instant I was beside
him.


VIII--"MY FATHER THANKED GOD"

He threw his arms round my neck and kissed me fervently on both cheeks
as he whispered in a trembling voice:

"Oh, thank God we've got you back again! Welcome home, my dear
boy--welcome--welcome! Thanks be to God from your mother and me and all
of us! O my God, my God!--it has been a hard time!"

He shook me as you shake a friend in exuberant joy. And then he took my
arm. "Why, I could not recognize you at first," he said with a little
smile. "You have changed--somewhat.... But on the whole you are looking
quite well."

"Yes, am I not?" I said. "Quite well--I think so myself."

I smiled.

I remembered that that was what they always said at the hospital....

Then we drove along the road to my home, and in thirsty eagerness my
mind drank in all the old, familiar and beautiful luxuriance: the white
road with the perfume of the poplars; the hedges with the wild roses;
the white-washed, thatched farmsteads; the bright, summer gleam of the
blue fjord.

It was all just the same as when I left home nearly two years ago--so
it seemed to me, at any rate. I could not see any change.

My father had sat silent awhile and had now and then stolen a glance
at me, and I understood why. He had to feel at home with my face first
before he could feel quite at home with myself. He was never at any
time one to speak much, by the way.

We drove past one of the big farms. The house stood close up to the
road, and looked so peaceful, so bathed in sunshine; and the blossoms
from the fruit trees sprinkled their pure white snow over the bright
lawns.

"The farmer in there fell last September," said my father; "and his two
sons are also gone. There are no more men left now in that family....

"The husband is gone over there, and yonder the son. Both sons from
that place are gone. And over there they have lost a son-in-law--you
know, the one who had just got married. At the farm yonder the husband
came home a cripple last Christmas; and the son in that one is blind."

His hushed and mournful words spoke of nothing but death and grief.
There was scarcely a farm or a house the door of which was not marked
with the cross of death, or in which mourning or disablement had not a
home....


IX--"MY FIANCEE--SHE ONLY WEPT"

My _fiancée_ was standing in the middle of the yard. Her face had not
the same bright gentleness as before. About her features and on her
lips there were the same sad and mournful lines that I had seen on the
faces of the women in the hospital. She, too, was stamped with the
daily silent longing and uncertainty, the nightly dread and heart-ache.

She seemed to me to look old. And she was not yet twenty-two.

She threw her arms round my neck, almost before I had reached the
ground. She said nothing. She only cried, clinging closely to me and
hiding her face on my shoulder.

"Well, _you_ can recognise him, it seems," said my father. "It was all
I could do--just at first...."

She looked at me, and then turned to my father as she said:

"I _knew_ that he would look like that--that was how I always saw him.
In my thoughts by day and my dreams at night."

Then we went into the sitting-room.


X--"MY MOTHER--SHE BROKE DOWN AND SOBBED"

My mother was standing by the table. She was pale and there was a
frightened and despairing look in her eyes.

She gazed at me for a moment as if in terror. Then she sank down upon a
chair and hid her face in her hands.

"Is that _my_ boy--is that _my_ boy?..."

It sounded like a heart-broken wailing. I saw that she was sobbing. I
perceived that my face had frightened her; the empty sleeve too.

I went over and knelt down beside her, putting my arm round her waist
and my head in her lap.

I had always done that as a boy when she was grieved about anything.

Then I felt her hand gently, stroking my head. How soft that hand was!
What a blissfulness there was in that quiet, gentle stroking!

Is there anybody who knows how to caress like a mother? Is there
anything in the world that holds such rapturous joy?...

After a little while she took my chin in her hands and raised my head.
Our eyes met. Hers were soft and shining--a fathomless deep of love to
gaze into.

Her face was grey and there was a quivering about her firmly-closed
lips. But I could see that she was happy--silently, speechlessly happy.

I felt her lips on my forehead. It was like a great solemnity to me.
And then she said in a soft whisper:

"My own big boy--my own big boy--thank God for ever that I have you
back again!"

A sad little smile passed over her face, and, as if she felt a desire
to say something showing a little of her warm-hearted and charming
humour, she added between smiles and tears:

"But you are _not_ such a handsome boy as when you went away."

Then she broke down and bent her face over mine.

That was my home-coming. I had looked forward to it and it had given me
all the happiness I could wish for.

(The Danish soldier boy tells the tragic story of the "folk back home;"
how mothers, and wives and children are "waiting" for their loved ones.
His whole story is one of the most pathetic and loving tales of the
broken hearts of the war.)

FOOTNOTES:

[6] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
original sources.




"ADVENTURES OF A DESPATCH RIDER"

_An Oxford Man With the Motorcyclists_

_Told by Capt. W. H. L. Watson_

  This young Oxford student at the outbreak of the War was in
  London to begin his work in the British Museum. "At 6:45 P.M., on
  Saturday, July 25th, 1914, Alec and I determined to take part in the
  Austro-Serbian War. I remember the exact minute," he says. They were
  certain Armageddon was coming. He went straight to Scotland Yard and
  joined the Despatch Riders with several of his fellow students. He
  then began his daring adventures carrying despatches for the British
  Army in Northern France. He rode through the battle of Mons and in
  the thrilling pursuit that lead to the Aisne. His experiences teem
  with exciting incidents of those never-to-be-forgotten days. The
  thrill of the charge, the depression of retreat, the elation of
  outwitting a clever enemy and all the little incidents of heroism,
  self-sacrifice and comradeship that have become commonplaces in the
  daily lives of the British Tommies, are most interestingly described
  in this Oxford man's account of "Adventures of a Despatch Rider" by
  permission of his publishers, _Dodd, Mead and Company_.

[7] I--STORIES OF THE SIGNAL OFFICE IN NORTHERN FRANCE

It had been a melancholy day, full of rain and doubting news. Those of
us who were not "out" were strolling up and down the platform arranging
the order of cakes from home and trying to gather from the sound of
the gunning and intermittent visits to the Signal Office what was
happening.

Some one had been told that the old 15th was being hard pressed. Each
of us regretted loudly that we had not been attached to it, though our
hearts spoke differently. Despatch riders have muddled thoughts. There
is a longing for the excitement of danger and a very earnest desire to
keep away from it.

The C.O. walked on to the platform hurriedly, and in a minute or two
I was off. It was lucky that the road was covered with unholy grease,
that the light was bad and there was transport on the road--for it is
not good for a despatch rider to think too much of what is before him.
My instructions were to report to the general and make myself useful.
I was also cheerfully informed that the H.Q. of the 15th were under a
robust shell-fire. Little parties of sad-looking wounded that I passed,
the noise of the guns, and the evil dusk heartened me.

I rode into Festubert, which was full of noise, and, very hastily
dismounting, put my motorcycle under the cover of an arch and reported
to the general. He was sitting at a table in the stuffy room of a
particularly dirty tavern. At the far end a fat and frightened woman
was crooning to her child. Beside her sat a wrinkled, leathery old man
with bandaged head. He had wandered into the street, and he had been
cut about by shrapnel. The few wits he had ever possessed were gone,
and he gave every few seconds little croaks of hate. Three telephone
operators were working with strained faces at their highest speed. The
windows had been smashed by shrapnel, and bits of glass and things
crunched under foot. The room was full of noises--the crackle of the
telephones, the crooning of the woman, the croak of the wounded old
man, the clear and incisive tones of the general and his brigade-major,
the rattle of not too distant rifles, the booming of guns and
occasionally the terrific, overwhelming crash of a shell bursting in
the village.

I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, the Brigade Signal Officer,
and the Veterinary Officer, came up to me and talked cheerfully in
whispered tones about our friends.

There was the sharp cry of shrapnel in the street and the sudden rattle
against the whole house. The woman and child fled somewhere through a
door, followed feebly by the old man. The brigade-major persuaded the
general to work in some less unhealthy place. The telephone operators
moved. A moment's delay as the general endeavored to persuade the
brigade-major to go first, and we found ourselves under a stalwart arch
that led into the courtyard of the tavern. We lit pipes and cigarettes.
The crashes of bursting shells grew more frequent, and the general
remarked in a dry and injured tone--

"Their usual little evening shoot before putting up the shutters, I
suppose."


II--"I AM WRITING UNDER SHRAPNEL FIRE"

But first the Germans "searched" the village. Now to search a village
means to start at one end of the village and place shells at discreet
intervals until the other end of the village is reached. It is an
unpleasant process for those in the middle of the village, even though
they be standing, as we were, in comparatively good shelter.

We heard the Germans start at the other end of the village street. The
crashes came nearer and nearer, until a shell burst with a scream and
a thunderous roar just on our right. We puffed away at our cigarettes
for a second, and a certain despatch rider wished he were anywhere but
in the cursed village of Festubert by Béthune. There was another scream
and overwhelming relief. The next shell burst three houses away on our
left. I knocked my pipe out and filled another.

The Germans finished their little evening shoot. We marched back very
slowly in the darkness to 1910 Farm.

This farm was neither savoury nor safe. It was built round a courtyard
which consisted of a gigantic hole crammed with manure in all stages
of unpleasant putrefaction. One side is a barn; two sides consist of
stables, and the third is the house inhabited not only by us but by an
incredibly filthy and stinking old woman who was continually troubling
the general because some months ago a French cuirassier took one of her
chickens. The day after we arrived at this farm I had few despatches
to take, so I wrote to Robert. Here is some of the letter and bits of
other letters I wrote during the following days. They will give you an
idea of our state of mind:

If you want something of the dramatic--I am writing in a farm under
shrapnel fire, smoking a pipe that was broken by a shell. For true
effect I suppose I should not tell you that the shrapnel is bursting
about fifty yards the other side of the house, that I am in a room
lying on the floor, and consequently that, so long as they go on firing
shrapnel, I am perfectly safe.

It's the dismallest of places. Two miles farther back the heavies are
banging away over our heads. There are a couple of batteries near the
farm. Two miles along the road the four battalions of our brigade are
holding on for dear life in their trenches.

The country is open plough, with little clumps of trees, sparse hedges,
and isolated cottages giving a precarious cover. It's all very damp and
miserable, for it was raining hard last night and the day before.

I am in a little bare room with the floor covered with straw. Two
telegraph operators are making that infernal jerky clicking sound I
have begun so to hate. Half a dozen men of the signal staff are lying
about the floor looking at week-old papers. In the next room I can
hear the general, seated at a table and intent on his map, talking to
an officer that has just come from the firing line. Outside the window
a gun is making a fiendish row, shaking the whole house. Occasionaly
there is a bit of a rattle--that's shrapnel bullets falling on the
tiles of an outhouse.

If you came out you might probably find this exhilarating. I have
just had a talk with our mutual friend Cadell, the Signal Officer of
this brigade, and we have decided that we are fed up with it. For one
thing--after two months' experience of shell fire the sound of a shell
bursting within measurable distance makes you start and shiver for a
moment--reflex action of the nerves. That is annoying. We both decided
we would willingly change places with you and take a turn at defending
your doubtless excellently executed trenches at Liberton.

The line to the ----[8] has just gone. It's almost certain death to
relay it in the daytime. Cadell and his men are discussing the chances
while somebody else has started a musical-box. A man has gone out; I
wonder if he will come back. The rest of the men have gone to sleep
again. That gun outside the window is getting on my nerves. Well, well!

The shrapnel fire appears to have stopped for the present. No, there's
a couple together. If they fire over this farm I hope they don't send
me back to D.H.Q.

Do you know what I long for more than anything else? A clean, unhurried
breakfast with spotless napery and shining silver and porridge and
kippers. I don't think these long, lazy after-breakfast hours at Oxford
were wasted. They are a memory and a hope out here. The shrapnel is
getting nearer and more frequent. We are all hoping it will kill some
chickens in the courtyard. The laws against looting are so strict.

What an excellent musical-box, playing quite a good imitation of
_Cavalleria Rusticana_. I guess we shall have to move soon. Too many
shells. Too dark to write any more----


III--HOW IT FEELS TO BE SHELLED

After all, quite the most important things out here are a fine meal
and a good bath. If you consider the vast area of the war the facts
that we have lost two guns or advanced five miles are of very little
importance. War, making one realize the hopeless insignificance of
the individual, creates in one such an immense regard for self, that
so long as one does well it matters little if four officers have been
killed reconnoitering or some wounded have had to be left under an
abandoned gun all night. I started with an immense interest in tactics.
This has nearly all left me and I remain a more or less efficient
despatch-carrying animal--a part of a machine realizing the hopeless,
enormous size of the machine.

The infantry officer after two months of modern war is a curious
phenomenon.[9] He is probably one of three survivors of an original
twenty-eight. He is not frightened of being killed; he has forgotten
to think about it. But there is a sort of reflex fright. He becomes
either cautious and liable to sudden panics, or very rash indeed,
or absolutely mechanical in his actions. The first state means the
approach of a nervous breakdown, the second a near death. There are
very few, indeed, who retain a nervous balance and a calm judgment. And
all have a harsh, frightened voice. If you came suddenly out here, you
would think they were all mortally afraid. But it is only giving orders
for hours together under a heavy fire.

Battle noises are terrific. At the present moment a howitzer is going
strong behind this, and the concussion is tremendous. The noise is
like dropping a traction-engine on a huge tin tray. A shell passing
away from you over your head is like the loud crackling of a newspaper
close to your ear. It makes a sort of deep reverberating crackle in
the air, gradually lessening, until there is a dull boom, and a mile
or so away you see a thick little cloud of white smoke in the air or a
pear-shaped cloud of grey-black smoke on the ground. Coming towards you
a shell makes a cutting, swishing note, gradually getting higher and
higher, louder and louder. There is a longer note one instant and then
it ceases. Shrapnel bursting close to you has the worst sound.

It is almost funny in a village that is being shelled. Things simply
disappear. You are standing in an archway a little back from the
road--a shriek of shrapnel. The windows are broken and the tiles rush
clattering into the street, while little bullets and bits of shell jump
like red-hot devils from side to side of the street, ricochetting until
their force is spent. Or a deeper bang, a crash, and a whole house
tumbles down.

_¾-hour later._--Curious life this. Just after I had finished the
last sentence, I was called out to take a message to a battery telling
them to shell a certain village. Here am I wandering out, taking orders
for the complete destruction of a village and probably for the death of
a couple of hundred men[10] without a thought, except that the roads
are very greasy and that lunch time is near.

Again, yesterday, I put our Heavies in action, and in a quarter of
an hour a fine old church, with what appeared from the distance a
magnificent tower, was nothing but a grotesque heap of ruins. The
Germans were loopholing it for defence.

Oh, the waste, the utter damnable waste of everything out here--men,
horses, buildings, cars, everything. Those who talk about war being
a salutary discipline are those who remain at home. In a modern war
there is little room for picturesque gallantry or picture-book heroism.
We are all either animals or machines, with little gained except our
emotions dulled and brutalized and nightmare flashes of scenes that
cannot be written about because they are unbelievable. I wonder what
difference you will find in us when we come home----


IV--A NIGHT SCARE AT THE FRONT

Do you know what a night scare is? In our last H.Q. we were all dining
when suddenly there was a terrific outburst of rifle fire from our
lines. We went out into the road that passes the farm and stood there
in the pitch darkness, wondering. The fire increased in intensity until
every soldier within five miles seemed to be revelling in a lunatic
succession of "mad minutes." Was it a heavy attack on our lines? Soon
pom-poms joined in sharp, heavy taps--and machine guns. The lines
to the battalions were at the moment working feebly, and what the
operators could get through was scarcely intelligible. Ammunition
limbers were hurried up, and I stood ready to dart anywhere. For
twenty minutes the rifle-fire seemed to grow wilder and wilder. At
last stretcher-bearers came in with a few wounded and reported that
we seemed to be holding our own. Satisfactory so far. Then there were
great flashes of shrapnel over our lines; that comforted us, for if
your troops are advancing you don't fire shrapnel over the enemy's
lines. You never know how soon they may be yours. The firing soon died
down until we heard nothing but little desultory bursts. Finally an
orderly came--the Germans had half-heartedly charged our trenches but
had been driven off with loss. We returned to the farm and found that
in the few minutes we had been outside everything had been packed and
half-frightened men were standing about for orders.

The explanation of it all came later and was simple enough. The French,
without letting us know, had attacked the Germans on our right, and the
Germans to keep us engaged had made a feint attack upon us. So we went
back to dinner.

In modern war the infantryman hasn't much of a chance. Strategy
nowadays consists in arranging for the mutual slaughter of infantry
by the opposing guns, each general trusting that his guns will do the
greater slaughter. And half gunnery is luck. The day before yesterday
we had a little afternoon shoot at where we thought the German trenches
might be. The Germans unaccountably retreated, and yesterday when we
advanced we found the trenches crammed full of dead. By a combination
of intelligent anticipation and good luck we had hit them exactly----

From these letters you will be able to gather what mood we were in
and something of what the brigade despatch rider was doing. After the
first day the Germans ceased shrapnelling the fields round the farm
and left us nearly in peace. There I met Major Ballard, commanding the
15th Artillery Brigade, one of the finest officers of my acquaintance,
and Captain Frost, the sole remaining officer of the Cheshires. He was
charming to me; I was particularly grateful for the loan of a razor,
for my own had disappeared and there were no despatch riders handy
from whom I could borrow.

Talking of the Cheshires reminds me of a story illustrating the
troubles of a brigadier. The general was dining calmly one night after
having arranged an attack. All orders had been sent out. Everything
was complete and ready. Suddenly there was a knock at the door and in
walked Captain M----, who reported his arrival with 200 reinforcements
for the Cheshires, a pleasant but irritating addition. The situation
was further complicated by the general's discovery that M---- was
senior to the officer then in command of the Cheshires. Poor M---- was
not left long in command. A fortnight later the Germans broke through
and over the Cheshires, and M---- died where a commanding officer
should.


V--"I WAS SENT A MESSAGE"

From 1910 Farm I had one good ride to the battalions, through Festubert
and along to the Cuinchy Bridge. For me it was interesting because it
was one of the few times I had ridden just behind the trenches, which
at the moment were just north of the road and were occupied by the
Bedfords.

In a day or two we returned to Festubert, and Cadell gave me a
shake-down on a mattress in his billet--gloriously comfortable. The
room was a little draughty because the fuse of a shrapnel had gone
right through the door and the fireplace opposite. Except for a
peppering on the walls and some broken glass the house was not damaged;
we almost laughed at the father and mother and daughter who, returning
while we were there, wept because their home had been touched.

Orders came to attack. A beautiful plan was drawn up by which the
battalions of the brigade were to finish their victorious career in
the square of La Bassée.

In connection with this attack I was sent with a message for the
Devons. It was the blackest of black nights and I was riding without a
light. Twice I ran into the ditch, and finally I piled up myself and my
bicycle on a heap of stones lying by the side of the road. I did not
damage my bicycle. That was enough. I left it and walked.

When I got to Cuinchy bridge I found that the Devon headquarters had
shifted. Beyond that the sentry knew nothing. Luckily I met a Devon
officer who was bringing up ammunition. We searched the surrounding
cottages for men with knowledge, and at last discovered that the Devons
had moved farther along the canal in the direction of La Bassée. So
we set out along the towpath, past a house that was burning fiercely
enough to make us conspicuous.

We felt our way about a quarter of a mile and stopped, because we were
getting near the Germans. Indeed we could hear the rumble of their
transport crossing the La Bassée bridge. We turned back, and a few
yards nearer home some one coughed high up the bank on our right. We
found the cough to be a sentry, and behind the sentry were the Devons.

The attack, as you know, was held up on the line
Cuinchy-Givenchy-Violaines; we advanced our headquarters to a house
just opposite the inn by which the road to Givenchy turns off. It was
not very safe, but the only shell that burst anywhere near the house
itself did nothing but wound a little girl in the leg.

On the previous day I had ridden to Violaines at dawn to draw a plan of
the Cheshires' trenches for the general. I strolled out by the sugar
factory, and had a good look at the red houses of La Bassée. Half an
hour later a patrol went out to explore the sugar factory. They did
not return. It seems that the factory was full of machine guns. I had
not been fired upon, because the Germans did not wish to give their
position away sooner than was necessary.

A day or two later I had the happiness of avenging my potential death.
First I took orders to a battery of 6-inch howitzers at the Rue de
Marais to knock the factory to pieces, then I carried an observing
officer to some haystacks by Violaines, from which he could get a good
view of the factory. Finally I watched with supreme satisfaction the
demolition of the factory, and with regretful joy the slaughter of the
few Germans who, escaping, scuttled for shelter in some trenches just
behind and on either side of the factory.


VI--HOW THE GERMANS BROKE THROUGH

I left the 15th Brigade with regret, and the regret I felt would have
been deeper if I had known what was going to happen to the brigade.
I was given interesting work and made comfortable. No despatch rider
could wish for more.

Not long after I had returned from the 15th Brigade, the Germans
attacked and broke through. They had been heavily reinforced and our
tentative offensive had been replaced by a stern and anxious defensive.

Now the Signal Office was established in the booking-office of Beuvry
Station. The little narrow room was packed full of operators and
vibrant with buzz and click. The Signal Clerk sat at a table in a
tiny room just off the booking-office. Orderlies would rush in with
messages, and the Clerk would instantly decide whether to send them
by wire, by push-cyclist, or by despatch rider. Again, he dealt with
all messages that came in over the wire. Copies of these messages were
filed. This was our tape; from them we learned the news. We were not
supposed to read them, but, as we often found that they contained
information which was invaluable to despatch riders, we always looked
through them and each passed on what he had found to the others. The
Signal Clerk might not know where a certain unit was at a given moment.
We knew, because we had put together information that we had gathered
in the course of our rides and information which--though the Clerk
might think it unimportant--supplemented or completed or verified what
we had already obtained.

So the history of this partially successful attack was known to us.
Every few minutes one of us went into the Signal Office and read the
messages. When the order came for us to pack up, we had already made
our preparations, for Divisional Headquarters, the brain controlling
the actions of seventeen thousand men, must never be left in a position
of danger. And wounded were pouring into the Field Ambulances.

The enemy had made a violent attack, preluded by heavy shelling, on the
left of the 15th, and what I think was a holding attack on the right.
Violaines had been stormed, and the Cheshires had been driven, still
grimly fighting, to beyond the Rue de Marais. The Norfolks on their
right and the K.O.S.B.'s on their left had been compelled to draw back
their line with heavy loss, for their flanks had been uncovered by the
retreat of the Cheshires.

The Germans stopped a moment to consolidate their gains. This gave us
time to throw a couple of battalions against them. After desperate
fighting Rue de Marais was retaken and some sort of line established.
What was left of the Cheshires gradually rallied in Festubert.

This German success, together with a later success against the 3rd
Division, that resulted in our evacuation of Neuve Chapelle, compelled
us to withdraw and readjust our line. This second line was not so
defensible as the first. Until we were relieved the Germans battered
at it with gunnery all day and attacks all night. How we managed to
hold it is utterly beyond my understanding. The men were dog-tired.
Few of the old officers were left, and they were "dead to the world."
Never did the Fighting Fifth more deserve the name. It fought dully and
instinctively, like a boxer who, after receiving heavy punishment, just
manages to keep himself from being knocked out until the call of time.

Yet, when they had dragged themselves wearily and blindly out of the
trenches, the fighting men of the Fighting Fifth were given but a day's
rest or two before the 15th and two battalions of the 13th were sent to
Hooge, and the remainder to hold sectors of the line farther south. Can
you wonder that we despatch riders, in comparative safety behind the
line, did all we could to help the most glorious and amazing infantry
that the world has ever seen?[11] And when you praise the deeds of
Ypres of the First Corps, who had experienced no La Bassée, spare a
word for the men of the Fighting Fifth who thought they could fight no
more and yet fought.


VII--SPY STORIES: "THE OLD WOMAN"

A few days after I had returned from the 15th Brigade I was sent
out to the 14th. I found them at the Estaminet de l'Epinette on
the Béthune-Richebourg road. Headquarters had been compelled to
shift, hastily enough, from the Estaminet de La Bombe on the La
Bassée-Estaires road. The estaminet had been shelled to destruction
half an hour after the brigade had moved. The Estaminet de l'Epinette
was filthy and small. I slept in a stinking barn, half-full of dirty
straw, and rose with the sun for the discomfort of it.

Opposite the estaminet a road goes to Festubert. At the corner there is
a cluster of dishevelled houses. I sat at the door and wrote letters,
and looked for what might come to pass. In the early dawn the poplars
alongside the highway were grey and dull. There was mist on the road;
the leaves that lay thick were black. Then as the sun rose higher the
poplars began to glisten and the mist rolled away, and the leaves were
red and brown.

An old woman came up the road and prayed the sentry to let her pass. He
could not understand her and called to me. She told me that her family
were in the house at the corner fifty yards distant. I replied that she
could not go to them--that they, if they were content not to return,
might come to her. But the family would not leave their chickens, and
cows, and corn. So the old woman, who was tired, sank down by the
wayside and wept. This sorrow was no sorrow to the sorrow of the war. I
left the old woman, the sentry, and the family, and went in to a fine
breakfast.

At this time there was much talk about spies. Our wires were often
cut mysteriously. A sergeant had been set upon in a lane. The enemy
were finding our guns with uncanny accuracy. All our movements seemed
to be anticipated by the enemy. Taking for granted the extraordinary
efficiency of the German Intelligence Corps, we were particularly
nervous about spies when the Division was worn out, when things were
not going well.


VIII--THE GIRL WHO WAS SHOT

At the Estaminet de l'Epinette I heard a certain story, and hearing it
set about to make a fool of myself. This is the story--I have never
heard it substantiated, and give it as an illustration and not as fact.

There was once an artillery brigade billeted in a house two miles or so
behind the lines. All the inhabitants of the house had fled, for the
village had been heavily bombarded. Only a girl had had the courage to
remain and do hostess to the English. She was so fresh and so charming,
so clever in her cookery, and so modest in her demeanour that all the
men of the brigade headquarters fell madly in love with her. They even
quarrelled. Now this brigade was suffering much from espionage. The
guns could not be moved without the Germans knowing their new position.
No transport or ammunition limbers were safe from the enemy's guns.
The brigade grew mightily indignant. The girl was told by her numerous
sweethearts what was the matter. She was angry and sympathetic, and
swore that through her the spy should be discovered. She swore the
truth.

One night a certain lewd fellow of the baser sort pursued the girl with
importunate pleadings. She confessed that she liked him, but not in
that way. He left her and stood sullenly by the door. The girl took a
pail and went down into the cellar to fetch up a little coal, telling
the man with gentle mockery not to be so foolish. This angered him,
and in a minute he had rushed after her into the cellar, snorting with
disappointed passion. Of course he slipped on the stairs and fell with
a crash. The girl screamed. The fellow, his knee bruised, tried to feel
his way to the bottom of the stairs and touched a wire. Quickly running
his hand along the wire he came to a telephone. The girl rushed to him,
and, clasping his knees, offered him anything he might wish, if only
he would say nothing. I think he must have hesitated for a moment, but
he did not hesitate long. The girl was shot.

Full of this suspiciously melodramatic story I caught sight of a
mysterious document fastened by nails to the house opposite the inn. It
was covered with coloured signs which, whatever they were, certainly
did not form letters or make sense in any way. I examined the document
closely. One sign looked like an aeroplane, another like a house, a
third like the rough drawing of a wood. I took it to a certain officer,
who agreed with me that it appeared suspicious.

We carried it to the staff-captain, who pointed out very forcibly that
it had been raining lately, that colour ran, that the signs left formed
portions of letters. I demanded the owner of the house upon which the
document had been posted. She was frightened and almost unintelligible,
but supplied the missing fragments. The document was a crude election
appeal. Being interpreted it read something like this:--

  SUPPORT LEFÉVRE. HE IS NOT A LIAR LIKE DUBOIS.

Talking of spies, here is another story. It is true.

Certain wires were always being cut. At length a patrol was organised.
While the operator was talking there was a little click and no further
acknowledgment from the other end. The patrol started out and caught
the man in the act of cutting a second wire. He said nothing.

He was brought before the Mayor. Evidence was briefly given of his
guilt. He made no protest. It was stated that he had been born in the
village. The Mayor turned to the man and said--

"You are a traitor. It is clear. Have you anything to say?"

The man stood white and straight. Then he bowed his head and made
answer--

"Priez pour moi."

That was no defence. So they led him away.


IX--TALES OF THE DESPATCH RIDERS

The morning after I arrived at the 14th the Germans concentrated
their fire on a large turnip-field and exhumed multitudinous turnips.
No further damage was done, but the field was unhealthily near the
Estaminet de l'Epinette. In the afternoon we moved our headquarters
back a mile or so to a commodious and moderately clean farm with a
forgettable name.

That evening two prisoners were brought in. They owned to eighteen,
but did not look more than sixteen. The guard treated them with kindly
contempt. We all sat round a makeshift table in the loft where we slept
and told each other stories of fighting and love and fear, while the
boys, squatting a little distance away, listened and looked at us in
wonder. I came in from a ride about one in the morning and found those
of the guard who were off duty and the two German boys sleeping side by
side. Literally it was criminal negligence--some one ought to have been
awake--but, when I saw one of the boys was clasping tightly a packet of
woodbines, I called it something else and went to sleep.

A day or two later I was relieved. On the following afternoon I was
sent to Estaires to bring back some details about the Lahore Division
which had just arrived on the line. I had, of course, seen Spahis and
Turcos and Senegalese, but when riding through Lestrem I saw these
Indian troops of ours the obvious thoughts tumbled over one another.

We despatch riders when first we met the Indians wondered how they
would fight, how they would stand shell-fire and the climate--but
chiefly we were filled with a sort of mental helplessness, riding among
people when we could not even vaguely guess at what they were thinking.
We could get no deeper than their appearance, dignified and clean and
well-behaved.

In a few days I was back again at the 14th with Huggie. At dusk the
General went out in his car to a certain village about three miles
distant. Huggie went with him. An hour or so, and I was sent after him
with a despatch. The road was almost unrideable with the worst sort
of grease, the night was pitch-black and I was allowed no light. I
slithered along at about six miles an hour, sticking out my legs for
a permanent scaffolding. Many troops were lying down at the side of
the road. An officer in a strained voice just warned me in time for me
to avoid a deep shell-hole by inches. I delivered my despatch to the
General. Outside the house I found two or three officers I knew. Two
of them were young captains in command of battalions. Then I learned
how hard put to it the Division was, and what the result is of nervous
strain.

They had been fighting and fighting and fighting until their nerves
were nothing but a jangling torture. And a counter-attack on Neuve
Chapelle was being organised. Huggie told me afterwards that when the
car had come along the road, all the men had jumped like startled
animals and a few had turned to take cover. Why, if a child had met one
of these men she would have taken him by the hand instinctively and
told him not to be frightened, and defended him against anything that
came.

First we talked about the counter-attack, and which battalion would
lead; then with a little manipulation we began to discuss musical
comedy and the beauty of certain ladies. Again the talk would wander
back to which battalion would lead.

I returned perilously with a despatch and left Huggie, to spend a
disturbed night and experience those curious sensations which are
caused by a shell bursting just across the road from the house.

The proposed attack was given up. If it had been carried out, those men
would have fought as finely as they could. I do not know whether my
admiration for the infantry or my hatred of war is the greater. I can
express neither.


X--RIDING FOUR MILES ON THE DEAD LINE

On the following day the Brigadier moved to a farm farther north. It
was the job of Huggie and myself to keep up communication between this
farm and the brigade headquarters at the farm with the forgettable
name. To ride four miles or so along country lanes from one farm to
another does not sound particularly strenuous. It was. In the first
place, the neighbourhood of the advanced farm was not healthy. The
front gate was marked down by a sniper who fired not infrequently but
a little high. Between the back gate and the main road was impassable
mud. Again, the farm was only three-quarters of a mile behind our
trenches, and "overs" went zipping through the farm buildings at all
sorts of unexpected angles. There were German aeroplanes about, so we
covered our stationary motor-cycles with straw.

Starting from brigade headquarters the despatch rider in half a mile
was forced to pass the transport of a Field Ambulance. The men seemed
to take a perverted delight in wandering aimlessly across the road,
and in leaving anything on the road which could conceivably obstruct
or annoy a motor-cyclist. Then came two and a half miles of winding
country lanes. They were covered with grease. Every corner was blind.
A particularly sharp turn to the right and the despatch rider rode
a couple of hundred yards in front of a battery in action that the
Germans were trying to find. A "hairpin" corner round a house followed.
This he would take with remarkable skill and alacrity, because at this
corner he was always sniped. The German's rifle was trained a trifle
high. Coming into the final straight the despatch rider rode for all he
was worth. It was unpleasant to find new shell-holes just off the road
each time you passed, or, as you came into the straight, to hear the
shriek of shrapnel between you and the farm.

Huggie once arrived at the house of the "hairpin" bend simultaneously
with a shell. The shell hit the house, the house did not hit Huggie,
and the sniper forgot to snipe. So every one was pleased.

On my last journey I passed a bunch of wounded Sikhs. They were
clinging to all their kit. One man was wounded in both his feet. He was
being carried by two of his fellows. In his hands he clutched his boots.

The men did not know where to go or what to do. I could not make them
understand, but I tried by gestures to show them where the ambulance
was.

I saw two others--they were slightly wounded--talking fiercely
together. At last they grasped their rifles firmly, and swinging round,
limped back towards the line.

Huggie did most of the work that day, because during the greater part
of the afternoon I was kept back at brigade headquarters.

In the evening I went out in the car to fetch the general. The car,
which was old but stout, had been left behind by the Germans. The
driver of it was a reservist who had been taken from the battalion. Day
and night he tended and coaxed that car. He tied it together when it
fell to pieces. At all times and all places he drove that car, for he
had no wish at all to return to the trenches.

On the following day Huggie and I were relieved. When we returned to
our good old musty quarters at Beuvry men talked of a move. There were
rumours of hard fighting in Ypres. Soon the Lahore Division came down
towards our line and began to take over from us. The 14th Brigade was
left to strengthen them. The 15th and 13th began to move north.

Early on the morning of October 29 we started, riding first along the
canal by Béthune. As for Festubert, Givenchy, Violaines, Rue de Marais,
Quinque Rue, and La Bassée, we never want to see them again.

       *       *       *       *       *

(This despatch rider's stories are dedicated "To the Perfect Mother--My
Own." He describes "Enlisting"; "The Journey to the Front"; "The Battle
of Mons"; "The Great Retreat"; "Over the Marne to the Aisne"--and many
other adventures.)

FOOTNOTES:

[7] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the
book.

[8] Dorsets, I think.

[9] I do not say this paragraph is true. It is what I thought on 15th
October, 1914. The weather was depressing.

[10] Optimist!

[11] After nine months at the Front--six and a half months as a
despatch rider and two and a half months as a cyclist officer--I have
decided that the English language has no superlative sufficient to
describe our infantry.




WITH A B.-P. SCOUT IN GALLIPOLI--ON THE TURKISH FRONTIER

_A Record of the Belton Bulldogs_

_Told by Edmund Yerbury Priestman, Scoutmaster of the 16th (Westbourne)
Sheffield Boy Scouts_

  These anecdotes and experiences are related in the letters written
  home by a scoutmaster serving as a subaltern. The author, at the
  outbreak of the War, officered the Boy Scouts who were guarding
  places of danger from spies in England. He took a commission in
  the 6th Battalion of the York and Lancaster Regiment, and shipped
  for Suvla Bay in the Dardanelles Campaign. Here this young English
  officer of twenty-five years of age fell in action on November 19th,
  1915. His letters have been collected into a book under title "With a
  B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli." They form one of the few really humorous
  books the War has produced, with an irrepressible outburst of a youth
  who always saw the cheerful side of life. Some of these letters are
  here reproduced with courtesy of his American publishers, _E. P.
  Dutton and Company_, of New York. All rights reserved.

[12] I--STORY OF A DUGOUT UNDER JOHNNY TURK'S GUNS

  Somewhere in Turkey.

I am sitting on a rolled-up valise, a sort of hold-all in a dugout on
a hillside, while a weary "fatigue" party is digging more dugouts.
Writing isn't easy, as I have to balance the paper on my knee, so
pardon! This little hole in Europe (_i.e._ this dugout) appears to
belong to a Second-Lieutenant Huggins--at least, that's the name of the
valise--and taken all round it is quite a good hole to live in. Our
life has become analogous to the life of a rabbit, and we vie with each
other as to the security of our respective burrows against the little
attentions paid us daily by the Turkish gunners. Mr. Huggins, so far as
security goes, has done well, as his lair is dug some five feet deep
and strongly built up with stone parapets. Lying at the bottom he (or
the present occupier, E. Y. P.) would be fairly safe against either
shrapnel or high explosive. But when he lays him down to sleep I guess
Huggins will be one of the sickest soldiers on the Peninsula, for in
the left-hand a party of some 1,000,000 ants are at this moment digging
themselves in! Itchi koo! as the song says.

We are really reserve, resting at present, but it seems that we have
to do all the dirty work for the fellows who have taken over our nice
comfortable trenches, and we shan't be sorry to get back into them on
Sunday next.

The great advantage of our present position is that the hill we are
on runs down to the sea, and every day we can get a dip, so long as
we stay here. After a week or two in the trenches we certainly _need_
plenty of bathing, and I caught two of the minor horrors of war in my
shirt yesterday. One of them (the hen-bird) won the prize offered by
one of the subalterns for the biggest caught. Private Jones's boast
that he had caught one "as big as a mule" failed to materialise when
the time for weighing-in came. So mine (no larger than an average
mouse) won easily.

At this point I will break off for a lunch of bully and biscuits.

       *       *       *       *       *

To resume, having finished my lunch, using Mr. Huggins' valise as a
table.

Away to the east, along this ridge of hills, somebody is firing
machine-guns and artillery, but as I can only see the smoke of the
shrapnel away up in the sky above the hilltops, I don't know whether
they are our guns or Johnny Turk's. If they are his we shall soon have
some over us here, as he has picked up the Hun's habit of having at
least one daily "hate." Another shell has burst--nearer us this time.
Yes, Johnny is out for blood, so I have moved the Huggins bundle and
settled myself on the hard, cold floor of the Palace Huggins, where the
shrapnel bullets will have more difficulty in finding me.

The system the gunners go on is to send an officer up a hill to a place
where he can see the countryside. He observes through the 'scope where
the places are that the enemy troops mostly use, paths, wells, dugouts,
etc., and marks them on his map, probably numbering them points 1,
2, 3, and so on. He also has an accurate rangefinder and a telephone
connecting him with the battery of guns. If he sees a party of men at a
certain spot, he wires down: "Give 'em socks at point 17," or words to
that effect, and we get a few shells along, while the observing officer
scores the hits. Other days I rather suspect he puts all the numbers
into a hat and shakes them up. Then he picks one out, and with luck the
shell falls two miles away from anyone and wipes out an ant-hill with
great slaughter.

He's a peculiar gentleman, old man Turk. One night when I was going
my rounds in the trenches I noticed a general rush at a point where
generally some of our liveliest boys want suppressing, so I listened,
as everyone else seemed to be doing, and away from behind the Turks'
trenches came a sound of a band, playing some real racy oriental music.
We had quite a promenade concert. Coming from over the rugged top of a
rocky hill and through the quiet starlit night it was quite weird, in
a way, but we all enjoyed it. In France the Germans often have a bit of
a concert before any big attack, but although we thought Johnny Turk
might be going to do the same, no attack came off that night. We did
have a mild attack once--see enclosed account[13]--but the enemy never
got within very exciting distance of the section of the trench I was
responsible for. Anyway, you can show this printed account round, and
tell everyone that your son helped General Maxwell to hold the Turks
back. What! What!


II--WHEN THE GENERAL VISITS THE BOYS

Talking about generals: we all came out of the trenches feeling very
sorry for ourselves when we were relieved a week ago. Certainly we were
dog-tired and inexpressibly dirty. The day following our Divisional
General elected to inspect us. Thought we to ourselves: "This means
that he is going to see what is left of us, just to see if we are even
good enough to go as a garrison to, say, Malta." Someone even whispered
"India." Certainly no one would for one moment have suggested the
possibility of our being of the _least_ use as a fighting unit ever
again. As a matter of fact, in numbers, health, and morale we were
pretty weak. The General looked on the brighter side, however, and
our dreams of Bombay were shattered pretty quickly. The General made
a speech. He said that probably not since the days of the Peninsular
War had troops such a hard time as we had during the past month. (We
sighed solemn approval.) We had come through well. He told us that our
hardships had apparently left us little the worse. (At this point a
private fell forward in a faint--for which piece of acting I firmly
believe he had been subsidised by his fellow-men! The body having been
ostentatiously removed, the General continued.) There were other hard
times ahead for us, he said (exit dream of India), but for several days
yet we should continue to rest. ("Fall in, those fifty men with picks
and shovels!" came the voice of a sergeant-major some distance away.)
"And here y'are," concluded the General, looking round at the circle
of faces ingrained with brown dust and looking swarthy in consequence,
"here y'are all looking as fit as can be!" He ended by saying that when
he had got our reinforcements out from home he felt sure we should be
as good a fighting force as ever--which I suppose we _shall_ be. All
the same, we shall have earned a rest soon, I hope.

The ridge of hills we're on is very much the shape (and nearly the
height) of the Maiden Moor and Catbells ridge. First comes a place like
Eel Crags, all covered with dugouts on the Newlands side and occupied
by hundreds of troops. Then you come on, still on the same side, by a
footpath to about the middle of Maiden Moor. Here you will find _us_,
only instead of our homes looking down into the valley, they look down
on to the sea-shore and away out to sea, where we can see one or two
rocky islands and far away the coast of the mainland of Turkey, a bit
of Bulgaria, and a bit of Greece. Over on the other side we can see
right away down the Peninsula and pick out all the positions you read
about in the papers. Following on the ridge, you come to a dip before
reaching the hill corresponding to Catbells, and here is our trench,
running over the saddle of the hill. Beyond, on the slope, is the
Turkish trench, and somewhere about where that old "skeleton" is that
we used to see from the lake as we rowed to Keswick, the Turks have
their guns. They also have one beyond the end of the ridge, about where
Crossthwaite is. Well, that gives you the general situation of our part
of the line, without saying too much.

The trouble at present is that they can't locate the exact position
of the Turks' big gun, which is very cleverly hidden. The Navy, the
artillery, and the airmen have all been hunting for weeks, but so
far none of them have put it out of action, and "Striking Jimmy," as
we call him, goes on calmly dropping nine-inch high explosives about
the hills. Fortunately he doesn't often hit anything really important
(touch wood!--he's just sent a shell in our direction).

I met Owen quite unexpectedly on the beach the other day. His section
is stationed some miles from here, so I sha'n't be likely to run across
him again. It was very lucky seeing him at all. He was very busy making
pumping arrangements for the water supply, and I (as usual, in charge
of a fatigue-party) was asleep under one of his water-tanks, when he
began to curse me for being on prohibited premises. It was quite funny!
Then he recognized me, and we had a whole afternoon together. He's had
some pretty rough times and narrow escapes, just as I have, but we've
both got so far and quite hope to finish all safe now.

Don't ask me how things are going here. You, who see the newspapers,
know far more than we do.


III--"WHISTLING WILLIE"--AND THE HUMAN GUNS

When you have lived for ten days in a region where they wander
whistling overhead, where they somersault eccentrically in circles,
where they drop bits of themselves with the buzz of a drunken
bumblebee, where, in fact, they do everything but burst, you come to
know the projectile family fairly intimately. In fact, some poetically
constructed Bulldog has christened the various members of the family.

First, there is Whistling Willie, a bustling soul, who does his
journey, between the boom of leaving his front door and the moment
when he sneezes up a cloud of dust in front of our parapet, in about
four and a half seconds. You can almost hear him saying to the Turkish
gunners: "Now then, you chaps, come on, buck up, look alive! That's
it, off we go, _booooom!_ _zizzzzz!_ Here we are--tishoo!" Yes, he's a
brisk, pushing lad, is Willie, but rather superficial really. There's
more swagger and dust about him than the result justifies--although
it's only fair to say that he once threw up a stone large enough to
upset the Adjutant's tea. Probably the war will end (if ever) with that
deed of questionable military significance to his credit, and no more.

Willie's cousin, Whispering Walter, also of Ottoman origin, is a fellow
of infinitely more worth and solidity. Though he takes longer over his
trip from the muzzle to the mark he makes up for lost time when he gets
there. It is rather as though he gave his gunners instructions to push
him off slowly so as to give him time to pick a good place to drop.
"Very good," they say to him, "off yer goes!" _Booooom!_ A pause. Then
Walter comes into our area--"_Whizzlizzlizzle_," he whispers to himself
confidentially, as much as to say, "Now _where_, down below, is a good
fat Brigadier, or a mountain battery, or a pile of stores (dash it, I
must hurry up and spot _something_; I'm nearly exhausted)--oh, a girls'
school, a cabbage-patch--anything!" And down he comes--_whang!_--as
often as not half a mile from anything he could damage. There is a
lesson on the futility of procrastination in Walter's methods.

Walter has two brothers, Clanking Claud and Stumer Steve. Claud
always sets out, like his elder brother, in a meditative mood. Having
traveled a sufficient distance and found nothing worthy of his mettle,
he decides, apparently, to show his independence by never coming down
from his airy height to earth at all. So "_Kerlank!_" he says, and
disappears ostentatiously in a cloud of white smoke some fifty yards
above us. True, he showers a lot of little leaden marbles, but that
merely shows his spiteful nature.

And then there is poor Stumer Steve. "If ye have tears, prepare to
shed them now," for Stephen is both blind and dumb. Though he sets out
full as his brothers of resolution, though, like Walter, he whispers
promises of daring deeds, like Claud, passes with discriminating
deliberation over the ground below, yet his final descent is a hollow
and meaningless affair, though pathetic withal, "_Plunk!_" In a word
the requiem of Steve. A young and apparently vigorous life robbed of
its final destiny, a career despoiled of its rightful goal. Often we
find he is filled with--sawdust! Sawdust! Like any sixpence-halfpenny
doll! Sometimes he is empty altogether. Poor Steven, the best that can
be said of him, even when in desperation he lands upon a stone and goes
hurtling away in spiral somersaults, is--"stumer," and even _that's_ an
American word!

Quite another kettle of fish is Greasy Gregory. There is a solemnity,
a grandeur, and a determination about Greg that inspires respect.
Also he is just about twice the size of his fellows and takes quite
twice as long in making his way to earth. The mysterious and rather
awe-inspiring feature of his performance is that you never hear him
start! Possibly you are sitting over a slice of bacon or a savoury,
bully stew when he makes his advent known. Just a greasy flutter
overhead and then "_Crash!_" Gregory has come.

Everything gets up and changes places in a cloud of yellow dust and
smoke. The atmosphere being thick, things that have no sort of right
there get into intimate and inconvenient places (tea-pots, tunic
pockets, etc.), and I have spent as much as twenty minutes in a time of
famine separating Gallipoli Peninsula from raspberry-jam after one of
Gregory's little jokes.

Last, and least, comes the clown of the party--Airy Archibald. His
specialty is aeroplanes, and his efforts are acknowledged to be purely
humorous by both sides. His methods are something like this. On some
still, cloudless afternoon a distant buzzing sound is heard, heralding
the approach of an aeroplane. Instantly Archibald springs into life.
_Whoop-pop!_

Somewhere (it generally takes a good deal of finding) a tiny puff
of smoke appears against the blue. Never by any chance is it in the
same quarter of the sky as the aircraft. _Whoop-pop!_ _Whoop-pop!_
One after another they leap up to have a look. The airman never takes
the smallest notice, but sails serenely on, and never yet have I seen
Archibald get within a thousand yards of his object. Once, so rumor
has it, he _did_ get nearer, so near, in fact, that two of his bullets
hit a wing of the machine. But the shock of success was too great, and
Archie's empty shell falling to earth put two of his own gunners out
of action! This story I cannot vouch for, but this I know, that after
a monoplane has actually disappeared over the horizon I have seen
Archibald jump viciously at him four times and every time miss him
by quite three miles! Well, here's to you, my comic friend. You add
a humor to life, and I wish the others could follow your lead, and,
taking life less seriously, give us as wide a miss.

       *       *       *       *       *

(Four weeks later, the writer of this narrative fell in the trenches a
victim of these Turkish guns.)

FOOTNOTES:

[12] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters in the
original sources.

[13] A sudden attack was made on the right of the 11th Division and
upon the extreme left of the 29th Division about 2 o'clock on the
night of the 1st instant. It commenced with shell, machine gun, and
rifle fire on Jephson's post and along Keretch Tepe Sirt ridge.
Brigadier-General Maxwell was holding the right section of the 11th
Division when a body of the enemy attempted a bomb and bayonet assault
under cover of their bombardment. There was no heart, however, in the
attack, and it was easily repulsed with loss to the enemy.

The Navy, as usual on such occasions, were prompt with their
assistance, and the flanking torpedo-boat destroyer with her
searchlight lit up the northern slopes of Keretch Tepe and effectively
stopped the enemy from pressing in along the coast.




"IN THE FIELD"--THE STORIES OF THE FRENCH CHASSEURS

_Impressions of an Officer of Light Cavalry_

_Told by Lieut. Marcel Dupont, of the French Chasseurs_

  This officer of the Light Cavalry tells a straightforward story of
  the charges on the battlefields of the War: "Days of misery, days of
  joy, days of battle--what volumes we might write if we were to follow
  our squadrons day by day. I have merely tried to make a written
  record of some of the hours I have lived through. If I should come
  out of the deathly struggle safe and sound, it would be a pleasure to
  me some day to read over these notes of battle and bivouac. I shall
  rejoice if I have been able to revise some phases of the tragedy in
  which we were the actors if my brothers-in-arms read the simple tales
  of a lieutenant of Chasseurs, an unschooled effort of a soldier more
  apt with the sword than with the pen." M. Dupont tells: "How I Went
  to the Front," "The First Charge," "Sister Gabriel," and "Christmas
  Night." Some of these stories are here told by permission of his
  publishers from his book, "In the Field."--_J. B. Lippincott Company._

[14] I--NIGHT IN THE HOUSE OF A PEASANT

One morning in the middle of September, 1914, as we raised our heads
at about six o'clock from the straw on which we had slept, I and my
friend F. had a very disagreeable surprise: we heard in the darkness
the gentle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop from the
pent-house onto the road.

Arriving at Pévy the evening before, just before midnight, we had found
refuge in a house belonging to a peasant. The hostess, a good old soul
of eighty, had placed at our disposal a small bare room paved with
tiles, in which our orderlies had prepared a sumptuous bed of trusses
of straw. The night had been delightful, and we should have awaked in
good spirits had it not been for the distressing fact noticed by my
friend.

"It is raining," said F.

I could not but agree with him. Those who have been soldiers, and
especially cavalrymen, know to the full how dispiriting is the sound of
those few words: "It is raining."

"It is raining" means your clothes will be saturated; your cloak will
be drenched, and weigh at least forty pounds; the water will drip from
your shako along your neck and down your back; above all, your high
boots will be transformed into two little pools in which your feet
paddle woefully. It means broken roads, mud splashing you up to the
eyes, horses slipping, reins stiffened, your saddle transformed into a
hip-bath. It means that the little clean linen you have brought with
you--that precious treasure--in your saddlebags, will be changed into a
wet bundle on which large and indelible yellow stains have been made by
the soaked leather.

But it was no use to think of all this. The orders ran: "Horses to be
saddled, and squadron ready to mount, at 6.30." And they had to be
carried out.

It was still dark. I went out into the yard, after pulling down my
campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after all, the evil was less than
I had feared. It was not raining, but drizzling. The air was mild,
and there was not a breath of wind. When once our cloaks were on it
would take some hours for the wet to reach our shirts. At the farther
end of the yard some men were moving about round a small fire. Their
shadows passed to and fro in front of the ruddy light. They were making
coffee--_jus_, as they call it--that indispensable ration in which they
soak bread and make a feast without which they think a man cannot be a
good soldier.

I ran to my troop through muddy alleys, skipping from side to side to
avoid the puddles. Daylight appeared, pale and dismal. A faint smell
rose from the sodden ground.

"Nothing new, _mon Lieutenant_," were the words that greeted me from
the sergeant, who then made his report. I had every confidence in him;
he had been some years in the service, and knew his business. Small and
lean, and tightly buttoned into his tunic, in spite of all our trials
he was still the typical smart light cavalry non-commissioned officer.
I knew he had already gone round the stables, which he did with a
candle in his hand, patting the horses' haunches and looking with a
watchful eye to see whether some limb had not been hurt by a kick or
entangled in its tether.

In the large yard of the abandoned and pillaged farm, where the men had
been billeted they were hurrying to fasten the last buckles and take
their places in the ranks. I quickly swallowed my portion of insipid
lukewarm coffee, brought me by my orderly; then I went to get my orders
from the Captain, who was lodged in the market-square. No word had
yet been received from the Colonel, who was quartered at the farm of
Vadiville, two kilometres off. Patience! We had been used to these long
waits since the army had been pulled up before the formidable line of
trenches which the Germans had dug north of Rheims. They were certainly
most disheartening; but it could not be helped, and it was of no use to
complain. I turned and went slowly up the steep footpath that led to my
billet.


II--"I OPENED THE HEAVY DOOR--AND ENTERED THE CHURCH"

Pévy is a poor little village, clinging to the last slopes of a line of
heights that runs parallel to the road from Rheims to Paris. Its houses
are huddled together, and seem to be grouped at the foot of the ridges
for protection from the north wind. The few alleys which intersect the
village climb steeply up the side of the hill. We were obliged to tramp
about in the sticky mud of the main road waiting for our orders.

Passing the church, it occurred to me to go and look inside. Since
the war had begun we had hardly had any opportunity of going into the
village churches we had passed. Some of them were closed because the
parish priests had left for the army, or because the village had been
abandoned to the enemy. Others had served as marks for the artillery,
and now stood in the middle of the villages, ruins loftier and more
pitiable than the rest.

The church of Pévy seemed to be clinging to the side of the hill, and
was approached by a narrow stairway of greyish stone, climbing up
between moss-grown walls. I first passed through the modest little
churchyard, with its humble tombs half hidden in the grass, and read
some of the simple inscriptions:

"Here lies ... Here lies ... Pray for him...."

The narrow pathway leading to the porch was almost hidden in the turf,
and as I walked up it my boots brushed the drops from the grass. The
damp seemed to be getting into my bones, for it was still drizzling--a
fine persistent drizzle. Behind me the village was in mist; the roofs
and the maze of chimney tops were hardly distinguishable.

Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy door studded
with iron nails, and entered the church, and at once experienced a
feeling of relaxation, of comfort and repose. How touching the little
sanctuary of Pévy seemed to me in its humble simplicity!

Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault supported by two rows
of thick pillars. The narrow Gothic windows hardly allowed the grey
light to enter. There were no horrible cheap modern stained windows,
but a multitude of small white rectangular leaded panes. All this was
simple and worn; but to me it seemed to breathe a noble and touching
poetry. And what charmed me above all was that the pale light did not
reveal walls covered with the horrible colour-wash we are accustomed to
see in most of our village churches.

This church was an old one, a very old one. Its style was not very well
defined, for it had no doubt been built, damaged, destroyed, rebuilt
and repaired by many different generations. But those who preserved
it to the present day had avoided the lamentable plastering which
disfigures so many others. The walls were built with fine large stones,
on which time had left its melancholy impress. There was no grotesque
painting on them to mar their quiet beauty, and the dim light that
filtered through at that early hour gave them a vague soft glow.

No pictures or ornaments disfigured the walls. The "Stations of the
Cross" were the only adornment, and they were so simple and childish in
their execution that they were no doubt the work of some rustic artist.
And even this added a touching note to a harmonious whole.


III--"I KNELT--THE PRIEST WAS SAYING MASS"

But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind of soft
and monotonous murmur, coming from the altar. The choir was almost
in darkness, but I could distinguish the six stars of the lighted
candles. In front of the tabernacle was standing a large white shadowy
form, almost motionless and like a phantom. At the bottom of the
steps another form was kneeling, bowed down towards the floor; it did
not stir as I approached. I went towards the choir on tip-toe, very
cautiously. I felt that I, a profane person, was committing a sacrilege
by coming to disturb those two men praying there all alone in the gloom
of that sad morning. A deep feeling of emotion passed through me,
and I felt so insignificant in their presence and in the mysterious
atmosphere of the place that I knelt down humbly, almost timidly, in
the shadow of one of the great pillars near the altar.

Then I could distinguish my fellow-worshippers better. A priest was
saying mass. He was young and tall, and his gestures as he officiated
were low and dignified. He did not know that some one was present
watching him closely; so it could not be supposed that he was speaking
and acting to impress a congregation, and yet he had a way of kneeling,
of stretching out his arms and of looking up to the humble gilded cross
in front of him, that revealed all the ardour of fervent prayers.
Occasionally he turned towards the back of the church to pronounce the
ritual words. His face was serious and kindly, framed in a youthful
beard--the face of an apostle, with the glow of faith in his eyes. And
I was surprised to see underneath his priest's vestments the hems of a
pair of red trousers, and feet shod in large muddy military boots.

The kneeling figure at the bottom of the steps now stood out more
distinctly. The man was wearing on his shabby infantry coat the white
armlet with the red cross. He must have been a priest, for I could
distinguish some traces of a neglected tonsure among his brown hair.

The two repeated, in a low tone by turns, words of prayer, comfort,
repentance, or supplication, harmonious Latin phrases, which sounded to
me like exquisite music. And as an accompaniment in the distance, in
the direction of Saint Thierry and Berry-au-Bac, the deep voice of the
guns muttered ceaselessly.

For the first time in the campaign I felt a kind of poignant
melancholy. For the first time I felt small and miserable, almost a
useless thing, compared with those two fine priestly figures who were
praying in the solitude of this country church for those who had fallen
and were falling yonder under shot and shell.

How I despised and upbraided myself at such moments! What a profound
disgust I felt for the follies of my garrison life, its gross pleasures
and silly excesses! I was ashamed of myself when I reflected that
death brushed by me every day, and that I might disappear to-day or
to-morrow, after so many ill-spent and unprofitable days.

Without any effort, and almost in spite of myself, pious words came
back to my lips--those words that my dear mother used to teach me on
her knee years and years ago. And I felt a quiet delight in the almost
forgotten words that came back to me:

"Forgive us our trespasses.... Pray for us, poor sinners...."

It seemed to me that I should presently go away a better man and a more
valiant soldier. And, as though to encourage and bless me, a faint ray
of sunshine came through the window.

"_Ite, missa est...._" The priest turned round; and this time I thought
his eyes rested upon me, and that the look was a benediction and an
absolution.

But suddenly I heard in the alley close by a great noise of people
running and horses stamping, and a voice crying:

"Mount horses!... Mount horses!"

I was sorry to leave the little church of Pévy; I should so much have
liked to wait until those two priests came out, to speak to them, and
talk about other things than war, massacres and pillage. But duty
called me to my men, my horses, and to battle.

Shortly afterwards, as I passed at the head of my troop in front of
the large farm where the ambulance of the division was quartered, I
saw my abbé coming out of a barn, with his sleeves tucked up and his
_képi_ on the side of his head. He was carrying a large pail of milk. I
recognised his clear look, and had no doubt that he recognised me too,
for as our eyes met he gave me a kindly smile.

My heart was lighter as I went forward, and my soul was calmer.


IV--"MAMAN CHEVERET"--AND THE CAVALRYMEN

For the last six days we had been quartered at Montigny-sur-Vesle,
a pretty little village half-way up a hillside on the heights, 20
kilometres to the west of Rheims. There we enjoyed a little rest for
the first time in the campaign. On our front the struggle was going on
between the French and German trenches, and the employment of cavalry
was impossible. All the regiment had to do was to supply daily two
troops required to ensure the connection between the two divisions of
the army corps.

What a happiness it was to be able at last to enjoy almost perfect
rest! What a delight to lie down every evening in a good bed; not to
get up before seven o'clock; to find our poor horses stabled at last on
good litter in the barns, and to see them filling out daily and getting
sleeker!

For our mess we had the good luck to find a most charming and simple
welcome at the house of good Monsieur Cheveret. That kind old gentleman
did everything in his power to supply us with all the comforts he could
dispose of. And he did it all with such good grace and such a pleasant
smile that we felt at ease and at home at once. Madame Cheveret, whom
we at once called "Maman Cheveret," was an alert little old lady who
trotted about all day long in quest of things to do for us. She put us
up in the dining-room, and helped our cook to clean the vegetables and
to superintend the joints and sweets. For Gosset, the bold Chasseur
appointed to preside over our mess arrangement, was a professional in
the culinary art, and excelled in making everything out of nothing;
so, with the help of Maman Cheveret, he accomplished wonders, and the
result of it all was that we began to be enervated by the delights of
this new Capua. And how thoroughly we enjoyed it!

We shared our Eden with two other squadrons of our regiment, a section
of an artillery park, and a divisional ambulance. We prayed Heaven to
grant us a long stay in such a haven of repose.


V--THE SOLDIERS AT THE ALTAR

Now one morning, after countless ablutions with hot water and a clean
shave, I was going, with brilliantly shining boots, down the steep
footpath which led to the little house of our good Monsieur Cheveret,
when my attention was drawn to a small white notice posted on the door
of the church. It ran:

  "THIS EVENING AT SIX O'CLOCK,
  BENEDICTION OF THE MOST HOLY SACRAMENT."

It occurred to me at once that this happy idea had been conceived by
the Chaplain of the Ambulance, for until then the church had been
kept locked, as the young parish priest had been called up by the
mobilisation. I made haste to tell our Captain and my comrades the
good news, and we all determined to be present at the Benediction that
evening.

At half-past five our ears were delighted by music such as we had not
been accustomed to hear for a very long time. In the deepening twilight
some invisible hand was chiming the bells of the little church. How
deliciously restful they were after the loud roar of the cannon and the
rattle of the machine-guns! Who would have thought that such deep, and
also such solemn, notes could come from so small a steeple? It stirred
the heart and brought tears to the eyes, like some of Chopin's music.
Those bells seemed to speak to us, they seemed to call us to prayer and
preach courage and virtue to us.

At the end of the shady walk I was passing down--whose trees formed
a rustling wall on either side--appeared the little church, with its
slender steeple. It stood out in clear relief, a dark blue, almost
violet silhouette against the purple background made by the setting
sun. Some dark human forms were moving about and collecting around
the low arched doorway. Perhaps these were the good old women of the
district who had come to pray in this little church which had remained
closed to them for nearly two months. I fancied I could distinguish
them from where I was, dignified and erect in their old-fashioned
mantles.

But as soon as I got closer to them I found I was mistaken. It was not
aged and pious women who were hurrying to the church door, but a group
of silent artillerymen wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The
bells shook out their solemn notes, and seemed to be calling others to
come too; and I should have been glad if their voices had been heard,
for I was afraid the Chaplain's appeal would hardly be heeded and that
the benches of the little church would be three-parts empty.

But on gently pushing the door open I found at once that my fears were
baseless. The church was in fact too small to hold all the soldiers,
who had come long before the appointed hour as soon as they heard the
bells begin. And now that I had no fears about the church being empty
I wondered how I was going to find a place myself. I stood on the
doorstep, undecided, on tip-toe, looking over the heads of all those
standing men to see whether there was any corner unoccupied where I
could enjoy the beauty of the unexpected sight in peace.

The nave was almost dark. The expense of lighting had no doubt to be
considered, for for several days past no candle or taper was to be had
for money. And no doubt the kindness of a motorist of the Red Cross had
been appealed to for the supply of all the candles which lit up the
altar. This was indeed resplendent. The vestry had been ransacked for
candlesticks, and the tabernacle was surrounded by a splendid aureole
of light. All this increased the touching impression I felt on entering.

Against the brilliant background of the choir stood out the black forms
of several hundreds of men standing and looking towards the altar.
Absolute silence reigned over the whole congregation of soldiers. And
yet no discipline was enforced; there was no superior present to impose
a show of devotion. Left to themselves, they all understood what they
had to do. They crowded together, waiting in silence and without any
impatience for the ceremony to begin.


VI--ARTILLERYMEN AT HOLY COMMUNION

Suddenly a white figure came towards me through the crowded ranks of
soldiers. He extended his arms in token of welcome, and I at once
recognised the Chaplain in his surplice. His face was beaming with
pleasure, and his eyes shone behind his spectacles. He appeared to be
supremely happy.

"This way, _Monsieur l'Officier_, this way. I have thought of
everything. You must have the seat of honour. Follow me."

I followed the holy man, who elbowed a way for me up the crowded aisle.
He had reserved all the choir-stalls for the officers. Before the war
they had been occupied, at high mass, by the clergy, the choir, and the
principal members of the congregation. He proudly showed me into one
of them, and I felt rather embarrassed at finding myself suddenly in a
blaze of light between an artillery lieutenant and a surgeon-major.

The low vestry door now opened and a very unexpected procession
appeared. In front of a bearded priest walked four artillerymen in
uniform. One of them carried a censer, and another the incense-box. The
other two walked in front of them, arms crossed and eyes front. The
whole procession knelt before the altar with perfect precision, and I
saw beneath the priest's vestments muddy gaiters of the same kind as
those worn by the gunners.

At the same time we heard, quite close to us, strains of music which
seemed to us celestial. In the dim light I had not noticed the
harmonium, but now I could distinguish the artist who was enchanting us
by his skill in drawing sweet sounds from a poor worn instrument. He
was an artillery captain. At once all eyes were turned towards him; we
were all enraptured. None of us dared to hope that we should lift our
voices in the hymns.

The organist seemed unconscious of his surroundings. The candle placed
near the keyboard cast a strange light upon the most expressive of
heads. Against the dark background of the church the striking features
of a noble face were thrown into strong relief: a forehead broad and
refined, an aristocratic nose, a fair moustache turned up at the ends,
and, notably, two fine blue eyes, which, without a glance at the
fingers on the keys, were fixed on the vaulted roof as though seeking
inspiration there.

The Chaplain, turning to the congregation, then said:

"My friends, we will all join in singing the _O Salutaris_."

The harmonium gave the first notes, and I braced myself to endure
the dreadful discords I expected from this crowd of soldiers--mostly
reservists--who, I supposed, had come together that evening mainly out
of curiosity.

Judge of my astonishment! At first only a few timid voices joined the
Chaplain's. But after a minute or so a marvel happened. From all those
chests came a volume of sound such as I could hardly have believed
possible. Who will say then that our dear France has lost her Faith?
Who can believe it? Every one of these men joined in singing the hymn,
and not one of them seemed ignorant of the Latin words. It was a
magnificent choir, under a lofty vault, chanting with the fervour of
absolute sincerity. There was not one discordant note, not one voice
out of tune, to spoil its perfect harmony.

Who can believe that men, many of them more than thirty years old,
would remember all the words unless they had been brought up in the
faith of their ancestors and still held it?

I could not help turning to look at them. In the light of the candles
their faces appeared to be wonderfully transfigured. Not one of them
expressed irony or even indifference. What a fine picture it would
have made for a Rembrandt! The bodies of the men were invisible in the
darkness of the nave, and their heads alone emerged from the gloom. The
effect was grand enough to fascinate the most sceptical of painters; it
soothed and charmed one and wiped out all the miseries that the war had
left in its wake. Men like these would be equal to anything, ready for
anything; and I myself should much have liked to see a Monsieur Homais
hidden away in some corner of that church.

Meanwhile the sacred Office was proceeding at the altar. At any other
time we might have smiled at the sight of that soldier-priest served
by choristers of thirty-five in uniform; at that ceremony it was
inexpressibly touching and attractive, and it was especially delightful
to see how carefully and precisely each performed his function that the
ceremony might not lack its accustomed pomp.


VII--THE WARRIORS AND THE ROSARY

When the singing had ceased the Chaplain went up to the holy table. In
a voice full of feeling he tried to express his gratitude and happiness
to all those brave fellows. I should not imagine him to be a brilliant
speaker at the best of times, but on that occasion the worthy man was
completely unintelligible. His happiness was choking him. He tried
in vain to find the words he wanted, used the wrong ones, and only
confused himself by trying to get them right. But nobody had the least
desire to laugh when, to conclude his address, he said with a sigh of
relief:

"And now we will tell twenty beads of the rosary; ten for the success
of our arms, and the other ten in memory of soldiers who have died on
the field of honour.... _Hail! Mary, full of grace...._"

I looked round the church once more, and every one's lips were moving
silently accompanying the priest's words. Opposite us I saw the
artillery captain take a rosary out of his pocket and tell the beads
with dreamy eyes; and when the Chaplain came to the sentence "Holy
Mary, Mother of God, ..." hundreds of voices burst forth, deep and
manly voices, full of fervour which seemed to proclaim their faith
in Him Who was present before them on the altar, and also to promise
self-sacrifice and devotion to that other sacred thing, their Country.

Then, after the _Tantum ergo_ had been sung with vigour, the priest
held up the monstrance, and I saw all those soldiers with one accord
kneel down on the stone floor and bow their heads. The silence was
impressive; not a word, not a cough, and not a chair moved. I had never
seen such devotion in any church. Some spiritual power was brooding
over the assemblage and bowing all those heads in token of submission
and hope. Good, brave soldiers of France, how we love and honour you at
such moments, and what confidence your chiefs must feel when they lead
such men to battle!

       *       *       *       *       *

We sat at table around the lamp, and good Maman Cheveret had just
brought in the steaming soup. Right away towards the east we heard
the dull roll of the cannon. Good Monsieur Cheveret had just brought
up from his cellar a venerable bottle of his best Burgundy, and, at
the invitation of the Captain, he sat down to drink a glass with us,
smoking his cherry-wood pipe and listening with delight to our merry
chat.

Gosset was in his kitchen next door preparing a delicious piece of
beef _à la mode_ and at the same time telling Maman Cheveret about his
exploits of the past month.

We heard the men of the first troop cracking their jokes in the yard
as they ate their rations and emptied their pannikin of wine under a
brilliant moon.

Down in the valley on the banks of the murmuring Vesle, songs and
laughter floated up to us from the artillery park.

And the village itself, shining under the starlit sky, seemed bathed in
an atmosphere of cheerfulness, courage and confidence.

FOOTNOTES:

[14] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.




"FIELD HOSPITAL AND FLYING COLUMN"--IN RUSSIA

_Journal of an English Nursing Sister_

_Told by Violetta Thurstan_

  This English woman relates her experiences as an eye witness and
  participant. "For me," she says, "the beginning of the War was a
  torchlight tattoo on Salisbury Plain. It was fascinating to watch
  the stately entrance into the field of Lancers, Irish Rifles, Welsh
  Fusiliers, Grenadiers and many another gallant regiment, each
  marching into the field in turn to the swing of their own particular
  regimental tune until they were all drawn up in order." She then
  tells about "The Beginning of It All"; "Her Experiences in Charleroi
  and Roundabout"; "The Return to Brussels"; "Our Work in Warsaw";
  "The Bombardment of Lodz," and "The Trenches at Radzivilow." These
  and many other stories have been collected into a volume under the
  title "Field Hospital and Flying Column." The stories told here are
  by permission of her publishers, _G. P. Putnam's Sons_.

[15] I--WITH GRAND DUCHESS CYRIL IN WARSAW

The Grand Duchess Cyril happened to be staying at the Hotel Bristol
too. Like most of the other members of the Russian Royal Family,
since the beginning of the war she has been devoting her whole time
to helping wounded soldiers, and is the center of a whole network of
activities. She has a large hospital in Warsaw for men and officers, a
very efficient ambulance train that can hold 800 wounded, and one of
the best surgeons in Petrograd working on it, and a provision train
which sets up feeding-stations for the troops and for refugees in
places where food is very scarce, which last is an indescribable boon
to all who benefit by it. The Grand Duchess's hospital in Warsaw, like
every other just at this time, was crammed to overflowing with wounded
from Lodz, and the staff was inadequate to meet this unexpected need.

The Grand Duchess met Princess V. in the lounge just as we arrived
from Lodz, and begged that our Column might go and help for a time
at her hospital. Accordingly, the next day, the consent of the Red
Cross Office having been obtained, we went off to the Grand Duchess's
hospital for a time to supplement and relieve their staff. They met
us with open arms, as they were all very tired and very thankful for
our help. They only had room for fifty patients and had had about
150 brought in. Fortunately the Grand Duchess's ambulance train had
just come back to Warsaw, so the most convalescent of the old cases
were taken off to Petrograd, but even then we were working in the
operating-theater till twelve or one every night. They hoped we had
come for two or three weeks and were very disgusted when, in five
days' time, the order came for us to go off to Skiernevice with the
automobiles. The hospital staff gave us such a nice send-off, and
openly wished that they belonged to a flying column too. I must say it
was very interesting these startings off into the unknown, with our
little fleet of automobiles containing ourselves and our equipment.
We made a very flourishing start out of Warsaw, but very soon plunged
into an appalling mess of mud. One could really write an epic poem on
Russian roads. At the best of times they are awful; on this particular
occasion they were full of large holes made by shells and covered with
thick, swampy mud that had been snow the week before. It delayed us so
much that we did not get to Skiernevice till late that night.


II--CAMPING IN THE TZAR'S SHOOTING BOX

Skiernevice is a small town, important chiefly as a railway junction,
as two lines branch off here towards Germany and Austria northwest and
southwest. The Tsar has a shooting-box here in the midst of beautiful
woods, and two rooms had been set apart in this house for our Column.

We arrived late in the evening, secretly hoping that we should get a
night in bed, and were rather rejoiced at finding that there were no
wounded there at all at present, though a large contingent was expected
later. So we camped in the two rooms allotted to us: Princess, Sister
G., and myself in one, and all the men of the party in the other. No
wounded arrived for two or three days, and we thoroughly enjoyed the
rest and, above all, the beautiful woods. How delicious the pines smelt
after that horrible Lodz. Twice a day we used to go down the railway
line, where there was a restaurant car for the officers; it seemed odd
to be eating our meals in the Berlin-Warsaw International Restaurant
Car. There was always something interesting going on at the station.
One day a regiment from Warsaw had just been detrained there when a
German Taube came sailing over the station throwing down grenades.
Every man immediately began to fire up in the air, and we ran much more
risk of being killed by a Russian bullet than by the German Taube. It
was like being in the middle of a battle, and I much regretted I had
not my camera with me. Another day all the débris of a battlefield had
been picked up and was lying in piles in the station waiting to be sent
off to Warsaw. There were truck-loads of stuff; German and Russian
overcoats, boots, rifles, water-bottles, caps, swords, and helmets and
all sorts of miscellaneous kit.

We often saw gangs of prisoners, mostly Austrian, but some German, and
they always seemed well treated by the Russians. The Austrian prisoners
nearly always looked very miserable, cold, hungry, and worn out. Once
we saw a spy being put into the train to go to Warsaw, I suppose to be
shot--an old Jewish man with white hair in a long, black gaberdine,
strips of colored paper still in his hand with which he had been caught
signaling to the Germans. _How_ angry the soldiers were with him--one
gave him a great punch in the back, another kicked him up into the
train, and a soldier on the platform who saw what was happening ran
as fast as he could and was just in time to give him a parting hit on
the shoulder. The old man did not cry out or attempt to retaliate; but
his face was ashy-white with terror, and one of his hands was dripping
with blood. It was a very horrible sight and haunted me all the rest of
the day. It was quite right that he should be shot as a spy, but the
unnecessary cruelty first sickened me.

There were masses of troops constantly going up to the positions from
Skiernevice, and as there was a short cut through the park, which they
generally used, we could see all that was going on from our rooms. On
Sunday it was evident that another big battle was pending. Several
batteries went up through our woods, each gun-carriage almost up to its
axles in mud, dragged by eight strong horses. They were followed by
a regiment of Cossacks, looking very fierce in their great black fur
head-dresses, huge sheep-skin coats, and long spears. There was one
small Cossack boy who was riding out with his father to the front and
who could not have been more than eleven or twelve years old. There are
quite a number of young boys at the front who make themselves very
useful in taking messages, carrying ammunition, and so on. We had one
little boy of thirteen in the hospital at Warsaw, who was badly wounded
while carrying a message to the colonel, and he was afterwards awarded
the St. George's Cross.

There were enormous numbers of other troops too: Siberians, Tartars,
Asiatic Russians from Turkestan, Caucasians in their beautiful
black-and-silver uniforms, Little Russians from the south, and great
fair-haired giants from the north.

The little Catholic Church in the village was full to overflowing at
the early Mass that Sunday morning with men in full marching kit on
their way out to the trenches. A very large number of them made their
Confession and received the Blessed Sacrament before starting out, and
for many, many of these it was their Viaticum, for the great battle
began that afternoon, and few of the gallant fellows we saw going up to
the trenches that morning ever returned again.

That afternoon the Prince had business at the Staff Headquarters out
beyond Lowice, and I went out there in the automobile with him and
Monsieur Goochkoff. We went through Lowice on the way there. The little
town had been severely bombarded (it was taken two or three days later
by the Germans), and we met many of the peasants hurrying away from
it carrying their possessions with them. You may know the peasants
of Lowice anywhere by their distinctive dress, which is the most
brilliantly colored peasant dress imaginable. The women wear gorgeous
petticoats of orange, red and blue, or green in vertical stripes and a
cape of the same material over their shoulders, a bright-colored shawl,
generally orange, on their heads, and brilliant bootlaces--magenta is
the color most affected. The men, too, wear trousers of the same kind
of vertical stripes, generally of orange and black. These splashes of
bright color are delicious in this sad, gray country.


III--THE GENERAL STAFF AT RADZIVILOW CASTLE

The General of the Staff was quartered at Radzivilow Castle, and I
explored the place while the Prince and Monsieur Goochkoff did their
business. The old, dark hall, with armor hanging on the walls and
worm-eaten furniture covered with priceless tapestry, would have made
a splendid picture. A huge log fire burning on the open hearth lighted
up the dark faces of the two Turkestan soldiers who were standing
on guard at the door. In one corner a young lieutenant was taking
interminable messages from the field telephone, and under the window
another Turkestan soldier stood sharpening his dagger. The Prince
asked him what he was doing, and his dark face lighted up. "Every
night at eight," he said, still sharpening busily, "I go out and kill
some Germans." The men of this Turkestan regiment are said to be
extraordinarily brave men. They do not care at all about a rifle, but
prefer to be at closer quarters with the enemy with their two-edged
dagger, and the Germans like them as little as they like our own
Gurkhas and Sikhs.

The next day the wounded began to arrive in Skiernevice, and in two
days' time the temporary hospital was full.

The Tsar had a private theater at Skiernevice with a little separate
station of its own about 200 yards farther down the line than the
ordinary station, and in many ways this made quite a suitable hospital
except for the want of a proper water-supply.

The next thing we heard was that the Russian General had decided to
fall back once more, and we must be prepared to move at any moment.

All that day we heard violent cannonading going on and all the next
night, though the hospital was already full, the little country carts
came in one after another filled with wounded. They were to only stay
one night, as in the morning ambulance trains were coming to take them
all away, and we had orders to follow as soon as the last patient had
gone. Another operating- and dressing-room was quickly improvised, but
even with the two going hard all night it was difficult to keep pace
with the number brought in.

The scenery had never been taken down after the last dramatic
performance played in the theater, and wounded men lay everywhere
between the wings and drop scenes. The auditorium was packed so closely
that you could hardly get between the men without treading on some
one's hands and feet as they lay on the floor. The light had given
out--in the two dressing-rooms there were oil-lamps, but in the rest of
the place we had to make do with candle-ends stuck into bottles. The
foyer had been made into a splendid kitchen, where hot tea and boiling
soup could be got all night through. This department was worked by the
local Red Cross Society, and was a great credit to them.

About eight o'clock in the morning the first ambulance train came in,
and was quickly filled with patients. We heard that the Germans were
now very near, and hoped we should manage to get away all the wounded
before they arrived.

The second train came up about eleven, and by that time a fierce rifle
encounter was going on. From the hospital window we could see the
Russian troops firing from the trenches near the railway. Soon there
was a violent explosion that shook the place; this was the Russians
blowing up the railway bridge on the western side of the station.

The second train went off, and there were very few patients left now,
though some were still being brought in at intervals by the Red Cross
carts. Our automobiles had started off to Warsaw with some wounded
officers, but the rest of the column had orders to go to Zyradow by the
last train to leave Skiernevice.

The sanitars now began to pack up the hospital; we did not mean to
leave anything behind for the enemy if we could help it. The few
bedsteads were taken to pieces and tied up, the stretchers put together
and the blankets tied up in bundles. When the last ambulance train came
up about 2 P.M. the patients were first put in, and then every
portable object that could be removed was packed into the train too.
At the last moment, when the train was just about to start, one of the
sanitars ran back and triumphantly brought out a pile of dirty soup
plates to add to the collection. Nothing was left in the hospital but
two dead men we had not time to bury.

The wounded were all going to Warsaw and the other Russian Sisters went
on in the train with them. But our destination was Zyradow, only the
next station but one down the line.


IV--ADVENTURES OF A PRINCESS IN POLAND

When we arrived at Zyradow about three o'clock we were looking forward
to a bath and tea and bed, as we had been up all night and were very
tired; but the train most unkindly dropped us about a quarter of a
mile from the station, and we had to get out all our equipment and
heavy cases of dressings, and put them at the side of the line, while
Julian, the Prince's soldier servant, went off to try and find a man
and a cart for the things. There was a steady downpour of rain, and
we were soaked by the time he came back saying that there was nothing
to be had at all. The station was all in crumbling ruins, so we could
not leave the things there, and our precious dressings were beginning
to get wet. Finally we got permission to put them in a closed cinema
theater near the station, but it was dark by that time, and we were
wet and cold and began once more to center our thoughts on baths and
tea. We were a small party--only six of us--Princess, we two Sisters,
Colonel S., a Russian dresser, and Julian. We caught a local Red
Crosser. "Where is the hotel?" "There is no hotel here." "Where can we
lodge for to-night?" "I don't know where you could lodge." "Where is
the Red Cross Bureau?" asked Princess, in desperation. "About a quarter
of an hour's walk. I will show you the way."

We got to the Red Cross Bureau to find that Monsieur Goochkoff had not
yet arrived, though he was expected, and they could offer no solution
of our difficulties, except to advise us to go to the Factory Hospital
and see if they could make any arrangement for us. The Matron there
was _very_ kind, and telephoned to every one she could think of, and
finally got a message that we were expected, and were to sleep at
the Reserve. So we trudged once more through the mud and rain. The
"Reserve" was two small, empty rooms, where thirty Sisters were going
to pass the night. They had no beds, and not even straw, but were just
going to lie on the floor in their clothes. There was obviously no room
for six more of us, and finally we went back once more to the Red Cross
Bureau. Princess seized an empty room, and announced that we were going
to sleep in it. We were told we couldn't, as it had been reserved for
somebody else; but we didn't care, and got some patients' stretchers
from the depot and lay down on them in our wet clothes just as we were.
In the middle of the night the "somebody" for whom the room had been
kept arrived, strode into the room, and turned up the electric light.
The others were really asleep, and I pretended to be. He had a good
look at us, and then strode out again grunting. We woke up every five
minutes, it was so dreadfully cold, and though we were so tired, I was
not sorry when it was time to get up.

We had breakfast at a dirty little restaurant in the town, and then got
a message from the Red Cross that there would be nothing for us to do
that day, but that we were probably going to be sent to Radzowill the
following morning. So we decided to go off to the Factory Hospital and
see if we could persuade the Matron to let us have a bath there.

Zyradow is one very large cotton and woollen factory, employing about
5,000 hands. In Russia it is the good law that for every hundred
workmen employed there shall be one hospital bed provided. In the small
factories a few beds in the local hospital are generally subsidized, in
larger ones they usually find it more convenient to have their own. So
here there was a very nice little hospital with fifty beds, which had
been stretched now to hold twice as many more, as a great many wounded
had to be sent in here. The Matron is a Pole of Scottish extraction,
and spoke fluent but quite foreign English with a strong Scotch accent.
There are a good many Scotch families here, who came over and settled
in Poland about a hundred years ago, and who are all engaged in
different departments in the factory. She was kindness itself, and gave
us tea first and then prepared a hot bath for us all in turn. We got
rid of most of our tormentors and were at peace once more.

As we left the hospital we met three footsore soldiers whose boots were
absolutely worn right through. They were coming up to the hospital to
see if the Matron had any dead men's boots that would fit them. It
sounded rather gruesome--but she told us that that was quite a common
errand. The Russian military boots are excellent, but, of course, all
boots wear out very quickly under such trying circumstances of roads
and weather. They are top boots, strong and waterproof, and very often
made by the men themselves. The uniform, too, is very practical and
so strong that the men have told me that carpets are made from the
material. The color is browner than our own khaki--and quite different
both from the German, which is much grayer, and the Austrian, which is
almost blue. I heard in Belgium that at the beginning of the war German
soldiers were constantly mistaken for our men.

FOOTNOTES:

[15] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.




AN UNCENSORED DIARY--FROM THE CENTRAL EMPIRES

_By Ernesta Drinker Bullitt, An American Woman in the Diplomatic
Circles in Germany and Austria_

  This is one of the most delightfully interesting narratives in the
  entire War. It is the diary of an American woman with a charming
  sense of humor. Mrs. Bullitt accompanied her husband on his
  interviews with the diplomatists as special correspondent with the
  _Philadelphia Public Ledger_. Her conversations with historical
  personages give one an intimate acquaintanceship with the great
  characters in the world's tragedy. This American woman tells how she
  dined with von Bissing, Governor of Belgium; Zimmerman, "the busiest
  man in the German Empire," discussed the War with her; Countess von
  Bernstorff and Baroness von Bissing asked her to tea; ambassadors
  and statesmen parleyed with her. She recorded her daily experiences
  without any thought of their future publication. It stands unique as
  a record written entirely within the lines of the Central Empires.
  Brilliant sketches from this diary are here reprinted by the
  authority of the publishers: _Doubleday, Page and Company_: Copyright
  1917.


I--WITH LETTERS FROM COUNT BERNSTORFF

  _Copenhagen, May 14, 1916._

Once upon a time ... before the war, one went abroad with no more
preparation than a steamer ticket and an American Express check or
two. Two days ago, we undertook to go from Holland to Denmark, via
Germany. Before daring to approach Bentheim, the German frontier,
we were equipped with passports, thrice viséd; a special letter of
identification from the Department of State, birth certificates,
letters to the frontier authorities from Count Bernstorff and
the German Minister at The Hague, eighty-seven other letters of
introduction, two letters of credit, and a Philadelphia police card....


II--AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN COPENHAGEN

  _May 23d._

Denmark is hospitable, inexpensive, and friendly. We have seen the
Egans frequently. They have been more than kind. Mr. Egan has been
in Denmark eleven years--a longer period than any other diplomat in
our service to-day has held a post. By common consent, he is the most
popular diplomat in Denmark. The other Ministers keep dashing in and
out, getting advice from Mr. Egan....

Among the other qualities of a perfect diplomat which Mr. and Mrs. Egan
possess, they have that of never making a "break." Therefore, they gave
us (principally me) what we needed--advice as to caution in speech,
behavior, facial expression, and etiquette, also warning us against
writing anything down on paper. It's going to be hard on me. I never
was born to be indefinite. I am practising conversing diplomatically.

"Mrs. Bullitt, Verdun has been taken and Paris is about to surrender."

"Really? How curious. Battles are so interesting, aren't they?"

"Mrs. Bullitt, if it were not for American ammunition, the war would
have ended in six months."

"Yes, battles _are_ dangerous, aren't they?" Whereas, I _might_ mention
our Spanish war and certain famous German munition factories. So, the
crest of idiotic amiability being reached, we move on to the weather.

Count Szechenyi, the Austro-Hungarian Minister, thinks it would be a
good plan for us to go to Vienna and Pest, as so little has been seen
of them during the war. He has very kindly written to people there that
we are coming. I played tennis with him this afternoon at the club, he
in his suspenders and monocle, and I in street clothes, with a pair of
borrowed tennis shoes two inches too long on my feet, and a racket like
a spoon, as a means of defence, in my hand....


III--WITH AMBASSADOR GERARD IN BERLIN

  _Hotel Esplanade, Berlin, May 29th._

We got to Berlin. I must say I should have liked to wrap up in the
American flag and sleep on Mr. Gerard's doorstep myself. The inspection
this time was really too disgusting to repeat. I decided that, if I
ever again heard any one say: "It's our orders," I should kill him.
Orders apparently mean: Be as nasty to the man who can't hit you back
as your imagination will allow....

We lunched at the Embassy the day after we got here. Mrs. Gerard
is charming and Mr. Gerard one of the most amusing men I ever met.
Brusque, frank, quick-witted, a typically judicial mind, and a
typically undiplomatic manner, he is the last person in the world a
German would understand. His dry, slangy, American humor, his sudden
lapses into the comic in moments of solemnity, his irreverence for the
great, shock the worthy German. That he treats the Emperor in any other
way than as a business acquaintance is most unlikely....

The Embassy is filled with Harvard secretaries, whose lips, as Mr. Egan
says, are still wet with the milk of Groton. The ballroom is bulging
with stenographers. Never did the world see its few remaining diplomats
so overworked. Instead of coming down and reading the papers for two
hours a day, they now all work mornings, afternoons, and sometimes
evenings.


IV--AT TEA WITH BARON ROEDER

  _June 3d._

To-day, the flags are all out for the naval victory, even the trams
and buses are decorated. The Germans didn't wish to celebrate until
they were quite sure. They've made one or two mistakes, so they were
cautious this time. The school-children take a real interest in German
victories. They get a holiday on the strength of one, and they measure
the victory only by the length of their holiday. The joy is slightly
adulterated by having to go to school first and listen to a careful
explanation of what they are about to celebrate. Their fondness for
Hindenburg is quite immoderate. In the eyes of German children, a
campaign against the Russians is a most praiseworthy undertaking.

The great wooden statue of Hindenburg, encased in geranium plants and
scaffolding, had many nails driven into it to-day. The statue is an
unsightly thing, but it seems to appeal to the Berliners to buy a nail
for the benefit of the Red Cross, climb the scaffolding, and hammer it
in....

Lunched with the Jacksons. Mr. Jackson was Secretary of the Embassy
here for years. The Germans trust him, Baron von Mumm told me. Baron
and Baroness Roeder were there and Countess Götzen. I asked Baron
Roeder what he did and he said he was Master of Ceremonies at Court,
and official introducer, and a lot of other things. He is about
seventy-five, but he says he is going to the front if the war keeps
up much longer. Already he has offered himself three times. His chief
irritation against England is being cut off from his London tailor.
Every German I meet out of uniform tells the same sad tale. The old
gentleman said he thought the naval victory was due principally to
Zeppelins. The Blüchers joined us for coffee. Count Blücher looks
like the pictures of his famous grandparent. Princess ---- said that
his father is a dreadful old gentleman, fights with everyone, his son
included, all the time. As the old Prince is eighty-five, the relations
had better run around and turn the other cheek before it's too late.


V--COUNTESS ---- AND HER DAUGHTER

  _June 4th._

We staggered in to Countess ----'s tea late in the afternoon. She told
me how she brought up Hilda, her daughter. Hilda is a little matter of
six feet high. Her mother was afraid to ever let her daughter go up
in the hotel lift alone for fear something will happen to her. As her
last offence was to refuse to let the Kaiser kiss her--he being her
godfather and claiming parental privileges--it would seem she could
take care of herself.


VI--DINNER WITH COUNTESS GOTZEN

  _June 8th._

I met Countess Blücher talking to that mad Irish-American, John
Gaffney. He was removed from his consulship at Munich for being
un-neutral, so now he is in a white rage at the President. He says he
is the only American who has been fair to the Germans and that he never
was un-neutral. Both Countess Blücher and Gaffney were in a great state
of mind over Casement. Gaffney says he is a hero who sacrificed himself
for his country, and Countess Blücher that he is a lifelong friend and
therefore must be got off from hanging, whatever he has done. She has
written a letter to England, saying Casement is mad, in hope that it
may help to save him.

"I don't fancy he will like that--coming from me," she said, "but it
was the only thing I could think of doing."

I asked Count Blücher when he thought the war would end, and he said:
"When Russia is spent." I said that sounded rather pessimistic.

"No," he said. "I think we can wear her out and then get a port on the
Baltic...."

Dined last night with Countess Götzen. I sat between a Spaniard and
Prince Christian of Hesse. The Spaniard was a detestable little thing,
and Prince Christian had tonsilitis and thought he was going to die, so
I didn't get much entertainment out of him, either. Later on we changed
seats and I drew a fat and pleasant Bavarian, who had known my aunt
in America. I asked him what his name was and he said they called him
"Booby." I said I might get to that in time but I had to have something
else to tide me over. After a few Christian names, I ran him down to
his visiting card and Baron von Papius.

Had tea with Countess Sehr-Thoss, an American. She is charming. When
I admired an old painting on her drawing-room wall, she said: "Yes. I
bought that with 2,000 marks sent me by my old uncle to buy eggs. He
wrote he heard in America we were paying five dollars apiece for eggs
and thought I might not be able to afford them!"

The Duchess of Croy came bounding in, looking most exuberant and
American. I liked her, she is so unaffected....


VII--WHEN THE CZARINA BURST INTO TEARS

  _June 10th._

Saw Fräulein Marelle and Fräulein Schulhoff, of the Lyceum Club,
this morning. They were telling us stories of the invasion of East
Prussia.... One lady, whom Fräulein Marelle knows, a Frau von
Bieberstein, had her _château_ cut to ribbons. Her tapestry chairs were
sliced up with knives, her china and mirrors broken, her beautiful
chapel knocked to pieces, her bed ripped up and the feathers scattered
from garret to cellar. It was rather queer to hear this tale from a
German woman after Mme. Huard's tale of the wreck of her _château_ in
northern France by the Germans.

They told me, too, of a nurse, a friend of theirs, who had gone to
Russia. There she found, among other things, a carload of children,
eighty in number, all dead of starvation. The Russians had put them in
the car, sidetracked it, and forgotten it. Some other cars were found
containing 200 people, all dead but one child in its mother's arms. The
nurse saw the Czarina and told her of these, and many other things, and
she said the Empress burst into tears. Well she might!

The Germans are told that if the Russians get into East Prussia again,
they are to send the women away immediately--those who stay are all
outraged.


VIII--A VISIT WITH ZIMMERMANN

  _June 12th._

Agatha Grabish called this morning. She has been to East Prussia. One
old woman she talked to said she had stayed for the first Russian
invasion.

"Why?" Agatha asked her.

"Well," she said, "my bread was baking when the others started to go,
and I didn't want to leave it. But I might just as well have," she
added, "because the Russians came in and ate it all up as soon as I
took it out of the oven."

Billy (the author's husband) and I went to see Zimmermann in the
Foreign Office. He, with Von Bethmann-Hollweg, Von Jagow, Helfferich,
and Falkenhayn, are running Germany. Zimmermann is a large, blond man.
His forehead is exceptionally high and his cheeks much scarred by
sword slashes. He is genial, calm, and although the busiest man in the
Empire, quite unhurried.

"I have just been seeing some bankers," said he. "We are negotiating
another loan for our Turkish friends. Those people are always in need
of money."

Billy said it was a great imposition for us to take up his time, as he
was probably very busy. He laughed and declared he was glad to see us.
I told him he was like Disraeli, who said he was not "unusually busy
to-day" but "usually busy."...

We asked him whether Germany looked for a long peace after the war,
and whether it would be on the grounds of great military strength and
strong boundaries, or on the basis of an international conciliatory
body, or a treaty?

He answered that nothing short of a United States of Europe would
amount to anything, and seemed to possess the usual German skepticism
of treaties.

"We will have to have a United States of Europe some day, to enable us
to compete economically with America. That may come in eighty or one
hundred years, but not in our lifetime. If you would really develop
your natural resources, we in Europe would be helpless...."


IX--TEA WITH BARONESS VON BISSING

  _June 27th._

I went to Baroness von Bissing's to tea. Oh, welcome was the hour and
her comfortable chair! She is small, with finely chiselled features;
her movements are quick, like those of a highly bred animal, and she is
rather excitable.

We sat down to tea and cherry tarts and I asked her when she was next
going to Belgium. She can, of course, go whenever she likes, but is
never there officially, as no German officer may take his wife to
Belgium. The General, being so strict a gentleman, will not break the
rule even for himself, and so Baroness von Bissing and her children
must live alone in Germany, and he with his 150 aides-de-camp in his
palace in Brussels.

"It is very hard to be without my husband and my eldest son," she said.

"Where is your boy?" I asked.

"He was taken prisoner by the French, wounded in six places. When he
got well, they took him to prison and put him in solitary confinement
in a little tiny cell with no work to do and no one with whom he can
speak. He may not even look out of the cell window, for they painted it
white. Twice a day he is taken for a walk by his guards--and this all
because the French thought we did not treat Delcassé's son properly.
Now, because they took my boy, and another, we have put six of their
men in solitary confinement. We will see where these reprisals will
bring us; I am sorry they must be, but we have more captured men than
they."

"Why did they put Delcassé's son in prison in the first place?" I asked.

"Because he was an impertinent boy and called his officers 'dirty dogs
of Prussians,'" she answered....

"Serbia and Montenegro are full of people that need to be punished,
but Italy--Italy!"--said Frau von Bissing, with her pretty nose in the
air--"is a nasty little dog that has done something dirty and must be
kicked out!"...

"England is a disgusting hypocrite," said my hostess emphatically.
"France is not so bad; we do not hate her, but England is in this war
solely for money. It is a pleasant little joke of theirs, about our
invading Belgium first, but I _know_ that the English and French were
there before us."

Now, if the wife of the Governor of Belgium believes this so earnestly,
one may imagine how firmly the rest of Germany believes it....


X--AT THE CLUB WITH BARON VON MUMM

  _July 1st._

Went to the Von Gwinners' to lunch. It was Von Gwinner who put through
the Bagdad Railway scheme. The house is large, but there is a life-size
marble statue of a woman playing a violin in the drawing-room. He has a
beautiful garden.

Von Gwinner said the victor in this war would be the nation which
declared bankruptcy two weeks after all the rest. He expects they will
all be taxed to the verge of poverty when the war is over, but believes
Germany can hold out the longest.

Dined with Baron von Mumm Tuesday night at the Automobile Club. He is a
fraud, and Count Montjelas with him, and I hope to see them both soon
to tell them so. There was a crowd in the Leipziger Platz when I got
there, and the two men were standing at the window. I asked what it
was and they said: "Nothing, nothing, only the usual people going home
from work." Now, whether they knew or not, I am not sure, but it really
was the Socialists publicly demonstrating their disapproval of the
imprisonment of Liebknecht for two years and a half. That shows what a
Berlin riot is. I looked on and never knew it!

We've heard from Freiherr von B---- that there was a really
recognizable one in Düsseldorf. All the women went to the City Hall and
demanded more meat and potatoes. The Mayor stuck his shaved head out
of the window and tried to calm them with tales of beans and peas, but
they shouted they did not want them, they wanted potatoes and, when he
said he hadn't any, they smashed all the windows that couldn't resist
brick.

"That's just like the poor," said Von B----, "they won't eat anything
except potatoes."

Baron Böcklin showed us pictures he'd taken on the front. In one little
house in Belgium, which he'd made his headquarters, a woman sneaked in
on him one night when he was sleeping. He heard her and, jumping up,
caught her by the throat. She had a long knife in her hand. As Böcklin
was taking it from her, a man crawled out from under his bed with a
gun, but was covered by the sergeant who came to Böcklin's rescue. The
Baron let both assassins go, instead of having them shot as he had the
right to do. Böcklin's mother was an American, and his grandmother an
Englishwoman....

Heard a delightful story about Mr. Gerard from Mrs. ----. She said
that to tease Countess B---- he asked her why she hadn't married
some nice stockbroker in New York, who could have provided her with
much better-looking clothes, and more of them, than Count B----. She
went home in a rage and told the Count, who also became furious and
they both told all Berlin that Mr. Gerard was so anti-German that he
disapproved of German-American marriages. Mrs. Gerard implores her
husband to save his jokes for those who have a sense of humor but he
says, no matter what resolutions he makes, Countess B---- is more than
he can resist, and his remarks grow always worse instead of better.


XI--GUEST OF WARBURG, GERMAN BANKER

  _July 6th._

That night we went to the Max Warburgs' to dine. They are very
delightful people; their house is large and nice, their sense of
humor a joy to find, and besides that, Mrs. Warburg was well dressed
and wore--oh, wonder of wonders in a German woman--silk stockings. Mr.
Warburg is one of the biggest bankers of Germany, and is certainly the
nicest. He declared American business men and American financiers to be
the most charming and the most uninformed men in the world.

"They know nothing of international affairs, not one thing," said he.
"And they do not even know their own country thoroughly. We wonder over
here how they can possibly get along with such little knowledge of the
affairs of the world." He said he told his brother, Mr. Paul Warburg,
that it's easy enough for him to be a big man in America, where there
is so little competition, but just let him come to Germany and try it.
One may think America is work-mad, but it seems a shiftless, lazy place
after Germany....


XII--TALK WITH COUNT BLUCHER

  _July 13th._

Lunched at the Lays'. They had a party for Prince Christian of Hesse
and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Roger's mother and father. The Blüchers
were to have been there, but old Count Blücher chose this morning to
drop dead off his horse. He must have been a charming old man. Most of
his life he spent trying to evade his German taxes. He had an island
off the coast of England, on which he kept a great many kangaroos.
Perhaps he thought they added a touch of British atmosphere to his
estate. He wished to know if he couldn't come to America and live there
about a week, in order to become an American citizen, as he found his
island didn't get him out of paying his German taxes, but when told
it would take even longer than a week to become an American citizen,
he gave up that idea. He was much interested in America but said he
thought it must be dangerous to have so many buffaloes around. And,
when he heard of the lynchings our peace-loving citizens occasionally
like to indulge in, he suggested we let our wild Indians out to subdue
the lynchers. "That would soon put a stop to such riots," said the old
gentleman.


XIII--AT THE AMERICAN EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS

  _July 31st._

Upon Billy's appealing to Count Harrach, we were allowed to go to tea
with the Whitlocks. Diplomatic life in Belgium to-day is one of the
experiences it is no harm to omit. If the American Diplomats attempt
to be tactful with Belgians about the Germans, and say that they
really are a nice lot after all, Belgian doors close and hats are not
lifted in the street. Yet if they refused to see Germans or avoided
them they would shortly be requested to leave on the grounds of being
anti-German. Tact and diplomacy have a hard life in Belgium now....

Philip Platt, who was also at lunch, had, as his chief worry that
day, the knowledge that the three young Princesses de Ligne, who are
ardently working for their country, were feeding the children in the
Petites Abeilles so fast that they nearly choked them. The question
which bothered him sorely was, who to get to tell the three noble
ladies that their attentions would be more appreciated if they were
less violent.


XIV--DINNER WITH GENERAL VON BISSING

  _Berlin, August 2d._

Our last night in Brussels we dined with General von Bissing. The
dinner, for some peculiar reason, was given for us.

The hall was filled with officers. One very glorious-looking person
took me in charge and introduced each man to me. They clicked their
booted heels together and kissed my hand. This audience over, the
Governor appeared. He is seventy-two and looks sixty. His face is stern
yet not unkind....

I asked Von Bissing if he approved of suffrage, and he said: "Never! It
is something terrible for women."...


XV--THE KAISER AND VON HINDENBURG

  _Berlin, Aug. 4th._

Hindenburg has been given charge of the eastern front, proving that
Austria must have been feeling rather dejected. He was in command
almost two weeks before the news came out. It must be a great blow to
the Austrian pride.

I wonder if he will drive the Russians back a second time. When
Hindenburg won the battle of Tannenberg and drove the Russians out
of East Prussia, he was executing in reality what he had lectured
the military students about for twenty years. In his lecture course
he had called it the "Battle of the Masurian Lakes," and none in the
world knew so well what to do in just the situation which arose as
did the retired general. He had been refused, at the beginning of
the war, as too old, and was obliged to sit at home helpless, and
read about the Russians swarming into his country. At this point,
the Kaiser remembered Hindenburg. In the middle of the night orders
arrived that the General in command of the eastern front had been
deposed and Hindenburg put in his place. A special train was waiting
and Hindenburg started at two in the morning and worked out his plans
as he sped towards the advancing Russian army. In three days the enemy
was in retreat and Germany was saved. Is it a wonder the people call
him: _Unser Hindenburg_? The story goes that the General who was in
command sent word to the Kaiser that he must retreat behind the Oder.
The Kaiser sent word back: "Retire behind the Oder, but without the
army," and immediately sent for old Hindenburg. The General never
plays politics. A few years ago, when there was a general inspection
of troops, they conducted a sham battle. General Von Moltke managed to
get a very strong position; then the Kaiser, as a grand finale, led an
immense cavalry charge down a plain and exposed his troops to fire from
three sides. As a grandstand play, it was magnificent. Triumphant, the
Kaiser rode up to General Hindenburg, the referee.

"How was that, General?" he demanded, proudly.

The General saluted.

"All dead but one, Sir," he said.


XVI--TEA WITH COUNTESS BERNSTORFF

  _August 13th._

Had tea with Constance Minot and Countess Bernstorff the other day.
Just now she is in a great state of nerves over the thought of going
to America to join the Ambassador. She declared she knew the English
had been lying in wait for her for two years and were going to be as
disagreeable as possible.

"They will search everything I have, I know," said she. "They will wash
my back with acid and they will rip the lining out of everything, and I
shall never be fit to be seen again."

In vain Constance and I assured her that she would be treated with
great respect. I told her we had had no trouble at all, and she
said: "What did you do?" I answered that we made love to the English
inspection officer and asked him to dinner, and asked her why she
shouldn't do the same.

"I suppose that would be the best way," she answered. Another real
grievance was that everyone had tried to give her things to bring to
friends and relatives in America.

"One woman gave me a large box. I opened it and found a toy Zeppelin.
Imagine if the English had found that in my trunk! They would have
taken me off the boat and hanged me, surely!" she said, with a laugh.


XVII--A WALK WITH AMBASSADOR GERARD

  _August 15th._

Went to Herringsdorf on the one o'clock train Saturday with Lithgow
Osborne and Christian Herter. The Ambassador was in Herringsdorf with
Aileen and Lanier Winslow....

After dinner we went for a walk on the pier. I was with the Ambassador,
who kept making his dry, humorous remarks about everyone. Soon a guard
turned us back.

"What's the matter?" I asked.

"You are in Germany," replied Mr. Gerard. "Don't forget that. They wait
until they find out that people like to do a thing, and then at once
they forbid it."

"What I'd like best, Mr. Gerard," said I, "would be to hear you talk to
the powers that be in Germany. It must be rather difficult for them to
understand all your jokes."

"It is," he replied. "They can't make me out at all here."

He makes the most glorious remarks to every one. I heard that, apropos
of the _Lusitania_, the Ambassador said to the Chancellor:

"Your argument about the _Lusitania_ amounts to just this. If I were
to write a note to your sister and say: 'If you go out on the Wilhelm
Platz, I will shoot you!' and if she did go out on the Wilhelm Platz
and I shot her--that would be her fault, wouldn't it?"

And one day when Zimmerman remarked: "The United States couldn't
go to war with us, because we have 500,000 trained Germans in the
United States," the Ambassador replied: "You may have 500,000 trained
Germans in the United States, but don't forget that we have 500,001
lamp-posts."




"A STUDENT IN ARMS"--IN THE RANKS WITH KITCHENER'S ARMY

_Resurrection of the Soul on the Battlefield_

_Told by Donald Hankey, Who Was Killed in Action on Western Front on
October 26, 1916_

  The high spiritual idealism which actuates so many thousands in the
  ranks of the Allies finds its voice in Donald Hankey. The horrors
  of War are so appalling that the heart faints when we think only
  of the body. But when the eye is turned to the spiritual side it
  is a magnificent spectacle of the self-sacrifice of men. This
  young Britisher with inspiring nobility tells of his experiences
  in his book "A Student in Arms," which is one of the most notable
  contributions to the War's literature, dealing with the deeper things
  of human life. His sketch of "The Beloved Captain" is here told by
  permission of his publishers, _E. P. Dutton and Company_.

[16] I--STORY OF "KITCHENER'S ARMY"

"The New Army," "Kitchener's Army," we go by many names. The older
sergeants--men who have served in regular battalions--sometimes call us
"Kitchener's Mob," and swear that to take us to war would be another
"Massacre of the Innocents." At other times they affirm that we are
a credit to our instructors (themselves); but such affirmations have
become rarer since beer went up to threepence a pint.

We are a mixed lot--a triumph of democracy, like the Tubes. Some of
us have fifty years to our credit and only own to thirty; others are
sixteen and claim to be eighteen. Some of us enlisted for glory, and
some for fun, and a few for fear of starvation. Some of us began by
being stout, and have lost weight; others were seedy and are filling
out. Some of us grumble, and go sick to escape parades; but for the
most part we are aggressively cheerful, and were never fitter in our
lives. Some miss their glass of claret, others their fish-and-chips;
but as we all sleep on the floor, and have only one suit, which is
rapidly becoming very disreputable, you would never tell t'other from
which.

We sing as we march. Such songs we sing! All about coons and girls,
parodies of hymns, parodies about Kaiser Bill, and sheer unadulterated
nonsense. We shall sing

  "Where's yer girl?
  Ain't yer got none?"

as we march into battle.

Battle! Battle, murder, and sudden death! Maiming, slaughter, blood,
extremities of fear and discomfort and pain! How incredibly remote all
that seems! We don't believe in it really. It is just a great game we
are learning. It is part of the game to make little short rushes in
extended order, to lie on our bellies and keep our heads down, snap our
rifles and fix our bayonets. Just a game, that's all, and then home to
tea.

Some of us think that these young officers take the game a jolly sight
too seriously. Twice this week we have been late for dinner, and once
they routed us out to play it at night. That was a bit too thick! The
canteen was shut when we got back and we missed our pint.

Anyhow we are Kitchener's Army, and we are quite sure it will be all
right. Just send us to Flanders, and see if it ain't. We're Kitchener's
Army, and we don't care if it snows ink!


II--STORY OF THE BELOVED CAPTAIN

He came in the early days, when we were still at recruit drills under
the hot September sun. Tall, erect, smiling: so we first saw him, and
so he remained to the end. At the start he knew as little of soldiering
as we did. He used to watch us being drilled by the sergeant; but his
manner of watching was peculiarly his own. He never looked bored. He
was learning just as much as we were, in fact more. He was learning his
job, and from the first he saw that his job was more than to give the
correct orders. His job was to lead us. So he watched, and noted many
things, and never found the time hang heavy on his hands. He watched
our evolutions, so as to learn the correct orders; he watched for the
right manner of command, the manner which secured the most prompt
response to an order; and he watched every one of us for our individual
characteristics. We were his men. Already he took an almost paternal
interest in us. He noted the men who tried hard, but were naturally
slow and awkward. He distinguished them from those who were inattentive
and bored. He marked down the keen and efficient amongst us. Most of
all he studied those who were subject to moods, who were sulky one day
and willing the next. These were the ones who were to turn the scale.
If only he could get these on his side, the battle would be won.

For a few days he just watched. Then he started work. He picked out
some of the most awkward ones, and, accompanied by a corporal, marched
them away by themselves. Ingenuously he explained that he did not
know much himself yet; but he thought that they might get on better if
they drilled by themselves a bit, and that if he helped them, and they
helped him, they would soon learn. His confidence was infectious. He
looked at them, and they looked at him, and the men pulled themselves
together and determined to do their best. Their best surprised
themselves. His patience was inexhaustible. His simplicity could not
fail to be understood. His keenness and optimism carried all with them.
Very soon the awkward squad found themselves awkward no longer; and
soon after that they ceased to be a squad, and went back to the platoon.

Then he started to drill the platoon, with the sergeant standing by
to point out his mistakes. Of course he made mistakes, and when that
happened he never minded admitting it. He would explain what mistakes
he had made, and try again. The result was that we began to take
almost as much interest and pride in his progress as he did in ours.
We were his men, and he was our leader. We felt that he was a credit
to us, and we resolved to be a credit to him. There was a bond of
mutual confidence and affection between us, which grew stronger and
stronger as the months passed. He had a smile for almost everyone; but
we thought that he had a different smile for us. We looked for it, and
were never disappointed. On parade, as long as we were trying, his
smile encouraged us. Off parade, if we passed him and saluted, his
eyes looked straight into our own, and his smile greeted us. It was a
wonderful thing, that smile of his. It was something worth living for,
and worth working for. It bucked one up when one was bored or tired.
It seemed to make one look at things from a different point of view,
a finer point of view, his point of view. There was nothing feeble or
weak about it. It was not monotonous like the smile of "Sunny Jim." It
meant something. It meant that we were his men, and that he was proud
of us, and sure that we were going to do jolly well--better than any
of the other platoons. And it made us determine that we would. When we
failed him, when he was disappointed in us, he did not smile. He did
not rage or curse. He just looked disappointed, and that made us feel
far more savage with ourselves than any amount of swearing would have
done. He made us feel that we were not playing the game by him. It was
not what he said. He was never very good at talking. It was just how he
looked. And his look of displeasure and disappointment was a thing that
we would do anything to avoid. The fact was that he had won his way
into our affections. We loved him. And there isn't anything stronger
than love, when all's said and done.


III--"A TOUCH OF CHRIST ABOUT HIM"

He was good to look on. He was big and tall, and held himself upright.
His eyes looked his own height. He moved with the grace of an athlete.
His skin was tanned by a wholesome outdoor life, and his eyes were
clear and wide open. Physically he was a prince among men. We used
to notice, as we marched along the road and passed other officers,
that they always looked pleased to see him. They greeted him with a
cordiality which was reserved for him. Even the general seemed to have
singled him out, and cast an eye of special approval upon him. Somehow,
gentle though he was, he was never familiar. He had a kind of innate
nobility which marked him out as above us. He was not democratic. He
was rather the justification for aristocracy. We all knew instinctively
that he was our superior--a man of finer temper than ourselves, a
"toff" in his own right. I suppose that that was why he could be so
humble without loss of dignity. For he was humble too, if that is the
right word, and I think it is. No trouble of ours was too small for
him to attend to. When we started route marches, for instance, and our
feet were blistered and sore, as they often were at first, you would
have thought that they were his own feet from the trouble he took. Of
course after the march there was always an inspection of feet. That
is the routine. But with him it was no mere routine. He came into our
rooms, and if anyone had a sore foot he would kneel down on the floor
and look at it as carefully as if he had been a doctor. Then he would
prescribe, and the remedies were ready at hand, being borne by the
sergeant. If a blister had to be lanced he would very likely lance
it himself there and then, so as to make sure that it was done with
a clean needle and that no dirt was allowed to get in. There was no
affectation about this, no striving after effect. It was simply that
he felt that our feet were pretty important, and that he knew that we
were pretty careless. So he thought it best at the start to see to the
matter himself. Nevertheless, there was in our eyes something almost
religious about this care for our feet. It seemed to have a touch of
the Christ about it, and we loved and honored him the more.


IV--"A TORPEDO FELL--THAT WAS THE END"

We knew that we should lose him. For one thing, we knew that he would
be promoted. It was our great hope that some day he would command the
company. Also we knew that he would be killed. He was so amazingly
unself-conscious. For that reason we knew that he would be absolutely
fearless. He would be so keen on the job in hand, and so anxious for
his men, that he would forget about his own danger. So it proved. He
was a captain when we went out to the front. Whenever there was a
tiresome job to be done, he was there in charge. If ever there were
a moment of danger, he was on the spot. If there were any particular
part of the line where the shells were falling faster or the bombs
dropping more thickly than in other parts, he was in it. It was not
that he was conceited and imagined himself indispensable. It was just
that he was so keen that the men should do their best, and act worthily
of the regiment. He knew that fellows hated turning out at night for
fatigue, when they were in a "rest camp." He knew how tiresome the
long march there and back and the digging in the dark for an unknown
purpose were. He knew that fellows would be inclined to grouse and
shirk, so he thought that it was up to him to go and show them that he
thought it was a job worth doing. And the fact that he was there put
a new complexion on the matter altogether. No one would shirk if he
were there. No one would grumble so much, either. What was good enough
for him was good enough for us. If it were not too much trouble for
him to turn out, it was not too much trouble for us. He knew, too, how
trying to the nerves it is to sit in a trench and be shelled. He knew
what a temptation there is to move a bit farther down the trench and
herd together in a bunch at what seems the safest end. He knew, too,
the folly of it, and that it was not the thing to do--not done in the
best regiments. So he went along to see that it did not happen, to see
that the men stuck to their posts, and conquered their nerves. And as
soon as we saw him, we forgot our own anxiety. It was: "Move a bit
farther down, sir. We are all right here; but don't you go exposing of
yourself." We didn't matter. We knew it then. We were just the rank
and file, bound to take risks. The company would get along all right
without us. But the captain, how was the company to get on without
him? To see him was to catch his point of view, to forget our personal
anxieties, and only to think of the company, and the regiment, and
honor.

There was not one of us but would gladly have died for him. We longed
for the chance to show him that. We weren't heroes. We never dreamed
about the V. C. But to save the captain we would have earned it ten
times over, and never have cared a button whether we got it or not. We
never got the chance, worse luck. It was all the other way. We were
holding some trenches which were about as unhealthy as trenches could
be. The Boches were only a few yards away, and were well supplied with
trench mortars. We hadn't got any at that time. Bombs and air torpedoes
were dropping round us all day. Of course the captain was there. It
seemed as if he could not keep away. A torpedo fell into the trench,
and buried some of our chaps. The fellows next to them ran to dig them
out. Of course he was one of the first. Then came another torpedo in
the same place. That was the end.

But he lives. Somehow he lives. And we who knew him do not forget. We
feel his eyes on us. We still work for that wonderful smile of his.
There are not many of the old lot left now; but I think that those who
went West have seen him. When they got to the other side I think they
were met. Someone said: "Well done, good and faithful servant." And
as they knelt before that gracious pierced Figure, I reckon they saw
nearby the captain's smile. Anyway, in that faith let me die, if death
should come my way; and so, I think, shall I die content.

FOOTNOTES:

[16] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the
book.




"THE RED HORIZON"--STORIES OF THE LONDON IRISH

_The Man With the Rosary_

_Told by Patrick MacGill, Rifleman Number 3008, London Irish_

  Patrick MacGill is the genius of the battlefield. The War has given
  his great Irish heart its opportunity to express itself, and his
  stories from the front have become little classics in the War's
  literature. He dedicates his stories: "To the London Irish, to
  the Spirit of Those Who Fight and to the Memory of Those Who Have
  Passed Away." A letter to him by the President of the County of
  London Territorial Association reads: "When I recruited you into
  the London Irish--one of those splendid regiments that London has
  sent to Sir John French, himself an Irishman--it was with gratitude
  and pride. You had much to give us. The rare experiences of your
  boyhood, your talents, your brilliant hopes for the future. Upon all
  these the Western hills and loughs of your native Donegal seemed to
  have the prior claim. But you gave them to London and to our London
  Territorials. The London Irish will be proud of their young artist in
  words and he will forever be proud of the London Irish Regiment, its
  deeds and valour, to which he has dedicated such great gifts. May God
  preserve you." Patrick MacGill, shoulder to shoulder with the Tommies
  as a private soldier, is writing many great books. The following
  stories are taken from his volume entitled "The Red Horizon," by
  permission of his publishers, _George H. Doran Company_: Copyright
  1916.

[17] I--THE SOLDIER TELLS HIS TALE


Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to an end we go back for
a rest in some village or town. Here the _estaminet_ or _debitant_
(French, as far as I am aware, for a beer shop), is open to the British
soldier for three hours daily, from twelve to one and from six to
eight o'clock. For some strange reason we often find ourselves busy
on parade at these hours, and when not on parade we generally find
ourselves without money. I have been here for four months; looking at
my pay book I find that I've been paid 25 fr. (or in plain English, one
pound) since I have come to France, a country where the weather grows
hotter daily, where the water is seldom drinkable, and where wine and
beer is so cheap. Once we were paid five francs at five o'clock in the
afternoon after five penniless days of rest in a village, and ordered
as we were paid, to pack up our all and get ready to set off at six
o'clock for the trenches. From noon we had been playing cards, and some
of the boys gambled all their pay in advance and lost it. Bill's five
francs had to be distributed amongst several members of the platoon.

"It's only five francs, anyway," he said. "Wot matter whether I
spend it on cards, wine, or women? I don't care for soldierin' as a
profession."

"What is your profession, Bill?" Pryor asked; we never really knew what
Bill's civil occupation was, he seemed to know a little of many crafts,
but was master of none.

"I've been everything," he replied, employing his little finger in the
removal of cigarette ash. "My ole man apprenticed me to a marker of 'ot
cross buns, but I 'ad a 'abit of makin' the long end of the cross on
the short side, an' got chucked out. Then I learned 'ow to jump through
tin plates in order to make them nutmeg graters, but left that job
after sticking plump in the middle of a plate. I had to stop there for
three days without food or drink. They were thinnin' me out, see! Then
I was a draughts manager at a bank, and shut the ventilators; after
that I was an electric mechanic; I switched the lights on and off at
night and mornin'; now I'm a professional gambler, I lose all my tin."

"You're also a soldier," I said.

"Course, I am," Bill replied. "I can present hipes by numbers, and
knock the guts out of sandbags at five hundred yards."


II--A NIGHT MARCH IN THE RAIN

We did not leave the village until eight o'clock. It was now very dark
and had begun to rain, not real rain, but a thin drizzle which mixed up
with the flashes of guns, the glow of star-shells, the long tremulous
glimmer of flashlights, the blood red blaze of haystacks afire near
Givenchy, threw a sombre haze over our line of march. Even through the
haze, star-shells showed brilliant in their many different colours,
red, green, and electric white. The French send up a beautiful light
which bursts into four different flames that burn standing high in
mid-air for five minutes; another, a parachute star, holds the sky
for three minutes, and almost blots its more remote sisters from the
heavens. The English and the Germans are content to fling rockets
across and observe one another's lines while these flare out their
brief meteoric life. The firing-line was about five miles away; the
star-lights seemed to rise and fall just beyond an adjacent spinney, so
deceptive are they.

Part of our journey ran along the bank of a canal; there had been
some heavy fighting the night previous, and the wounded were still
coming down by barges, only those who are badly hurt come this way,
the less serious cases go by motor ambulance from dressing station to
hospital--those who are damaged slightly in arm or head generally
walk. Here we encountered a party of men marching in single file with
rifles, skeleton equipment, picks and shovels. In the dark it was
impossible to distinguish the regimental badge.

"Oo are yer?" asked Bill, who, like a good many more of us, was smoking
a cigarette contrary to orders.

"The Camberwell Gurkhas," came the answer. "Oo are yer?"

"The Chelesa Cherubs," said Bill. "Up workin'?"

"Doin' a bit between the lines," answered one of the working party.
"Got bombed out and were sent back."

"Lucky dogs, goin' back for a kip (sleep)."

"'Ad two killed and seven wounded."

"Blimey!"

"Good luck, boys," said the disappearing file as the darkness swallowed
up the working party.

The pace was a sharp one. Half a mile back from the firing-line we
turned off to the left and took our way by a road running parallel to
the trenches. We had put on our waterproof capes, our khaki overcoats
had been given up a week before.

The rain dripped down our clothes, our faces and our necks, each
successive star-light showed the water trickling down our rifle butts
and dripping to the roadway. Stoner slept as he marched, his hand in
Kore's. We often move along in this way, it is quite easy, there is
lullaby in the monotonous step, and the slumbrous crunching of nailed
boots on gravel.

We turned off the road where it runs through the rubble and scattered
bricks, all that remains of the village of Givenchy, and took our way
across a wide field. The field was under water in the wet season, and
a brick pathway had been built across it. Along this path we took
our way. A strong breeze had risen and was swishing our waterproofs
about our bodies; the darkness was intense, I had to strain my eyes
to see the man in front, Stoner. In the darkness he was a nebulous
dark bulk that sprang into bold relief when the star-lights flared in
front. When the flare died out we stumbled forward into pitch dark
nothingness. The pathway was barely two feet across, a mere tight-rope
in the wide waste, and on either side nothing stood out to give relief
to the desolate scene; over us the clouds hung low, shapeless and
gloomy, behind was the darkness, in front when the star-lights made the
darkness visible they only increased the sense of solitude.

We stumbled and fell, rose and fell again, our capes spreading out like
wings and our rifles falling in the mud. The sight of a man or woman
falling always makes me laugh. I laughed as I fell, as Stoner fell,
as Mervin, Goliath, Bill, or Pryor fell. Sometimes we fell singly,
again in pairs, often we fell together a heap of rifles, khaki, and
waterproof capes. We rose grumbling, spitting mud and laughing. Stoner
was very unfortunate, a particle of dirt got into his eye, almost
blinding him. Afterwards he crawled along, now and again getting to his
feet, merely to fall back into his earthy position. A rifle fire opened
on us from the front, and bullets whizzed past our ears, voices mingled
with the ting of searching bullets.

"Anybody hurt?"

"No, all right so far."

"Stoner's down."

"He's up again."

"Blimey, it's a balmy."

"Mervin's crawling on his hands and knees."

"Nark the doin's,' ye're on my water proof. Let go!"

"Goliath's down."

"Are you struck, Goliath?"

"No, I wish to heaven I was," muttered the giant, bulking up in the
flare of a searchlight, blood dripping from his face showed where he
had been scratched as he stumbled.

We got safely into the trench and relieved the Highland Light Infantry.
The place was very quiet, they assured us, it is always the same. It
has become trench etiquette to tell the relieving battalion that it is
taking over a cushy position. By this trench next morning we found six
newly made graves, telling how six Highlanders had met their death,
killed in action.


III--"THE DEAD MAN UNDER MY FEET"

Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at the enemy's
trenches, and wondering what was happening behind their sandbag line,
a man from the sanitary squad came along sprinkling the trench with
creosote and chloride of lime.

"Seein' anything?" he asked.

"Not much," I answered, "the grass is so high in front that I can see
nothing but the tips of the enemy's parapets. There's some work for you
here," I said.

"Where?"

"Under your feet," I told him. "The floor is soft as putty and smells
vilely. Perhaps there is a dead man there. Last night I slept by the
spot and it turned me sick."

"Have you an entrenchin' tool?"

I handed him the implement, he dug into the ground and presently
unearthed a particle of clothing, five minutes later a boot came to
view, then a second; fifteen minutes assiduous labour revealed an
evil-smelling bundle of clothing and decayed flesh. I still remained an
onlooker, but changed my position on the banquette.

"He must have been dead a long time," said the sanitary man, as he
flung handfuls of lime on the body, "see his face."

He turned the thing on its back, its face up to the sky. The features
were wonderfully well-preserved; the man might have fallen the day
before. The nose pinched and thin, turned up a little at the point, the
lips were drawn tight round the gums, the teeth showed dog-like and
vicious; the eyes were open and raised towards the forehead, and the
whole face was splashed with clotted blood. A wound could be seen on
the left temple, the fatal bullet had gone through there.

"He was killed in the winter," said the sanitary man, pointing at
the gloves on the dead soldier's hand. "These trenches were the
'Allemands'' then, and the boys charged 'em. I suppose this feller
copped a packet and dropped into the mud and was tramped down."

"Who is he?" I asked.


IV--A CRUCIFIX AND A LOVE LETTER

The man with the chloride of lime opened the tunic and shirt of the
dead man and brought out an identity disc.

"Irish," he said, "Munster Fusiliers. What's this?" he asked, taking a
string of beads with a little shiny crucifix on the end of it, from the
dead man's neck.

"It's his rosary," I said, and my mind saw in a vivid picture a
barefooted boy going over the hills of Corrymeela to morning Mass,
with his beads in his hand. On either side rose the thatched cabins of
the peasantry, the peat smoke curling from the chimneys, the little
boreens running through the bushes, the brown Irish bogs, the heather
in blossom, the turf stacks, the laughing colleens....

"Here's a letter," said the sanitary man; "it was posted last
Christmas. It's from a girl, too."

He commenced reading:--

"My dear Patrick,--I got your letter yesterday, and whenever I was my
lone the day I was always reading it. I wish the black war was over and
you back again--we all at home wish that, and I suppose yourself wishes
it as well; I was up at your house last night; there's not much fun in
it now. I read the papers to your mother, and me and her was looking at
a map. But we didn't know where you were so we could only make guesses.
Your mother and me is making the Rounds of the Cross for you, and I am
always thinking of you in my prayers. You'll be having the parcel I
sent before you get this letter. I hope it's not broken or lost. The
socks I sent were knitted by myself, three pairs of them, and I've put
the holy water on them. Don't forget to put them on when your feet get
wet, at home you never used to bother about anything like that; just
tear about the same in wet as dry. But you'll take care of yourself
now, won't you: and not get killed? It'll be a grand day when you come
back, and God send the day to come soon! Send a letter as often as you
can; I myself will write you one every day, and I'll pray to the Holy
Mother to take care of you."

We buried him behind the parados, and placed the rosary round the arms
of the cross which was erected over him. On the following day one of
our men went out to see the grave, and while stooping to place some
flowers on it he got shot through the head. That evening he was buried
beside the Munster Fusilier.

(Patrick MacGill tells many heart stories of the trenches in "The
Red Horizon." He tells of "The Night Before the Trenches"; "A Dugout
Banquet"; "A Nocturnal Adventure"; "Everyday Life at the Front"; "The
Women of France"--his genius is immortalizing every human phase of the
War.)

FOOTNOTES:

[17] All numerals relate to stories herein told--not to chapters from
original sources.




MY TRIP TO VERDUN--GENERAL PETAIN FACE TO FACE

_From Graves of the Marne to Hills of the Meuse_

_Told by Frank H. Simonds, Famous American War Historian_

  Mr. Simonds is the first great historian that this war produced.
  He traveled over the battlefields to record for history the
  world-revolutionizing events as they were taking place. As the
  intimate friend of Governments, General Staffs and diplomats, he
  gathered his knowledge first hand and became recognized throughout
  America and Europe as _the_ historical authority on the war's
  strategy. His judgments were weighed by such men as President
  Poincaré and Lloyd-George--and followed with interest by the officers
  of the armies. Mr. Simonds had been studying military strategy for
  many years before the war; he was an authority on the Napoleonic
  campaigns--but it was not until the Great War that the "man and the
  opportunity met." He was then an editorial writer on the _New York
  Sun_, where his first prophetic editorials gained him immediate
  recognition. He later became associate editor of the _New York
  Tribune_. His reviews of the war began to appear in the _American
  Review of Reviews_, for whom he produced his great five-volume
  "_History of the World War_"--a work for the generations. We can tell
  here but one of his brilliant stories--his "Visit to Verdun."


I--"I START FOR VERDUN--WITH THE PRESIDENT'S PERMIT"

My road to Verdun ran through the Elysée Palace, and it was to the
courtesy and interest of the President of the French Republic that
I owed my opportunity to see the battle for the Meuse city at close
range. Already through the kindness of the French General Staff I had
seen the Lorraine and Marne battlegrounds and had been guided over
these fields by officers who had shared in the opening battles that
saved France. But Verdun was more difficult; there is little time for
caring for the wandering correspondent when a decisive contest is going
forward, and quite naturally the General Staff turned a deaf ear to my
request.

Through the kindness of one of the many Frenchmen who gave time and
effort to make my pilgrimage a success I was at last able to see M.
Poincaré. Like our own American President, the French Chief Magistrate
is never interviewed, and I mention this audience simply because it was
one more and in a sense the final proof for me of the friendliness, the
courtesy, the interest that the American will find to-day in France. I
had gone to Paris, my ears filled with the warnings of those who told
me that it was hard to be an American in Europe, in France, in the
present hour. I had gone expecting, or at least fearing, that I should
find it so.

Instead, from peasant to President I found only kindness, only
gratitude, only a profound appreciation for all that Americans had
individually done for France in the hour of her great trial. These
things and one thing more I found: a very intense desire that Americans
should be able to see for themselves; the Frenchmen will not talk to
you of what France has done, is doing; he shrinks from anything that
might suggest the imitation of the German method of propaganda. In
so far as it is humanly possible he would have you see the thing for
yourself and testify out of your own mouth.

Thus it came about that all my difficulties vanished when I had been
permitted to express to the President my desire to see Verdun and to go
back to America--I was sailing within the week--able to report what I
had seen with my own eyes of the decisive battle still going forward
around the Lorraine city. Without further delay, discussion, it was
promised that I should go to Verdun by motor, that I should go cared
for by the French military authorities and that I should be permitted
to see all that one could see at the moment of the contest.

We left Paris in the early afternoon; my companions were M. Henri
Ponsot, chief of the Press Service of the Ministry of Foreign Affairs,
and M. Hugues le Roux, a distinguished Frenchman of letters well known
to many Americans. To start for the battlefield from a busy, peaceful
city, to run for miles through suburbs as quiet and lacking in martial
aspect as the regions beyond the Harlem, at home, was a thing that
seemed almost unreal; but only for a brief moment, for war has come
very near to Paris, and one may not travel far in Eastern France
without seeing its signs.

In less than an hour we were passing the rear of the line held by the
British at the Battle of the Marne, and barely sixty minutes after we
had passed out through the Vincennes gate we met at Courtacon the first
of the ruined villages that for two hundred miles line the roadways
that lead from the capital to Lorraine and Champagne. Suddenly in the
midst of a peaceful countryside, after passing a score of undisturbed
villages, villages so like one another, you come to one upon which the
storm has burst, and instead of snug houses, smiling faces, the air
of contentment and happiness that was France, there is only a heap
of ruins, houses with their roofs gone, their walls torn by shell
fire, villages abandoned partially or wholly, contemporary Pompeiis,
overtaken by the Vesuvius of Krupp.


II--THE GRAVES BY THE ROADSIDE

Coincidentally there appear along the roadside, in the fields, among
the plough furrows, on every side, the crosses that mark the graves of
those who died for France--or for Germany. Along the slope you may mark
the passage of a charge by these crosses; those who fell were buried
as they lay, French and Germans with equal care. Indeed, there is a
certain pride visible in all that the French do for their dead foes.
Alongside a hamlet wantonly burned, burned by careful labor and with
German thoroughness; in villages where you will be told of nameless
atrocities and shameful killings, you will see the German graves,
marked by neat crosses, surrounded by sod embankments, marked with
plaques of black and white; the French are marked by plaques of red,
white and blue, and the latter invariably decorated with a flag and
flowers.

Once you have seen these graves by the roadside going east you will
hardly go a mile in two hundred which has not its graves. From the
environs of Meaux, a scant twenty miles from Paris, to the frontier
at the Seille, beyond Nancy, there are graves and more graves, now
scattered, now crowded together where men fought hand to hand. Passing
them in a swift-moving auto, they seem to march by you; there is the
illusion of an arrow advancing on the hillside, until at last, beyond
Nancy, where the fighting was so terrible, about little villages such
as Corbessaux, you come to the great common graves, where a hundred or
two hundred men have been gathered, where the trenches now levelled
are but long graves, and you read, "Here rest 179 French soldiers," or
across the road, "Here 196 Germans."

Take a map of France and from a point just south of Paris draw a
straight line to the Vosges; twenty or thirty miles to the north draw
another. Between the two is the black district of the Marne and Nancy
battles. It is the district of ruined villages, destroyed farms; it is
the region where every hillside--so it will seem to the traveler--is
marked by these pathetic crosses. It is a region in which the sense of
death and destruction is abroad. Go forty miles north again and draw
two more lines, and this is the region not of the death and destruction
of yesterday, but of to-day; this is the front, where the graves are
still in the making, the region of the Oise to the Meuse, from Noyon to
Verdun.

On this day our route led eastward through the villages which in
September, 1914, woke from at least a century of oblivion, from
the forgetting that followed Napoleon's last campaign in France
to a splendid but terrible ten days: Courtacon, Sézanne, La-Fère
Champenoise, Vitry-le-François, the region where Franchet d'Esperey and
Foch fought, where the "Miracle of the Marne" was performed. Mile after
mile the countryside files by, the never changing impression of a huge
cemetery, the hugest in the world, the stricken villages, now and then
striving to begin again, a red roof here and there telling of the first
counter offensive of peace, of construction made against the whirlwind
that had come and gone.


III--"NOTHING BUT OLD MEN AND WOMEN--AND CHILDREN"

Always, too, nothing but old men and women, these and children, working
in the broad fields, still partially cultivated, but no longer the
fields of that perfectly cared for France of the other peace days.
Women and children at the plough, old men bent double by age still
spending such strength as is left in the tasks that war has set for
them. This is the France behind the front, and, aside from the ruined
villages and graves, the France that stretches from the Pyrenees to the
Marne, a France from which youth and manhood are gone, in which age and
childhood remain with the women. Yet in this land we were passing how
much of the youth and manhood of France and Germany was buried in the
graves the crosses demonstrated at every kilometer.

But a hundred miles east of Paris there begins a new world. The
graves, the shell-cursed villages, remain, but this is no longer the
France of the Marne fighting and of the war of two years ago. At
Vitry-le-François you pass almost without warning into the region which
is the back of the front of to-day, the base of all the line of fire
from Rheims to the Meuse, and suddenly along the road appear the canvas
guideposts which bear the terse warning, "Verdun." You pass suddenly
from ancient to contemporary history, from the killing of other years
to the killing that is of to-day--the killing and the wounding--and
along the hills where there are still graves there begin to appear
Red Cross tents and signs, and ambulances pass you bearing the latest
harvest.

And now every village is a garrison town. For a hundred miles there
have been only women and old men, but now there are only soldiers; they
fill the streets; they crowd the doorways of the houses. The fields
are filled with tents, with horses, with all the impedimenta of an
army. The whole countryside is a place of arms. Every branch of French
service is about you--Tunisians, Turcos, cavalry, the black, the brown
and the white--the men who yesterday or last week were in the first
line, who rest and will return to-morrow or next day to fight again.

Unmistakably, too, you feel that this is the business of war; you are
in a factory, a machine shop; if the product is death and destruction,
it is no less a matter of machinery, not of romance, of glamour. The
back of the front is a place of work and of rest for more work, but of
parade, of the brilliant, of the fascinating there is just nothing.
Men with bright but plainly weary faces, not young men, but men of
thirty and above, hard bitten by their experience, patently fit, fed,
but somehow related to the ruins and the destruction around them, they
are all about you, and wherever now you see a grave you will discover
a knot of men standing before it talking soberly. Wherever you see the
vestiges of an old trench, a hill that was fought for at this time
twenty months ago, you will see new practice trenches and probably
the recruits ... the boys that are waiting for the call, listening to
an officer explaining to them what has been done here, the mistake or
the good judgment revealed by the event. For France is training the
youth that remains to her on the still recent battlefields and in the
presence of those who died to keep the ground.


IV--"WE JOIN THE VAST PROCESSION OF DEATH"

Just as the darkness came we passed St. Dizier and entered at last upon
the road to Verdun, the one road that is the life line of the city.
For to understand the real problem of the defence of Verdun you must
realize that there is lacking to the city any railroad. In September,
1914, the Germans took St. Mihiel and cut the railway coming north
along the Meuse. On their retreat from the Marne the soldiers of the
Crown Prince halted at Montfaucon and Varennes, and their cannon
have commanded the Paris-Verdun-Metz railroad ever since. Save for a
crazy narrow-gauge line wandering along the hill slopes, climbing by
impossible grades, Verdun is without rail communication.

It was this that made the defence of the town next to impossible.
Partially to remedy the defect the French had reconstructed a local
highway running from St. Dizier by Bar-le-Duc to Verdun beyond the
reach of German artillery. To-day an army of a quarter of a million of
men, the enormous parks of heavy artillery and field guns--everything
is supplied by this one road and by motor transport.

Coming north from St. Dizier we entered this vast procession. Mile
after mile the caravan stretched on, fifty miles with hardly a break of
a hundred feet between trucks. Paris 'buses, turned into vehicles to
bear fresh meat; new motor trucks built to carry thirty-five men and
traveling in companies, regiments, brigades; wagons from the hood of
which soldiers, bound to replace the killed and wounded of yesterday,
looked down upon you calmly but unsmilingly. From St. Dizier to Verdun
the impression was of that of the machinery by which logs are carried
to the saw in a mill. You felt unconsciously, yet unmistakably, that
you were looking, not upon automobiles, not upon separate trucks, but
upon some vast and intricate system of belts and benches that were
steadily, swiftly, surely carrying all this vast material, carrying men
and munitions and supplies, everything human and inanimate, to that
vast grinding mill which was beyond the hills, the crushing machine
which worked with equal remorselessness upon men and upon things.

Now and again, too, over the hills came the Red Cross ambulances; they
passed you returning from the front and bringing within their carefully
closed walls the finished product, the fruits of the day's grinding,
or a fraction thereof. And about the whole thing there was a sense
of the mechanical rather than the human, something that suggested an
automatic, a machine-driven, movement; it was as if an unseen system
of belts and engines and levers guided, moved, propelled this long
procession upward and ever toward the mysterious front where the knives
or the axes or the grinding stones did their work.

Night came down upon us along the road and brought a new impression.
Mile on mile over the hills and 'round the curves, disappearing in the
woods, reappearing on the distant summits of the hills, each showing a
rear light that wagged crazily on the horizon, this huge caravan flowed
onward, while in the villages and on the hillsides campfires flashed up
and the faces or the figures of the soldiers could be seen now clearly
and now dimly. But all else was subordinated to the line of moving
transports. Somewhere far off at one end of the procession there was
battle; somewhere down below at the other end there was peace. There
all the resources, the life blood, the treasure in men and in riches
of France were concentrating and collecting, were being fed into this
motor fleet, which like baskets on ropes was carrying it forward to the
end of the line and then bringing back what remained, or for the most
part coming back empty, for more--for more lives and more treasure.

It was full night when our car came down the curved grades into
Bar-le-Duc, halted at the corner, where soldiers performed the work
of traffic policemen and steadily guided the caravan toward the road
marked by a canvas sign lighted within by a single candle and bearing
the one word, "Verdun." All night, too, the rumble of the passing
transport filled the air and the little hotel shook with the jar of the
heavy trucks, for neither by day nor by night is there a halt in the
motor transport, and the sound of this grinding is never low.


V--"TO VERDUN"--THE NEW CALVARY

It was little more than daylight when we took the road again, with a
thirty-mile drive to Verdun before us. Almost immediately we turned
into the Verdun route we met again the caravan of automobiles, of
camions, as the French say. It still flowed on without break. Now,
too, we entered the main road, the one road to Verdun, the road that
had been built by the French army against just such an attack as was
now in progress. The road was as wide as Fifth Avenue, as smooth as
asphalt--a road that, when peace comes, if it ever does, will delight
the motorist. Despite the traffic it had to bear, it was in perfect
repair, and soldiers in uniform sat by the side breaking stone and
preparing metal to keep it so.

The character of the country had now changed. We were entering the
region of the hills, between the Aisne and the Meuse, a country
reminiscent of New England. Those hills are the barrier which beyond
the Meuse, under the names of the Côte de Meuse, have been the scene of
so much desperate fighting. The roads that sidled off to the east bore
battle names, St. Mihiel, Troyon, and the road that we followed was
still marked at every turn with the magic word "Verdun." Our immediate
objective was Souilly, the obscure hill town twenty miles, perhaps,
south of the front, from which Sarrail had defended Verdun in the Marne
days and from which Pétain was now defending Verdun against a still
more terrible attack.

And in France to-day one speaks only of Verdun and Pétain. Soldiers
have their day; Joffre, Castelnau, Foch, all retain much of the
affection and admiration they have deserved, but at the moment it is
the man who has held Verdun that France thinks of, and there was the
promise for us that at Souilly we should see the man whose fame had
filled the world in the great and terrible weeks. Upward and downward
over the hills, through more ruined villages, more hospitals, more
camps, our march took us until after a short hour we came to Souilly,
general headquarters of the Army of Verdun, of Pétain, the center of
the world for the moment.

Few towns have done less to prepare for greatness than Souilly.
It boasts a single street three inches deep in the clay mud of the
spring--a single street through which the Verdun route marches almost
contemptuously, the same nest of stone and plaster houses, one story
high, houses from which the owners had departed to make room for
generals and staff officers. This and one thing more, the Mairie, the
town hall, as usual the one pretentious edifice of the French hamlet,
and before the stairway of this we stopped and got out.

We were at headquarters. From this little building, devoted for perhaps
a century to the business of governing the commune of Souilly, with
its scant thousand of people, Pétain was defending Verdun and the fate
of an army of 250,000 men at the least. In the upstairs room, where
the town councillors had once debated parochial questions, Joffre and
Castelnau and Pétain in the terrible days of the opening conflict had
consulted, argued, decided--decided the fate of France, so the Germans
had said, for they had made the fall of Verdun the assurance of French
collapse.

Unconsciously, too, you felt the change in character of the population
of this village. There were still the soldiers, the eternal gray-blue
uniforms, but there were also men of a different type, men of
authority. In the street your guides pointed out to you General Herr,
the man who had designed and planned and accomplished the miracle
of the motor transport that had saved Verdun--with the aid of the
brave men fighting somewhere not far beyond the nearest hills. He had
commanded at Verdun when the attack came, and without hesitation he
had turned over his command to Pétain, his junior in service and rank
before the war, given up the glory and become the superintendent of
transport. Men spoke to you of the fine loyalty of that action with
unconcealed admiration.

And then out of the remoteness of Souilly there came a voice familiar
to an American. Bunau-Varilla, the man of Panama, wearing the uniform
of a commandant and the Croix de Guerre newly bestowed for some
wonderful engineering achievement, stepped forward to ask for his
friends and yours of the old "Sun paper." I had seen him last in "The
Sun" office in the days when the war had just broken out and he was
about to sail for home; in the days when the Marne was still unfought
and he had breathed hope then as he spoke with confidence now.

Presently there arrived the two officers whose duty it was to take
me to Verdun, Captain Henri Bourdeaux, a man of letters known to all
Frenchmen; Captain Madelin, an historian, already documented in the
history of the war making under his own eyes....


VI--"I STAND BEFORE GENERAL PETAIN"

"Were we to see Verdun?" This was the first problem. I had been warned
two days before that the bombardment was raging and that it was quite
possible that it would be unsafe to go further. But the news was
reassuring; Verdun was tranquil. "And Pétain?" One could not yet say.

Even as we spoke there was a stirring in the crowd, general saluting,
and I caught a glimpse of the commander-in-chief as he went quickly up
the staircase. For the rest we must wait. But not for very long; in a
few minutes there came the welcome word that General Pétain would see
us, would see the stray American correspondent.

Since I saw Pétain in the little Mairie at Souilly I have seen many
photographs of him, but none in any real measure give the true picture
of the defender of Verdun. He saw us in his office, the bare upstairs
room, two years ago the office of the Mayor of Souilly. Think of the
Selectmen's office in any New England village and the picture will be
accurate. A bare room, a desk, one chair, a telephone, nothing on the
walls but two maps, one of the military zone, one of the actual front
and positions of the Verdun fighting. A bleak room, barely heated by
the most primitive of stoves. From the single window one looked down on
the cheerless street along which lumbered the caravan of autos. On the
pegs against the wall hung the General's hat and coat, weather-stained,
faded, the clothes of a man who worked in all weathers. Of staff
officers, of uniforms, of color there was just nothing; of war there
was hardly a hint.

At the door the commander-in-chief met us, shook hands and murmured
clearly and slowly, with incisive distinctness, the formal words
of French greeting; he spoke no English. Instantly there was the
suggestion of Kitchener, not of Kitchener as you see him in flesh, but
in photographs, the same coldness, decision. The smile that accompanied
the words of welcome vanished and the face was utterly motionless,
expressionless. You saw a tall, broad-shouldered man, with every
appearance of physical strength, a clear blue eye, looking straight
forward and beyond.

My French companion, M. Le Roux, spoke with Pétain. He had just come
from Joffre and he told an interesting circumstance. Pétain listened.
He said now and then "yes" or "no." Nothing more. Watching him narrowly
you saw that occasionally his eyes twitched a little, the single sign
of fatigue that the long strain of weeks of responsibility had brought.

It was hard to believe, looking at this quiet, calm, silent man,
that you were in the presence of the soldier who had won the Battle
of Champagne, the man whom the war had surprised in the last of
his fifties, a Colonel, a teacher of war rather than a soldier, a
professor like Foch.

No one of Napoleon's marshals had commanded as many men as obeyed
this Frenchman, who was as lacking in the distinction of military
circumstances as our own Grant. Napoleon had won all his famous
victories with far fewer troops than were directed from the telephone
on the table yonder.

Every impression of modern war that comes to one actually in touch with
it is a destruction of illusion: this thing is a thing of mechanism
rather than of brilliance; perhaps Pétain has led a regiment, a
brigade, or a division to the charge. You knew instinctively in seeing
the man that you would go or come, as he said, but there was neither
dash nor fire, nothing of the suggestion of élan; rather there was the
suggestion of the commander of a great ocean liner, the man responsible
for the lives, this time of hundreds of thousands, not scores, for
the safety of France, not of a ship, but the man of machinery and the
master of the wisdom of the tides and the weather, not the Ney, or the
Murat, not the Napoleon of Arcola. The impression was of a strong man
whose life was a life beaten upon by storms; the man on the bridge,
to keep to the rather ridiculously inadequate figure, but not by any
chance the man on horseback.


VII--"MY TALK WITH THE GREAT FRENCH GENERAL"

My talk, our talk with Pétain was the matter of perhaps five
minutes.... Once he had greeted us his face settled into that grim
expression that never changed until he smiled his word of good wishes
as we left. Yet I have since found that apart from one circumstance
which I shall mention in a moment I have remembered those minutes most
clearly of all of my Verdun experience. Just as the photograph does not
reveal the face of the man, the word does not describe the sense of
strength, of responsibility, that he gives.

In a childish sort of way, exactly as one thinks of war as a matter
of dash and color and motion, one thinks of the French general as
the leader of a cavalry charge or of a forlorn hope of infantry. And
the French soldier of this war has not been the man of charge or of
dash--not that he has not charged as well as ever in his history, a
little more bravely, perhaps, for machine guns are new and something
worse than other wars have had. What the French soldier has done has
been to stand, to hold, to die not in the onrush but on the spot.

And Pétain in some curious way has fixed in my mind the impression of
the new Frenchman, if there be a new one, or perhaps better of the
French soldier of to-day, whether he wear the stars of the general or
undecorated "horizon" blue of the Poilu. The look that I saw in his
eyes, the calm, steady, utterly emotionless looking straight forward, I
saw everywhere at the front and at the back of the front. It embodied
for me an enduring impression of the spirit and the poise of the French
soldier of the latest and most terrible of French struggles. And I
confess that, more than all I saw and heard at the front and in Paris,
the look of this man convinced me that Verdun would not fall, that
France herself would not either weary or weaken.

In Paris, where one may hear anything, there are those that will tell
you that Joffre's work is done and that France waits for the man
who will complete the tasks; that the strain of the terrible months
has wearied the general who won the Battle of the Marne and saved
France. They will tell you, perhaps, that Pétain is the man; they will
certainly tell you that they hope that the man has been found in
Pétain. As to the truth of all this I do not pretend to know.

There was a Kitchener legend in Europe, and I do not think it survives
save a little perhaps in corners of England. There was a legend of a
man of ice and of iron, a man who made victory out of human material
as a man makes a wall of mortar and stone, a man to whom his material
was only mortar and stone, even though it were human. This legend has
perished so far as Kitchener is concerned, gone with so much that
England trusted and believed two years ago, but I find myself thinking
now of Pétain as we all thought of Kitchener in his great day.

If I were an officer I should not like to come to the defender of
Verdun with the confession of failure. I think I should rather meet
the Bavarians in the first-line trenches, but I should like to know
that when I was obeying orders I was carrying out a minor detail of
something Pétain had planned; I should expect it to happen, the thing
that he had arranged, and I should feel that those clear, steel-blue
eyes had foreseen all that could occur, foreseen calmly and utterly,
whether it entailed the death of one or a thousand men, of ten thousand
men if necessary, and had willed that it should happen.

I do not believe Napoleon's Old Guard would have followed Pétain as
they followed Ney. I cannot fancy him in the Imperial uniform, and
yet, now that war is a thing of machines, of telephones, of indirect
fire and destruction from unseen weapons at remote ranges, now that
the whole manner and circumstances of conflict have changed, it is but
natural that the general should change, too. Patently, Pétain is of the
new, not the old, but no less patently he was the master of it.


VIII--TROOPS MARCHING TO THE SOUND OF THE GUNS

We left the little Mairie, entered our machines and slid out swiftly
for the last miles, climbed and curved over the final hill and suddenly
looked down on a deep, trenchlike valley marching from east to west
and carrying the Paris-Verdun-Metz railroad, no longer available for
traffic. And as we coasted down the hill we heard the guns ... not
steadily, but only from time to time, a distant boom, a faint billowing
up of musketry fire. Some three or four miles straight ahead there were
the lines of fire, beyond the brown hills that flanked the valley.

At the bottom of the valley we turned east, moved on for a mile and
stopped abruptly. The guns were sounding more clearly, and suddenly
there was a sense not of soldiers, but of an army. On one side of the
road a column was coming toward us, a column of men who were leaving
the trenches for a rest, the men who for the recent days had held the
first line. Wearily but steadily they streamed by; the mud of the
trenches covered their tunics; here and there a man had lost his steel
helmet and wore a handkerchief about his head, probably to conceal a
slight wound that but for the helmet had killed him.

These men were smiling as they marched; they carried their full
equipment and it rattled and tinkled; they carried their guns at all
angles, they wore their uniforms in the strangest of disorders; they
seemed almost like miners coming from the depths of the earth rather
than soldiers returning from a decisive battle, from the hell of modern
shell fire.

But it was the line on the other side of the road that held the eye.
Here were the troops that were going toward the fire, toward the
trenches, that were marching to the sound of the guns, and as one saw
them the artillery rumble took on a new distinctness.

Involuntarily I searched the faces of these men as they passed. They
were hardly ten feet from me. Platoon after platoon, company after
company, whole regiments in columns of fours. And seeing the faces
brought an instant shock; they all ... were in the thirties, not the
twenties; men still in the prime of strength, of health, but the
fathers of families, the men of full manhood.

Almost in a flash the fact came home. This was what all the graves
along the road had meant. This was what the battlefields and the
glories of the twenty months had spelled--France had sent her youth and
it was spent; she was sending her manhood now.

In the line no man smiled and no man straggled; the ranks were closed
up and there were neither commands nor any visible sign of authority.
These men who were marching to the sound of the guns had been there
before. They knew precisely what it meant. Yet you could not but feel
that as they went a little wearily, sadly, they marched willingly. They
would not have it otherwise. Their faces were the faces of men who had
taken the full measure of their own fate.


IX--"THEY HAD WILLED TO DIE FOR FRANCE"

You had a sense of the loathing, the horror, above all the sadness that
was in their hearts that this thing, this war, this destruction had to
be. They had come here through all the waste of ruined villages and
shell-torn hillsides; all the men that you saw would not measure the
cost of a single hour of trench fighting if the real attack began. This
these men knew, and the message of the artillery fire, which was only
one of unknown terrors for you, was intelligible to the utmost to each
of them.

And yet with the weariness there was a certain resignation, a certain
patience, a certain sense of comprehending sacrifice that more than
all else is France to-day, the true France. This, and not the empty
forts, not even the busy guns, was the wall that defended France, this
line of men. If it broke there would come thundering down again out of
the north all the tornado of destruction that had turned Northeastern
France into a waste place and wrecked so much of the world's store of
the beautiful and the inspiring.

Somehow you felt that this was in the minds of all these men. They
had willed to die that France might live. They were going to a death
that sounded ever more clearly as they marched. This death had eaten
up all that was young, most of what was young at the least, of France;
it might yet consume France, and so these men marched to the sound of
the guns.... Instinctively I thought of what Kipling had said to me in
London:

"Somewhere over there," he had said, "the thing will suddenly grip your
throat and your heart; it will take hold of you as nothing in your life
has ever done or ever will." And I know that I never shall forget those
lines of quiet, patient, middle-aged men marching to the sound of the
guns, leaving at their backs the countless graves that hold the youth
of France, the men who had known the Marne, the Yser, Champagne, who
had known death for nearly two years, night and day, almost constantly.
Yet during the fifteen minutes I watched there was not one order, not
one straggler; there was a sense of the regularity with which the blood
flows through the human arteries in this tide, and it was the blood of
France.


X--"I CAN NEVER FORGET THOSE FACES"

So many people have asked me, I had asked myself, the question before I
went to France: "Are they not weary of it? Will the French not give up
from sheer exhaustion of strength?" I do not think so, now that I have
seen the faces of these hundreds of men as they marched to the trenches
beyond Verdun. France may bleed to death, but I do not think that while
there are men there will be an end of the sacrifice. No pen or voice
can express the horror that these men, that all Frenchmen, have of this
war, of all war, the weariness. They hate it; you cannot mistake this;
but France marches to the frontier in the spirit that men manned the
walls against the barbarians in the other days; there is no other way;
it must be.

Over and over again there has come the invariable answer; it would
have come from scores and hundreds of these men who passed so near
me I could have touched their faded uniforms if I had asked--"It is
for France, for civilization; it must be, for there is no other way;
we shall die, but with us, with our sacrifice, perhaps this thing
will end." You cannot put it in words quite, I do not think even any
Frenchman has quite said it, but you can see it, you can feel it, you
can understand it, when you see a regiment, a brigade, a division of
these men of thirty, some perhaps of forty, going forward to the war
they hate and will never quit until that which they love is safe or
they and all their race are swallowed up.... Under the crumbling gate
of the Verdun fortress ... as we entered a shell burst just behind us
and the roar drowned out all else in its sudden and paralyzing crash.
It had fallen, so we learned a little later, just where we had been
watching the passing troops; it had fallen among them and killed. But
an hour or two later, when we repassed the point where it fell, men
were still marching by. Other regiments of men were still marching to
the sound of the guns, and those who had passed were already over the
hills and beyond the river, filing into the trenches in time, so it
turned out, to meet the new attack that came with the later afternoon.

I went to Verdun to see the forts, the city, the hills and the
topography of a great battle; I went in the hope of describing with a
little of clarity what the operation meant as a military affair....
But I shall never be able to describe this thing which was the true
Verdun for me--these men, their faces, seen as one heard the shell
fire and the musketry rolling, not steadily but intermittently, the
men who had marched over the roads that are lined with graves, through
villages that are destroyed, who had come of their own will and in calm
determination and marched unhurryingly and yet unshrinkingly, the men
who were no longer young, who had left behind them all that men hold
dear in life, home, wives, children, because they knew that there was
no other way.

I can only say to all those who have asked me, "What of France?" this
simple thing, that I do not believe the French will ever stop. I do not
believe, as the Germans have said, that French courage is abating. I do
not believe the Kaiser himself would think this if he had seen these
men's faces as they marched _toward_ his guns. I think he would feel
as I felt, as one must feel, that these men went willingly, hating war
with their whole soul, destitute of passion or anger. I never heard a
passionate word in France, because there had entered into their minds,
into the mind and heart of a whole race, the belief that what was at
stake was the thing that for two thousand years of history has been
France.




UNDER THE STARS AND STRIPES--WITH AMERICAN ARMY IN FRANCE

_Stories of American Troops on Road to Front_

_Told by Lincoln Eyre, with Pershing's Army_

  It was one of the most dramatic scenes in the world's history when on
  that twenty-seventh day of June, 1917, the first American Army that
  ever crossed the seas to Europe stepped foot on the soil of France to
  join its allies in the war to "make the world safe for democracy."
  America at last was repaying the debt which it owed France when she
  crossed the Atlantic to fight with Washington's Army in the American
  Revolution. The historic scenes are described by Lincoln Eyre, who
  was attached to the Joffre commission on its tour of triumph in the
  United States. He is now with the American Army as war correspondent
  for the _New York World_, with whose permission this record is made.
  Copyright, 1917, by Press Publishing Company.


I--STORY OF ARRIVAL OF GENERAL PERSHING ON FRENCH SOIL

  Boulogne, France, June 13, 1917.

Cheering thousands, moved to tears, welcomed General John J. Pershing
on his arrival here to-day. The tall, soldierly-appearing figure of
Pershing, garbed in the business-like khaki of the American army, was
acclaimed as France has seldom acclaimed another in all her history.
Frenzied crowds packed the streets to shout their joy and wave the
Tricolor of France with the same three colors of the Star Spangled
Banner. Gen. Pershing was welcomed at the dock by Gen. Pelletier,
representing the French Government and General Headquarters; Commandant
Hue, representing the Minister of War; Gen. Lucas, commanding the
northern region; Col. Daru, Governor of Lille; the Prefect of the Somme
and other public officials.

Pershing arrived at 9:40 o'clock this morning. He was deeply moved by
the greeting he received.

"I consider this one of the most important moments in American
history," he said. "Our arrival on French soil, constituting as we do
the advance guard of an American army, makes us realize to the fullest
the importance of America's participation. Our reception has moved us
deeply. I can only reaffirm that America has entered the war with the
intention of performing her full share--however great or small the
future will dictate. Our Allies can depend upon that absolutely."

A small French boy who edged forward in the crowds that greeted the
American general was noticed by Pershing. He wanted something and
Pershing wanted to know what it was. He came forward and shyly shook
hands with the big, smiling American and then asked him to sign an
autograph album, proudly displaying the signatures which he had already
obtained in it from Marshal Joffre and Field Marshal Haig. Gen.
Pershing stopped right there and signed the book.

While Pershing and the commissioned officers of his staff disembarked
and were immediately taken away in automobiles, non-commissioned
officers and privates--orderlies and attachés to the American
General's entourage--swarmed off the vessel and mixed joyously with
the crowd at the railway station. There were British Tommies there
to welcome their new brothers in arms--and French poilus as well.
Hundreds of handshakings--and embraces--marked the meeting of these
representatives of three great armies, now pledged to a common purpose.

Boulogne harbor was alive early in the morning awaiting the arrival of
the American General and his staff. The first notice that the ship was
finally arriving came with the roar of salutes from French patrol boats
in the outer harbor. Then the British troopships hastily shifted their
anchorage to allow the boat with its all-important cargo to dock at the
principal wharf. There a huge American flag was flung to the breeze
from the topmost part of the landing stage, while on the dock itself a
brilliant, colorful assembly awaited, cheering so that their welcome
must have been heard far out over the waters as the boat slowly nosed
her way between the whistle-shrieking and gun-barking craft in between.

On the dock were British, French and Belgian officers, formally drawn
up in rigid salute as Gen. Pershing first put his foot on French
soil and gave evidence in the flesh of America's determination to
fight. Rene Besnard, Under Secretary of War, was the Governmental
representative at this notable scene. He arrived from Paris and
shook hands with the American commander as he stepped ashore. French
Government officials formally welcomed Gen. Pershing and his staff in
the name of the nation and the Americans were taken to a special train
en route for Paris.


II--SCENES WHEN PERSHING ARRIVED IN PARIS

  Paris, June 13, 1917.

Paris, frantic with enthusiasm, streets massed with throngs waving the
American and French flags, greeted Major-Gen. John J. Pershing and
his staff here at 6:30 o'clock this evening. Marshal Joffre, former
Premier Viviani, Minister of War Painleve, American Ambassador Sharp
and a score of other dignitaries greeted the American commander and his
officers at the Gare du Nord.

"The living symbol of America's help in the war for civilization."

"The man who will lead the American armies!"

Such were the tumultuous salutes.

Hundreds of thousands thronged the sidewalks from the railway station,
the Gare du Nord, to the Hotel Crillon, where Gen. Pershing made his
headquarters. From the moment the automobile, in which he rode with
Minister of War Painleve and Gen. Pelletier, designated as his honorary
aide, moved slowly into the boulevard outside the railway station,
until he arrived at his hotel, the cheering was continuous and, if
possible, increased in volume, and the crowds fairly smothered the
Americans with flowers.

As Gen. Pershing stepped on the railway platform he found awaiting him
M. Viviani, Minister Painleve, Marshal Joffre, Gen. Foch, Gen. Dubail,
Military Governor of Paris; M. Mithouard, President of the Municipal
Council of Paris, and American Ambassador Sharp. M. Mithouard spoke a
few words of welcome. A company of infantry was lined up as a guard of
honor, and the Republican Guard Band played "The Star Spangled Banner."
Gen. Pershing shook hands in the most cordial fashion with M. Viviani
and Marshal Joffre and remarked, with a smile:

"It does not seem long since we saw you in Washington."

Then he was escorted to the Painleve automobile. Ahead of it was that
occupied by M. Viviani and Ambassador Sharp, and behind one bearing
Marshal Joffre and Rene Besnard who had accompanied Gen. Pershing from
Boulogne.

From windows the Stars and Stripes were waved by men, women and
children. French girls, with flowers bought from their savings, fought
for a chance to hurl their offerings into the laps of the astonished
Americans. The ride to the Hotel Crillon, in which suites for the
General and his chief officers had been reserved, lay through many of
the principal streets, and the motors were driven slowly to afford the
crowds a good look at the Americans.

  Paris, June 14, 1917.

This was Pershing Day in Paris. The cheers which greeted the American
general's entry into the city yesterday were re-echoed wherever he
appeared to-day. All gloom which has pervaded the city for months
seemed to dissipate wherever the tall figure of the American appeared.

When the General appeared on the Place de la Concorde this morning he
was wildly cheered by thousands who lined the streets. He was escorted
to the Palace of the Elysée with military honors and was presented to
President Poincaré, after which he was entertained at breakfast. Other
guests were Premier Ribot, Gen. Painleve, Marshal Joffre, Minister
Viviani, Ambassador Sharp and many prominent statesmen.

In the afternoon he was escorted to the Chamber of Deputies by
Ambassador Sharp. The unexpected appearance of Gen. Pershing in the
diplomatic gallery turned a commonplace meeting of the Deputies into a
great ovation for the American General.

Premier Ribot, who had been discussing the Greek situation, recognized
Gen. Pershing and switched from his speech, saying:

"We are confronted afresh by beholding the United States coming to the
rendezvous of the representatives of a free people."

As the Deputies leaped to their feet in honor of the American General,
the Premier continued:

"The people of Paris are so sure of themselves that in their
acclamation of Gen. Pershing they are writing the first chapter in the
history of the constitution of a society of nations."

The Chamber turned with one accord to where Gen. Pershing stood. He
bowed his acknowledgments of the Parliamentary greeting. Following
Premier Ribot, Foreign Minister Viviani said that "neither pen nor
note could do justice to the reception which he and Gen. Joffre were
accorded in the United States."

M. Viviani referred to President Wilson as "that great, calm figure in
whose untrembling hands there rests, with Washington and Lincoln, all
the grandeur of American history."

A tremendous outburst of applause filled the auditorium when M. Viviani
told of how at Chicago, once the center of pro-Germanism, he had been
promised that the last American and the last American dollar would be
given by the United States that France might restore Alsace-Lorraine.

This morning Gen. Pershing stood with uncovered head at the tomb of
Napoleon and paid tribute to one of the world's greatest commanders.
With his staff he was received at the Hotel des Invalides by Gen. Niox,
the commander, and Gen. Malterre. As the American party entered the
spacious grounds leading to the building they encountered a number
of veterans. A grizzled soldier of the Crimea saluted. Gen. Pershing
stopped and extended his hand, saying:

"It is a great honor for a young soldier like myself to press the hand
of an old soldier like yourself who has seen such glorious service."

Gen. Niox conducted the American commander within the vast rotunda,
with its walls hung with battle flags, and thence the party proceeded
below to the crypt where the sarcophagus of Napoleon reposes. Entrance
to the crypt is rigorously limited, and it is seldom that any one is
admitted except crowned heads or a former ruler, as in the case of
ex-President Roosevelt when he visited Paris.

Gen. Pershing was then conducted to the Artillery Museum, where
precious relics of Napoleon are preserved. He was particularly
interested in Napoleon's sword and Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor.
An hour was spent in the building.

To-night Gen. Painleve gave a dinner in honor of Gen. Pershing. Among
the guests were famous French soldiers, Allied diplomats, residents in
Paris, and French statesmen.


III--STORY OF ARRIVAL OF FIRST AMERICAN TROOPS IN FRANCE

  Paris, July 1, 1917.

Paris was overwhelmed with joy this morning at the first published
announcements that all of the first contingent of United States
troops had landed safely in France. It was not long, either, until
the city got a sight of American sailors, marines and even a few
regulars--soldiers assigned to duty with various officers who have come
immediately to Paris from the port of landing.

Already the French are stirred to exultation and a realization of the
victory which they feel sure to come, now that America has its fighting
men so near the front. The fraternization of the Americans with the
English, Canadians, Australians and French is remarkable, and the new
arrivals are being received everywhere with open arms and open hearts.
Last month nearly all the British troops not having near relatives in
the British Isles have been coming to Paris on leave, and so the newly
landed Americans find plenty of comrades able to speak their common
language.

The Yankees warmed up particularly to the Canadians, among whom are
many Americans, but the greatest surprise came at the way the French
officers and poilus fraternize with their new allies. The appearance
of American naval officers in white duck summer uniforms in the smart
Paris restaurants causes gasps of astonished delight.

The French press has extended an enthusiastic greeting to the American
troops. The _Temps_ dwells upon their youth, vigor, and military
aspect, and the completeness of their equipment.

The _Journal des Debats_ says: "The grand democracy of the New
World does nothing by halves. It entered this vast conflict in full
consciousness of the ends to be attained and with full resolution to
neglect nothing in attaining those ends. What we witness to-day in
the arrival of the Americans on French soil is magnificent proof of
this fact. Two months and a half after the Americans entered the war
their hardy troops arrive in solid lines upon the European front, and
it is not a modest advance guard. On the contrary, the forces which
have just landed on our shore surpass anything which could reasonably
have been expected within so short a time. When we recall the length
of time it took England to move her forces to South Africa, and,
similarly, the length of time it took us to move our troops to Salonica
this remarkable accomplishment by the Americans is seen in its full
significance. The material they bring is on the same abundant scale
as their troops. Those who have been doubtful whether the American
concourse would come in time have failed to estimate at its just
value the tremendous moral and material American power that German
brutality has mobilized against itself. And what we see to-day is only
the commencement. Each day henceforth will increase the weight of
that formidable sword thrown into the balance by the great Republic
of America. Who can, even in Germany, be blind to the inevitable
consequences of the events we are now witnessing?"


IV--AMERICAN SOLDIERS CELEBRATE FOURTH OF JULY IN PARIS

  Paris, July 4, 1917.

All France celebrated the Fourth of July. Paris turned out a crowd that
no American city ever surpassed for size, enthusiasm and profusion of
Stars and Stripes. A battalion of the first American expeditionary
force about to leave for training behind the battle front had its
first official review in France and was the centre of the celebration.
Everywhere the American flag was flying from public buildings,
hotels and residences and from automobiles, cabs and carts, horses'
bridles--even the lapels of pedestrians' coats displayed it.

The crowds began early to gather at vantage points. Rue de Varenne
was choked long before 8 o'clock this morning, when the Republican
Guards Band carried out a field reveille under Gen. Pershing's
windows. All routes toward the Hotel des Invalides were thronged even
before Pershing's men turned out. About the Court of Honor where the
Americans were drawn up with a detachment of French Territorials, the
buildings overflowed with crowded humanity to the roofs. All around
the khaki-clad men from the United States were trophies and souvenirs
of war--German cannon, airplanes, machine guns and many appliances for
burning suffocating gas. Behind them in the chapel separating the Court
of Honor from Napoleon's tomb were German battle flags, trophies of
the Marne and Alsace, beside Prussian banners of 1870.

In the chapel before the tomb of Napoleon, Gen. Pershing received
American flags and banners from the hands of President Poincaré. Almost
the entire history of the struggles of the French against the Germans
looked down upon the scene from paintings portraying heroic incidents
in French battles from Charlemagne to Napoleon. There was a sharp
contrast between the khaki and plain wide brimmed hats of Pershing's
men and the gay dress of d'Artagnan's plumed musketeers and Napoleon's
grenadiers.

The enthusiasm of the vast crowd reached its highest pitch when Gen.
Pershing, escorted by President Poincaré, Marshal Joffre and other high
French dignitaries, passed along reviewing the lines of the Americans
drawn up in square formations. Cheering broke out anew when the
American band struck up "The Marseillaise," and again when the French
band played "The Star-Spangled Banner" and Pershing received the flags
from the President.

"Vive les Americains!" "Vive Pershing!" "Vive les Etats-Unis!" shouted
over and over by the crowd greeted the American standard bearers as
they advanced.

The crowd that had waited three hours to witness the ceremony that was
over in fifteen minutes, surged toward the exit cheering frantically
after the departing Americans and trying to break through a cordon
of police troops. Outside a greater crowd that covered the entire
Esplanade des Invalides took up the cheers as Pershing's men marched
away. The crowd in the Court of Honor tried to follow the soldiers, but
the throng outside was so dense, and the exits so small that it was
half an hour before the people could get out. The Cours de la Reine
from Alexander Bridge to the Place de la Concorde was black with people
all of whom seemed to want to rush up to the men and embrace them as
they marched by. When the last man had passed great crowds surged
from both sides to the middle of the street, breaking through the
police military guards and blocking traffic for a long time behind the
marching column.

More people were massed in the Tuileries Gardens than on the Esplanade
des Invalides. Few of them could get a glimpse of the parade but
all joined in a tremendous outburst of cheering when music from the
Republican Guard Band announced the approach of the troops, and the
cheering did not diminish in volume until the last man in the line had
disappeared from view of the Gardens down the Rue de Rivoli.




WITH THE SERBIAN STOICS IN EXILE--UNDER THE GERMAN YOKE

_Experiences in the Flight to Albania_

_Told by Gordon Gordon-Smith, with the Serbian Army_

  Gordon-Smith was with the armies of King Peter in the flight into
  Albania. He stood beside the forlorn king as he fled with his people
  before the German-Austrian-Bulgarian hordes. His accounts of the
  hardships and heroism of the Serbs is the first to reach the world.
  He tells about the tragic exodus through the mountain passes--men,
  women and children; the babes and the feeble on the procession of
  bullock carts; the wolves howling through the night and gnawing at
  the bodies of the dead along the road. A few of these stories are
  told here by permission of the _New York Tribune_, for whom he acted
  as special correspondent in the Balkans.


I--HOW I FLED WITH KING PETER'S TROOPS

The headquarters of the Serbian Army left Krusevatz for Rashka, as
the German advance menaced its retreat from the former town if longer
delayed. With my colleague of the _Petit Parisien_ I determined to push
forward to join the Second Army, which was opposing the enemy's advance
in the valley of the Morava.

The roads were in a frightful condition. They were, for the most part,
mere cart tracks and perfect seas of mud. The carriage half the time
was ploughing through two feet of tenacious clay. Twice it stuck fast
up to the axles in mud, and was only extricated with the friendly aid
of a passing bullock team. Good horses are no longer to be had in
Serbia; they have all been requisitioned for the army.

One of our horses, a giraffe-like chestnut, is an ex-cavalry horse of
the Austrian army and bears the mark of a wound from a shell splinter.
It is named Julius. Its partner (which I have named Cæsar) is a
flea-bitten gray, somewhat short in the wind. Both regard Serbian mud
and the effort it entails on them with profound disapproval.

Just at the point where the road from Krusevatz joins the main road
running to Stalatz I came across half a dozen British soldiers
belonging to the heavy battery which defended Belgrade. They were
seated at the roadside preparing the inevitable pot of tea without
which Tommy Atkins's happiness is not complete.

They told me their battery was en route for Nish and that the guns had
already been entrained at Stalatz. They were covering the intervening
sixty kilometres in a couple of bullock carts. They were profoundly
ignorant of what was happening in Serbia or the outside world, but were
correspondingly cheerful.

They insisted on us sharing their tea, and produced a pot of the
equally inevitable marmalade, which they proudly declared was one of
the few objects which had survived the bombardment of Belgrade. I left
them loading up their wagon and giving orders to their drivers in weird
but apparently effective Serbian.

It was dark when we reached Chichivatz, the first stage on our journey.
The problem was to find quarters and food. Every village behind the
front is filled to overflowing with the fugitive population from
the country held by the Germans. Every public edifice is crammed;
people sleep on straw, twenty in a room, in every available house. At
the village inn the food supply resolved itself into the inevitable
"Schnitzel," which in the present instance was a badly burnt piece
of pork. We were, however, fortunate enough to find the local
station-master at the inn, who hospitably offered us a bedroom in the
railway station.

When we got there we noticed that he had already begun to pack up ready
to leave. With him was a young official of the Ministry of Commerce,
who had been sent to destroy the stores and rolling stock....

As fast as the Germans advance in the north and the Bulgarians in the
south the locomotives and rolling stock are accumulated on the only
section of the line now in Serbian hands; that is the 80 kilometres
between Chichivatz and Nish.

When everything is lost on this section the Serbian authorities fill
the whole track with rolling stock from one end to the other and blow
up all the bridges, so as to render the line unworkable. The new
American engines, which were only delivered this year, have been placed
in a long tunnel on a side line, and each end of the tunnel blown up,
so as to entomb them undamaged....

Seven Serbian divisions opposing eighteen German divisions were odds
that not even the bravery of King Peter's army could withstand. Train
after train rolled through the station loaded with military stores and
packed with fleeing peasants.


II--"WE SADDLED OUR HORSES TO RIDE TO THE FRONT"

Next morning the station master roused me at 7:30 o'clock with the
words, "The Germans are coming!" From his tone one could have supposed
the cavalry were at the outskirts.

The real reason, I soon discovered, was his desire that I should
evacuate my sleeping quarters, as an ox wagon was already at the door
to transport the furniture to a place of safety.

We determined to leave the carriage to ride to the front, as a
carriage, in a sudden retreat, is apt to be cumbersome. We accordingly
saddled the horses and rode to Parachine, twenty kilometers distant.

Parachine we found in a state of considerable excitement. The thunder
of the guns drawing nearer and nearer gave evidence of the approach of
the enemy. The battle was raging about four miles outside the town. The
Second Army held the heights on both sides of the valley, opposed to a
force of nearly double its strength....

As the staff of the Second Army was expected to arrive in the town that
evening we determined to remain over night at Parachine. With thirty
thousand refugees in a town of twelve thousand inhabitants it was no
easy matter to find a room, but the Mayor kindly had a deserted house
broken open for us, and also, which was even more important, found food
and stabling for our horses. Next morning the people of the next-door
house awakened us with the news that the Germans were attacking the
town, and that infantry fire was clearly audible.

When we got out we found the Serbian baggage train pouring through the
town--a clear sign that the retreat had begun. The town was in wild
excitement for two reasons--firstly, on account of the approach of the
Germans, and, secondly, because orders had been given to distribute
to the inhabitants everything in the military stores to prevent them
falling into the hands of the enemy. As a result I saw hundreds
of people going about carrying a dozen pairs of boots, uniforms,
under-clothing, bread, biscuits, etc.

At midday the provision and munition columns, having safely cleared the
town, General Stephanovitch and his staff, after placing a strong rear
guard to delay the German advance as long as possible, left for Rajan,
a town about twenty miles distant.

The wildest reports were current. But it is no use arguing with
panic-stricken people. In spite of my assurances, they went on loading
carts and wagons in feverish haste and, in spite of the pouring rain,
went off in the darkness. The curious thing is that not one in ten
knew where they were going. The Germans were coming from the north,
therefore they fled south.


III--"I MET HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF REFUGEES"

For a month past I have met hundreds of thousands of such refugees, who
wander on aimlessly from town to town, driving flocks and herds before
them, always trying to keep a couple of days march in advance of the
invader.

It goes without saying that they add enormously to the difficulties of
the military situation. They block the roads and overcrowd towns and
villages. When their food supplies run down they are face to face with
starvation. And when one remembers that a similar exodus is going on
from the south before the Bulgarian invader the horror of the situation
may be imagined....

The whole of Old Serbia, the Serbia of King Milan, is in the hands of
the Germans, while the Bulgarians are masters of nearly the whole of
Serbian Macedonia.

       *       *       *       *       *

I had hardly been asleep half an hour when I was aroused by a
tremendous explosion, followed a quarter of an hour later by a
succession of minor explosions. These were caused by the blowing up of
the ammunition wagons. The crimson glare announced that the scores of
cars on the railway siding were ablaze.

At the same time an engine just opposite my windows began whistling
stridently. Downstairs in the courtyard I found the whole population,
male and female, old and young, busy looting the carriages and trucks
not yet a prey to the flames.

Half a dozen wagons filled with boots for the Rumanian army, which had
been lying in the siding for three months, were being plundered. Two
other wagons filled with 50,000 francs' worth of cigarette papers,
wagons filled with Serbian wine, French champagne, liqueurs and
perfumery, were also given over to plunder. Thousands of bags of flour,
boxes of biscuits, tinned meats and sardines covered the ground on all
sides, while the inhabitants of the village were loading carts and
handbarrows.

These people were not worrying much about the approach of the Germans.
As they had determined to be taken prisoners, they regarded the advance
of the invaders philosophically.

My chief worry was Varvarian, which I could see only four miles away.
It had been occupied at dawn by the German cavalry, and, of course,
they might risk a sudden dash for Chichivatz, and perhaps even Salatz,
down the line.

We therefore determined to return at once for Krusevatz. The press of
vehicles on the road was so great that we saw we could proceed quicker
on foot, so we left the carriage to follow and started to cover the
intervening twenty kilometres.

When we reached Krusevatz, late in the afternoon, we found the town
apparently in high festival. Everybody seemed in the best of humor and
gaiety reigned everywhere.

We soon discovered the cause. The whole town, men, women and children,
had been drinking unlimited quantities of French champagne, a trainful
of which was lying in the station. When the capture of the town was
seen to be inevitable orders were given there, as elsewhere, to let
the population plunder everything in sight, and the order had been
faithfully obeyed.

I doubt, however, if this had the effect of preventing the goods
falling into the hands of the Germans. The latter would not be long
in hearing of what had happened. They would simply post up a notice
to the inhabitants telling them to bring back all the plunder to the
"Kommandatur," twelve bullets being provided for any one who should
fail to do so. This, plus the threat of a house-to-house search
to discover those who had failed to obey, would probably rake in
nine-tenths of the goods.

The great retreat of the Serbian army across the mountains had now
begun. With their 300,000 bayonets, in spite of the fact that the
Teutons were, as far as physique went, the most miserable material it
was ever my lot to see, they continually outflanked the 150,000 men the
Serbians were able to oppose to them.

The Serbian armies, except the division which was opposing the
Bulgarians in the south, were forced back on the mountain range, which
at this point runs transversely across Serbia, and behind which lies
the old Turkish province, the Sandpak of Novi Bazar, and the Plain of
Kossovo.

The operation of conducting the retreat of the Serbian armies through
the mountain passes was like filtering a fifty-gallon cask through the
neck of a pint bottle. The transport of 20,000 ox-drawn army service
wagons, whose best gait is about two miles an hour, alone constituted a
formidable problem.

       *       *       *       *       *

In view of the terrible nature of the roads, we had to add a third
horse to the team of our carriage. A mile from the town we found
ourselves in a mass of wagons, which every instant became more
congested. The passage of tens of thousands of guns and wagons had
churned the roads into a huge quagmire.


IV--"I WATCHED THE TERRIFYING SPECTACLE"

As darkness fell the scene became a sinister one. To the left, behind
the railway station, one building after another burst into flame; the
employees were firing the storehouses and blowing up the wagons on the
siding. A few minutes later the whole town was shaken by a series of
explosions. The accumulated stocks in the Obelitchavo powder magazine
were being blown up.

From the eminence on which I stood the spectacle was terrifying.
Krusevatz was blazing at half a dozen points, the whole sky was covered
with a crimson glare, while below us the river, like red blood in the
flames, could be followed to the horizon, where the flashes of Serb
guns delaying the German advance could be seen.

On the line of retreat confusion was becoming worse. The whole road
was filled with a triple line of bullock wagons, their panting teams
straining to tear them through the tenacious mud.

Suddenly there came an explosion like an earthquake. An immense column
of yellow flame shot heavenward. The heavy girder bridge over the river
had been dynamited. At the same instant three immense German shells
came screaming overhead and burst with tremendous explosions, one near
the town hall and two near the railway station. These nerve-shaking
explosions caused a wild panic, the first I had seen in Siberia. The
terrified oxen broke into a run and poured in a surging mass, with my
carriage in their midst, down the road.

Suddenly they came on a narrow bridge spanning a small ravine. Those on
the outside were forced against the parapet. I saw the carriage balance
for an instant and then with the three horses roll into the ditch
thirty feet below. There was a sound of smashing glass, and it was all
over with our vehicle.

The only thing was to extricate the kicking horses and salve such
baggage as had escaped. This was a long and difficult process in
torrents of rain, but after an hour and a half of hard work we finally
got our belongings ranged alongside the road.

The next difficulty was a means of transport, but an obliging
non-commissioned officer to the Reserve Munition Column of the Timok
Division stopped a half-empty ox wagon and our belongings were hoisted
in. We in turn found shelter under the tilt of another wagon and made
ourselves as comfortable as the munition boxes would allow.

       *       *       *       *       *

The German infantry was of miserable quality, men who a year ago would
never have passed the doctor, they burst their way through by shell and
shrapnel fire.

It was during these attacks that they took hundreds of prisoners, all
of them, as I have said, of miserable physique. I saw a youth in the
streets of Krusevatz, who could not have been more than sixteen or
seventeen years old. His "pickelhauben," much too large for him, came
down over his ears. Another I saw was minus a finger on his left hand,
and a French surgeon told me he had a German patient who was deaf and
dumb. All were pale-faced, narrow-chested, and not the class of men one
saw twelve months ago.

       *       *       *       *       *

Then came the blizzards of snow and inundations which blotted out
the road in districts hundreds of kilometers in extent. Add to this
fact, all communication with the outside world was completely cut off,
there were no letters, telegrams or newspapers, and such vague reports
as filtered in were brought by circuitous routes over hundreds of
kilometers of the worst roads in Europe.

With every trump card in the hands of her enemies, Serbia's fate was
sealed. All she could do was to fight to the last, and this she did.


V--EVERY ROAD WAS FILLED WITH HUMAN MISERY

Every road in Serbia was filled with the flowing tide of human misery.
Every town and village was overcrowded. In Kroljevo in ordinary times
there are 15,000. When I reached the town it contained 120,000. The
same held good of every other center.

The government issued a decree ordering all the male population
above fourteen to leave the invaded districts before the arrival
of the enemy. This added nearly a million to the number of people
the government had to support, and under the strain the civil
administration broke down completely. Soon the old Serbia of King Milas
was completely in the hands of the Germans, while the Bulgarians drove
out the population of Serbian Macedonia.

As a consequence the only refuge left was Novi Bazar. Into this
narrow space poured an endless tide of refugees. Gaunt, hollow-eyed
men, women and children dragged themselves wearily for hundreds of
kilometers, bound they knew not whither. Always behind them they heard
the inexorable thunder of the guns, warning them to press on and on.
Thousands fell by the wayside, succumbing to cold and hunger.

Probably not since the crossing of the Alps by Napoleon has such a
military expedition been undertaken as the traversing of the Albanian
Mountains by the headquarters staff and the remains of the Serbian army.

The sight presented by Lium Koula on the eve of departure was unique.
On the mountain side for miles nothing could be seen but endless fires.
They were made by thousands of ox wagons, unable to go further, as the
road for vehicles ceases there. Fortunately the snowstorm ended and was
followed by brilliant sunshine.

Next day at 9 o'clock the headquarters staff set out. It included
300 persons and 400 pack animals. The road wound along the banks of
the Drin, which had to be crossed twice by means of picturesque old
single-span Turkish bridges, since destroyed to impede the Bulgarian
advance.

The first mistake was that of transporting the sedan chair of Field
Marshal Putnik at the head of the procession. Every time it halted
to change bearers, which was every fifteen minutes, the whole
two-mile-long procession, following in single file, had to stop also.
As a result, instead of reaching Spas before sundown, we only reached
the base of the mountain after darkness had fallen.

Here a long council was held as to whether we should bivouac in
the village below or undertake the mountain climb in the dark. The
latter course was decided upon. It was one of the most extraordinary
adventures ever undertaken. A narrow path, about four feet across,
covered with ice and snow, winds corkscrew fashion up the face of the
cliff. On one hand is a rocky wall and on the other a sheer drop into
the Drin.


VI--OVER THE MOUNTAIN SIDE WITH GENERAL PUTNIK

This road winds and twists in all sorts of angles, and it was up this
that we started in the black darkness, with the sedan chair of General
Putnik still heading the procession. Every time it reached a corner it
was a matter of endless difficulty to manoeuver it around.

On one occasion we stood for thirty-five minutes in an icy wind
listening to the roar of the Drin, invisible in the black gulf 500 feet
below. Horses slipped and fell at every instant, and every now and then
one would go crashing into the gulf below.

It was 10 o'clock when, tired, hungry and half frozen, we reached
bivouac at Spas. Here we found that though dinner had been ready since
3 o'clock it could not be served because all the plates and spoons were
on the pack animals, which remained in the village below. Neither had
the tents arrived, and as Spas contains only five or six peasant houses
accommodation was at a premium. Colonel Mitrovitz, head of the mess,
told me I would find room in a farmhouse a quarter of a mile away.

The house really was two hours distant, over fields deep in snow. When
I got there at midnight I discovered that there were already nearly a
score of occupants; but at least I was able to sleep in some straw near
the fireside, instead of in the snow outside.

Next morning I set out at 6 to get ahead of the main body of the
headquarters staff. The day was magnificent and we slowly climbed foot
by foot to the cloud-capped summits of the mountains. Up and up we
went, thousands and thousands of feet.

Every few hundred yards we came on bodies of men frozen or starved
to death. At one point there were four in a heap. They were convicts
from Prisrend penitentiary, who had been sent in chains across the
mountains. They had been shot either for insubordination or because
they were unable to proceed. Two other nearly naked bodies were
evidently those of Serbian soldiers murdered by Albanians.


VII--"I OVERTOOK KING PETER"

Soon after midday I overtook King Peter and his staff. Despite his
seventy-six years, he marched on foot with vigor younger men might have
envied.

During all the four hours I marched with the royal staff he never once
mounted his horse, which a soldier was leading behind him. When we
stopped for the night at Bredeti King Peter had a ten hours' march to
his credit.

It was at this point I came across the first of Essad Pacha's
gendarmes. They had been sent out by that heavy-handed ruler to
protect the King and his staff. They were a picturesque lot, many of
them barefooted, but there was no doubt about the first class quality
of their rifles and revolvers. They wore the Serbian gendarme's
uniform--that is, they wore any uniform--of which the Nish government
had some months before made them a present of several thousand.

The attitude of the population could not be described as friendly to
the Serbians, but at the same time there were no outward signs of
hostility. They rarely saluted and showed no desire whatever to offer
hospitality. In the case of the royal household and headquarters staff
Essad Pacha had requisitioned accommodations, but any one not belonging
to one of these units had every chance of faring badly. All they had to
depend on were wayside caravanserai.

These huge, barnlike structures consist of nothing but four walls and a
roof, the latter generally doubtfully water-tight. Here men and horses
were all quartered pell-mell. Everybody annexes as much space as he can
get and lights a fire for warmth and cooking. As they have no chimneys,
the smoke is left to find its way out through the open doors or the
thatched roof. The state of the atmosphere may be imagined.

As my colleague, Paul Dubochet, of the "Petit Parisien," and I had
pushed on ahead of the headquarters staff, we had naturally lost the
advantage of being billeted by Essad's gendarmes. When we finished the
day's march we took our share of floor space, but the atmosphere in an
hour generally proved too much for us.

We were therefore compelled to surrender, and, despite the freezing
cold and the driving snow, we determined to put up a small tent I
received at the time of the destruction of the military stores at
Kraguyevatz Arsenal. It was only three feet high and open at the end;
hence it was only an indifferent shelter against the blizzard. However,
I ordered my man to build an immense fire near the open end, and we
went to sleep.

Three hours later we awoke, to find the wretched tent ablaze. We
struggled out with difficulty and managed to save most of our
belongings, but the tent and the sleeping rugs were gone. There was
nothing to do but remain at our camp fire until dawn.


VIII--A THOUSAND MEN AND HORSES OVER A ROCKY GORGE

On the next march a new experience awaited us. The road ran for miles
through a rocky gorge, and nothing else. The bed of the river was the
only means of travel. There is nothing so nerve-racking as to keep
one's eyes constantly glued to the ground, when each step presents a
new problem. Of course, every now and then one of the stones would turn
under our feet, and this meant a plunge up to the knees in icy water.

So far as the eye could see there was nothing but this rocky bed,
winding between towering basaltic cliffs. The task of transporting a
thousand men and horses under such conditions was almost superhuman. If
the Albanians had been openly hostile not one man would have come out
alive.

The Albanian, like most peasants, is grasping and fond of money, but
once you cross his threshold your person and property are sacred. I
never had the slightest fear once I entered an Albanian house.

On the road everything is possible. The tribes live at war with one
another and respect for human life is non-existent. It would have been
as much as our lives were worth to travel an hour after darkness. But
during the daylight an armed party inspires a certain respect.

The men physically are probably the handsomest in Europe. I have never
seen anywhere such beautiful children as those of the Albanians. Not
one in a hundred knows how to read or write or has even been more than
twenty miles from home.

It was through such a country the Serbians had to transport soldiers,
and that with the Germans and the Bulgarians in close pursuit.

The last stages of the march were probably the hardest, as fodder for
the animals and food for the men was practically unprocurable. Money
difficulties also increased daily, the Albanians refusing to accept
Serbian script at any rate of exchange. They would, however, give food
and lodgings for articles of clothing, shirts, underwear, socks and
boots. On the last stage we had, therefore, to resort to the primitive
system of barter, buying a night's lodging with a shirt and a meal with
a pair of socks.


IX--WOLVES LIVING ON CARCASSES IN MOUNTAIN PASSES

In the mountains just before Puka I discovered the first trace of
wolves. The carcasses of dead horses, which were now numbered by
scores, showed signs of having been torn by them. A part of the French
aviation corps, which was preceding us, got lost in the snow and
darkness, and had to spend the night in the open without protection.
A dozen were frostbitten, but no fatal casualties. After six days we
finally reached the Drina again, a swiftly flowing stream.

Thence the march to Scutari may be summed up in the word mud--mud of
the deepest and most tenacious kind, sometimes only reaching to the
ankles, sometimes to the knees, but it was always there.

The twenty-five miles between the Drina ferry and Scutari represents
physical effort of no mean order. It was the finish for scores of
unfortunate pack horses. During the last two days they got practically
no food. On these days we found dead horses every hundred yards. When
at last, at 4 in the afternoon, we came in sight of the towers and
minarets of Scutaria every one heaved a sigh of relief. The streets
presented a wonderful sight, being thronged with Serbian soldiers,
mixed with French aviators, men of the French and Serbian medical staff
and scores of the Red Cross unit--British, French, Russian and Greek.

Scutari's normal population of 40,000 had been increased by 100,000
Serbian and other refugees. Food was running scarce, and there were
practically no accommodations. The unfortunate diplomatic corps was
scattered all over in such lodgings as could be found for it. The
headquarters staff took possession of the Hotel De la Ville. I learned
the Danube division, which had entered Albania by Montenegro, had
performed the miracle of saving part of its field artillery.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fate of Serbia was worse than that of Belgium, for to King
Albert's subjects there always remained France, England and Holland
as havens of refuge. For King Peter's people there was none. On the
one hand, the inhospitable mountains of Montenegro offered a barrier
which the starving people were powerless to cross. On the other was
the desolation of the snow-capped peaks of Albania, with a population
sullenly hostile to Serbia and everything Serbian.

But even if they had been willing to welcome them with open arms
they could not have helped them, as the mountaineers of Albania live
themselves all their lives on the ragged edge of starvation. The
catastrophe, therefore, was beyond human aid, and Serbia had to drink
the cup of bitterness to the dregs and witness the foundering of all
that was left of her manhood and national wealth. It was the death
agony of one of the bravest nations in Europe, of a people who had for
five long years fought four victorious wars for its national existence,
and at last succumbed to a combination of forces three times stronger
than itself.




TALES OF THE TANKS--WITH THE ARMORED MONSTERS IN BATTLE

_Adventures as Romantic as Mediaeval Legends_

_Told by the Men in the Tanks_

  Here are four tales as strange as "Arabian Nights" direct from the
  great battles of the Somme. It was on these battlegrounds that
  armored monsters plunged into the enemies' ranks, spitting flame
  and death, and creating consternation among the German soldiers.
  These armored tractors are an American invention. While the huge
  death-machines were constructed in England, they were built on
  plans from the United States. It was for divulging secrets about
  these tractors that Mlle. Mata Hari, the Dutch-Javanese dancer, was
  arrested in Paris as a spy and sentenced to execution.


I--STORY OF A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN IN A TANK ON THE BATTLEFIELD

Monday.--Out for first time. Strange sensation. Worse than being in a
submarine. At first unable to see anything but imagined a lot. Bullets
began to rain like hailstones on a galvanized roof at first, then like
a series of hammer blows. We passed through it all unscathed.

Suddenly we gave a terrible lurch. I thought we were booked through.
Lookout said we were astride an enemy trench. "Give them hell!" was the
order. We gave them it. Our guns raked and swept trenches right and
left.

Got a peep at frightened Huns. It was grimly humorous. They tried to
bolt like scared rabbits, but were shot down in bunches before getting
to their burrows. Machine guns brought forward. Started vicious rattle
on our "hide." Not the least impression was made. Shells began to
burst. We moved on and overtook some more frightened Huns. Cut their
ranks to ribbons with our fire.

They ran like men possessed. Officer tried to rally them. They awaited
our coming for a while. As soon as our guns began to spit at them they
were off once more. Infantry rounded them up and survivors surrendered.
Very curious about us. Stood open mouthed and wide eyed watching, but
weren't much the wiser.

Experience was not altogether pleasant at first. Tank sickness is as
bad as sea sickness until you get used to it.

Tuesday.--Off for another cruise. Peppering begun at once. Thought
old thing was going to be drowned in shower of bullets. Things quiet
down quickly. Silly blighters thought they could rush the tank like
they would a fort. Dashed up from all sides. We fired at them point
blank. Devilish plucky chaps some of them, for all their madness. The
survivors had another try. We spat at them venomously. More of them
went down.

The blessed old tub gave a sudden jerk. God in heaven, thought I, it's
goodby to earth; but it wasn't. Only some Hun dead and wounded we had
skidded into. The rain of bullets resumed. It was like as if hundreds
of rivets were being hammered into the hide of the tank. We rushed
through. Soon the music had charms, and we got to like the regular
rhythm of it.

Suddenly a jolt, and our hearts jolted in our mouths in sympathy.
Nothing doing in the mishap line. Only some unwonted obstacle. Heavier
"strumming" on our keyboard outside, and more regular. Machine guns at
it now. Straddled on as though we like it. A tremendous thud. The whole
outfit seemed done for. Nearly jumped out of my skin. Looked at each
other and wondered what it was. Still a roof over our heads, thank God.

Wednesday.--Early start. Roughest voyage yet. Waves of fire seemed to
break over us. Tremendous crash. Then another, and several others at
intervals. Silence for a time. Party of Huns came to meet us outside
the village. Very stout old gentleman in front. Thought it was the
Mayor and village bigpots to give us a civic welcome. Mistaken. They
meant to give warm reception, but not as we understood the word. Let
fly with machine guns. Then tried silly boarding tactics. We laughed.
Our guns answered theirs.

Tank reception committee dispersed in a cloud of smoke and flame; no
trailing clouds of glory. Fat old gentleman only visible member of
deputation. Stood openmouthed. Purple with rage. Tank bore down. Old
gent started to run. Funnier than a sack race. Old gent flung himself
to earth with many signs to surrender.

Thursday.--Got into the village, and passed down between two irregular
rows of wrecked houses. Hundreds of Huns came rushing up from cellars
and from behind ruins to see us. Some had eyes staring out of head.
Looked surprised and even frightened.

One blighter made a rush at us with a clubbed rifle. Made a terrible
swipe at the tank. Smashed his rifle, and made a nasty noise on our
roof. Hurt himself more than he hurt us. Off for a joy ride after some
nice Huns who took to flight as we came up.

Friday.--Early afloat. Usual showers of bullets and a few shells on
the way. Got right across a trench. Made the sparks fly. Went along
parapet routing out Huns everywhere. Enemy terrified. Tried to run, but
couldn't keep it up under our fire. Threw up the sponge and surrendered
in batches.

One cheeky chap said he didn't think it was fair to fight with such
things. We said that was our affair, and we could stand the racket
Germany cared to make over it. Asked one chap if the thought we should
have got permission from the Kaiser before using them. Didn't see the
joke. Took about two hundred prisoners. Killed and wounded as many
more. Tired out when through.

Saturday.--On the move before breakfast. Terrible crash on first go
off. Thought we had collided with a wandering world. Weathered the
storm. Got busy on enemy trenches. Rare good sport. Enemy tried a
surprise for infantry--Yorkshiremen--advancing to attack. We tried a
surprise, too, and ours came off first. Huns weren't pleased. Didn't
think it was playing the game according to Potsdam rules.

We waddled into their ambush for the attacking troops. Never saw men
so frightened. Fled panic-stricken in all directions. Only a few chaps
stayed behind and tried to stop us by machine gun fire. Smashed them to
bits and left their machine guns to be picked up by the Yorkshiremen
they hoped to surprise.

Went snorting after the enemy wherever we could find them. Their losses
were terrible. Later strong detachments tried to make their way back,
supported by big guns. Lined up across the road and gave them hot time.
Every time they tried to rush through we ripped their ranks to bits. At
last they gave it up. Very wise.

Sunday.--Good work of frightening Huns continued. Better day, better
deed. Fritz didn't think that. Blighters opened rifle fire on us at two
hundred yards. It went like water off a duck's back. Fritz couldn't
make it out. Kept up the fire, but got a bit nervy as the blessed old
thing kept waddling up to him. Ladled out death as you might vamp out
indifferent music from a hurdy-gurdy.

Fritz got fits. No fight left in him. Prisoners scared to death. Some
of them acted as though they believed that we used our tanks for making
sausages out of prisoners. We had a lot of trouble explaining that
once they surrendered they were safe.

Finished an exciting week. Got plenty of fun, but one wants a good rest
after a spell with a tank.


II--STORY OF THE TANKS THAT STORMED A CASTLE

_Told by Philip Gibbs, War Correspondent, in France_

After the battle of Flanders the tank pilots have been able to tell the
tale of their adventures after a spell of rest, badly needed by the
young men, who crawled out of their steel boxes speechless, bruised and
dazed.

For seventeen hours one of the tank pilots and his crew stayed out,
fighting all the time, and for twenty-four hours another crew went
through, not with incessant fighting, but bogged and unbogged, and
struggling on and getting into action and slouching back after a good
record of achievement.

The tanks have justified themselves again and won their spurs--spurs as
big as gridirons.

In the battle of Flanders they had plenty of chance to show what they
could do. The way of the allied advance was hindered by a number of
little concrete forts built in the ruins of farmsteads, which had
withstood the British gunfire. At Plum Farm and Apple Villa and in
the stronger and more elaborate fortified points like Frezenberg and
Pommern Castle and Pommern Redoubt the German machine gunners held out
when everything about them was chaos and death, and played a barrage of
bullets on the advancing Allies. Platoons and half platoons attacked
them in detail at great cost of life, and it was in such places that
the tanks were of the most advantage.

It was at Pommern Castle, east of St. Julien, that one of the tanks
did its best. Do not imagine the castle as a kind of structure with
big walls and portcullis and high turrets, but slabs of concrete in a
huddle of sandbags above a nest of deep dugouts. On the other side of
it was Pommern Redoubt, of the same style of defense.

The British were fighting hard for the castle and having a bad time
under its fire. A tank came to help them and advanced under the swish
of bullets to the German emplacements, lurching up the piled bags over
the heaped-up earth and squatting on the top like a grotesque creature
playing the old game of "I'm king of the castle. Get down, you dirty
rascals."

The "dirty rascals," who were German soldiers, unshaven and uncovered
in the wet mud, did not like the look of their visitors, who were
firing with great ferocity. They fled to the cover of Pommern Redoubt,
beyond. Then the tank moved back to let the infantry get in, but as
soon as it turned its back the Germans, with renewed pluck, took
possession of the castle again.

The men who were fighting round about again gave the signal to the tank
to "get busy" so it came back, and, with the infantry on its flanks,
made another assault, so that the Germans fled again.

The Pommern Redoubt was attacked in the same way, with good help from
the tanks.

Frezenberg Redoubt was another place where the tanks were helpful, and
they did good work at Westhoek.

One of them attacked and helped to capture a strong point west of St.
Julien from which a good many Germans came out to surrender. Afterward
some tanks went through the village, but they had to get out again in a
hurry to escape capture in the German counterattacks.

It was not easy to get back in a hurry, as by that hour in the
afternoon the rain had turned the ground to a swamp and the tanks
sank deep in it with the wet mud half-way up their flanks and slipped
and slithered back when they tried to struggle out. Many of the
officers and crew had to get out of their steel forts, risking the
heavy shelling and machine-gun fire, to dig their way out; and in the
neighborhood of St. Julien they worked for two hours in the open to
debog their tank, while the Germans tried to destroy them by direct
hits.

In a farm somewhere in this neighborhood no fewer than sixty Germans
came out with their hands up in surrender as soon as a tank was at
close quarters. The story is told that at another place the mere threat
of a tank's approach was enough to decide a party of eight to give in.
It is certain beyond all doubt that the German infantry has great fear
of the "beasts."

In this battle there was not a single case of attack upon a tank by
infantry, although we know that they have been training behind their
lines with dummy tanks, according to definite rules laid down by the
German command.

One fight did take place with a tank, and it was surely the most
fantastic duel that had happened in the war. It was queer enough, as I
described a day or two ago when one of the British airmen flew over a
motor car and engaged in a revolver duel with the German officer, but
even that strange picture is less weird than when a German airplane
flew low over a tank and tried to put out its "eyes" by a burst of
machine gun bullets.

Imagine the scene, that muddy monster, crawling through the slime
with sharp stabs of fire coming from its flanks and above an engine
with wings, swooping round and about it like an angry albatross and
spattering its armor with bullets. It was an unequal fight, for the
tank just ignored that waspish machine-gun fire and went on its way
with only a scratch or two.

The tanks were in action around the marshes and woodlands by Shrewsbury
Forest. Here there was very severe infantry fighting and the Germans
made desperate resistance, followed by many counterattacks, so that the
progress of the British was slow and difficult and the tanks helped
them as best they could.

One trouble of the tanks is their limited vision, and this and the
darkness before the battle were the cause of an unexpected collision,
which adds to the strange history of the mechanical monsters, so that
it is all beyond the wildest flight of imagination.

One of the tanks was crawling up to get into position for attack, and
unaware that it was bearing steadily down upon one of those light
railway engines which I saw steaming along in the centre of the Ypres
salient on the morning of battle. It was grunting and whistling so that
it could be heard a mile away, but not a sound of it came to the ears
of the pilot and the crew in the tank, where their engine also was
laboring with rattle of steel. The tank bore on through the darkness
and its mighty battering ram hit the light engine fair and square
and knocked it off the rails. There were explanations and apologies
and much tugging and heaving with all the powers of a tank before
the engine was righted again and went on its way. (Told in _New York
Times_--Copyright, 1917.)


III--STORY OF THE TANK THAT FOUGHT A RAILROAD ENGINE

_Told to the Montreal (Canada) "Herald and Star"_

"Hi, Bodger! Just keep clear of my weighing machine! It's only up to a
quarter of a ton, and I'm not taking any risks."

Temporary Captain Bodger, R.G.A., turned sadly away from the Ration
Depot and lumbered back to his howitzers. He was an excellent officer,
and his 8 in. shells reached their address in Bocheland with the
precision of a postal delivery. But he weighed 280 pounds, and his
girth was threatening his career.

Only yesterday he had walked five miles to a field artillery observing
station in the trenches, whence he was to range on a new German
redoubt, and had ignominiously failed to get through the tunnel. A
party of grinning Tommies had taken 40 minutes to enlarge the entrance
for him; the subaltern to whom the observation post belonged had
complained of his attracting the attention of the enemy's airmen by
waiting outside, and the general, who unfortunately went by, had
regarded him with a send-him-to-the-base look in his eye. Something
must be done, but what?

Bodger had a light lunch of three chops and a plate of ham, trifled
with some suet pudding and cheese, and ordered a second bottle of
beer to assist his meditations. But the only idea that emerged was
a transfer to Coast Defence, and this involved boat work, which his
stomach loathed. With a regretful glance at the empty bottles, he went
back to his work.

But in the meantime an intelligence of a higher order had been shaping
his destinies. The Army commander, hearing the tale of the tunnel
and the observation post, had remarked: "Sound gunner, is he? No use
sending him to the Transport; lorries are overloaded already. There's
one thing in this Army that's up to his weight, and that's a tank.
Shift him over, will you?"

When the great man spoke things moved quickly, and in the battery
Bodger met an orderly with a "memo," directing him to report at once
to H. M. landship _Mastodon_ for instruction. The _Mastodon_ was a
new ship. Her commander, a cavalry major, was pleased to get a good
gunnery man who was also useful as shifting ballast. Bodger took kindly
to his new duties, and the tank steered sweetly under his sympathetic
hand.

A week later the _Mastodon_ took part in a minor push--a little affair
of straightening the line.

There was a parapet to get over, and the _Mastodon_, according to
custom, cocked up her tail and charged it.

Now if things had gone right the tail should have come down with a
whump, throwing her nose up, and she should have cleared the bank like
a porpoise jumping. But the glue-like mud piled under her belly, her
tail remained up, her nose down, and she hit the face of the bank with
a bump like a luggage train in collision. She backed out, but her tail
remained high in air.

It was then that Bodger first distinguished himself. He squeezed
through a door. Heedless of the bullets which hummed round him, he
swarmed up the tail with the determination of a bull walrus and sat on
the end of it. There was no mistake about the tail coming down this
time. The _Mastodon_ charged again, nose well up, and got over the
bank, kicking up a shower of clods behind her.

Bodger stuck to his perch, though the shell-splinters whanged on the
armour, and got off with nothing worse than a chipped ear. After this
he became a tank enthusiast, and when his major was promoted Admiral of
the Fleet and hoisted his flag in the _Mammoth_, Bodger succeeded to
the command of the _Mastodon_. He painted her in a beautiful chromatic
color-scheme, and fitted a larder and a cushioned beer-bin. He worked
up his crew at gunnery till they could hit a Boche parapet while
bumping across country. He enjoyed four solid meals a day and ceased to
repine at his increasing weight.

The Big Push came on, and Bodger's _Mastodon_ proved the smartest
landship in the fleet, while at gunnery she could have given points to
the _Excellent_. There came a day when we had pierced deeply into the
German lines, and with it came Bodger's chance, which has made his name
in the Land Fleet. He saw a locomotive half a mile in front dragging
off a couple of howitzers along a light railway, and, regardless of his
admiral's warning toots he made for it across the trenches.

Furious Germans tried to rush him as he ploughed through their lines
but he held the _Mastodon_ to her course, spouting flame on both
broadsides. Field guns were hurriedly turned on him, but the shells
missed or glanced from the armour. He headed off the locomotive by
a bare 50 fathoms, and, reversing his starboard chain, jockeyed the
_Mastodon_ sharply round to meet it.

Now when a 60-ton locomotive hauling double its weight of heavy
howitzer, meets a 100-ton tank, both all out, something is almost
certain to happen. This time it was the unexpected.

The antagonists stood on their tails, locked for a moment like
wrestlers, and then suddenly disappeared from view. The railway crossed
a hollow road at the point of encounter and the bridge had given way.
Down went the locomotive, wheels uppermost, with the _Mastodon_ on top
of it. The trucks with the monster howitzers lumbered up and pitched on
top of the heap. But the tank, though dented like an old tin can, was
little the worse, and the Germans, who expected to find a wreck, were
met by shells and machine-gun fire.

There was no holding our men that day, and they pressed on well
beyond the hollow road where the _Mastodon_ had "brought up." When
the leading battalion reached her they found Bodger lunching on deck,
with a dozen bottles of beer standing ready for his visitors. He was
asked to describe his trip across the German trenches, but preferred
to expatiate on the perfections of his cushioned beer-bin. "Only two
bottles broken, and I believe one of them had gone flat!"

A new 1,000-horsepower tank, carrying a 6 inch gun, is ready for
launching, and Bodger will command her. He is looking forward to
steering her through the streets of Berlin.


IV--STORY OF THE BATTLE MONSTERS AT FALL OF THIEPVAL

_Told by Percival Phillips, with British Army in France_

The capture of the greatest Prussian stronghold between the Ancre and
the Somme involved hard and bitter fighting. Nowhere on the western
front have the Prussian troops made stronger resistance against odds or
given greater trouble in their underground lairs, dugouts and tunnels.
We know now that the Prussian lines yielded many marvellous examples of
catacomb work beneath the hills and valleys of Northern France for the
shelter of their battalions. The British troops spoke to-day soberly
and impressively of scenes in the buried fortress that lies below the
blasted ridge.

Two "tanks" played an important part in the capture, but the greatest
"tank" story of the day concerns another part of the line--the capture
of Gueudecourt; and it is so unusual and so thrilling as to give it
precedence over the exploits at Thiepval. This "tank" killed three
hundred Prussians who tried to storm it.

The "tank" had assisted in cleaning up Gueudecourt, and infantry
followed in its wake through the village, cheering mightily. The
shallow cellar shelters held about four hundred prisoners, who gladly
gave themselves up, and the business at Gueudecourt was easily finished.

Then the "tank" started on a tour of its own in the direction of
a hostile trench beyond the town. Its progress was a signal for
other Prussian refugees lurking in the shell craters to signal their
submission to the advancing monster.

Majestically the "tank" wallowed forward amid the fluttering of
white handkerchiefs that dotted the field shell holes, and hastily
scooped out one man from his hiding place. These isolated ones would
have been made prisoners in the "tank," but it had neither time nor
accommodation. Bigger game lurked in the ground ahead.

It ambled on its lonely advance until a deep, broad fissure in the
tumbled earth made apparent the lodging place for many armed men.
The "tank's" intention was to sit astride of this trench as a kind
of deadly jest, calculated to fill any troops with horror and play
its machine guns freely about, but suddenly it halted its engines and
stopped.

Instantly the Prussians swarmed out of the earth and buzzed around the
"tank" like bees. You must give them credit for unusual courage, for
although hidden batteries rained bullets at them they made desperate
attempts to storm the travelling fort and to pierce its hide with rifle
fire and kill the crew within.

They might as well have attacked a battle ship with spades. The machine
guns whirled incessantly and the pile of dead Prussians grew steadily
around the monster, but still there were rushes by these foolish men,
who clambered to the steel roof and hoisted one another up in the hope
of finding loopholes or joints in the armor of the strange beast.

Some of them carried dead men on their shoulders before they themselves
were dropped by the hidden gunners. It was a fearful and indescribable
sight--this futile combat of men with machinery. The "tank" fought
stolidly.

Inside, the crew were filled with joy. Never in their wildest dreams
had they conceived the possibility of having Prussians crowding forward
to be killed. Never did gunners work their guns more heartily. All they
asked was for more Prussians.

The strange tumult drew the attention of the infantry engaged in
cleaning up odd corners throughout Gueudecourt. They ran to the rescue
of the "tank," but it did not need rescuing. It was quite happy. The
infantry took a hand and beat the Prussians off, or, rather, what was
left of them. They took a few discouraged prisoners from a field of
battle thick with corpses. At least three hundred Germans lay dead
around that "tank."




MY ESCAPE FROM THE TURKS DISGUISED AS A WOMAN

_The Story of a Wonderful Feat_

_Told by Private Miron D. Arber, Army Service Corps_

  Whilst living in Jaffa, Palestine, the author--a Russian
  subject--volunteered to join the British Red Cross, but before he
  could leave, Turkey declared war, and he was arrested and sent to
  a prison camp in the interior. From this dreary place he made his
  escape, and, cleverly disguised as a Bedouin woman, actually crossed
  the terrible desert of Sinai, a distance of two hundred miles, to the
  verge of the Suez Canal. On the banks of the Canal, when within an
  ace of regaining his liberty, he was seized by Turkish patrols and
  turned back into the desert. Sick at heart, he retraced his steps,
  secured another female disguise, and--let him tell his own story as
  he tells it in that thrilling journal of adventure, the _Wide World
  Magazine_.


I--"I WAS A RUSSIAN MEDICAL STUDENT IN PALESTINE"

Before the war I was a Russian medical student. On the outbreak of
hostilities between England and Germany I visited the British Consul at
Jaffa, in Palestine, where I was then residing, and after volunteering
for service with the British Red Cross obtained from him the necessary
documents to enable me to take up work with that organization. I was
most anxious to leave Palestine at once, as I feared what the Turks
might do; but to my dismay I was held up by the Customs authorities,
who discovered the official British papers in my pockets.

Just two days afterwards Turkey declared war, and the situation in
Jaffa became horrible. The Government confiscated all property
belonging to the Allies that they could lay hands upon, and its
officials raided the clothing establishments and commandeered the
whole stock of material. I even saw such articles as silks and women's
hosiery taken away by the Turkish officers--no doubt intended for their
wives. Proprietors of horse vehicles were deprived of their sole means
of livelihood by the ruthless confiscation of their animals and carts,
and all mules or camels found in the streets were also seized to carry
ammunition and stores to the Egyptian frontier. Such tradesmen as
cabinet-makers and metal-workers were forced to give their services for
nothing, and, failing prompt compliance, were thrown into prison, there
to remain under the most awful conditions. The Turks made a thorough
job of the looting; people in the streets were forcibly relieved of
any wearing apparel that had the slightest military use, and their
leggings, raincoats, and similar articles were annexed by the Turkish
officers. Houses were entered and robbed of bedding, mattresses, and
pillows for the benefit of Turkish wounded, and private dwellings
and public institutions alike--for example, the Anglo-Palestine
Bank--were systematically searched and valuables, money, and banknotes
confiscated. The Turk is a past-master in the art of looting.

Two days after the declaration of war orders were received from
Constantinople for the expulsion from Turkish territory of all subjects
of the Allies. Men, women, and children were accosted in the streets,
and proof of their nationality demanded. If belonging to one of the
Allied nations they were herded together and conveyed during the night
from Jaffa to Egypt in an Italian steamer. The sights witnessed were
most distressing, parents being separated from their children and
husbands from their wives. A number of small boats arrived during the
night to take the people out to the ship, it being impossible to bring
a large vessel close in. After the unfortunate refugees had been put
in the boats they were taken by the Arab boatmen about half-way to the
ship. Here the rowers rested on their oars and demanded large sums of
money before completing the journey. In many cases the poor folk were
unable to pay.


II--"I SAW ARABS AND TURKS ILL-TREAT THE NUNS"

In a certain hospital at Jaffa--this I know personally to be true--the
French nuns there, who had with unceasing care and attention devoted
themselves to sick and needy Arabs and Turks, were now rewarded for
their past unselfish labors by the grossest ill-treatment, being driven
out without any thought as to what was to become of them. One incident
in particular well depicts the atrocious treatment meted out to these
devoted women by the Turks. An old man who had been at this hospital
for twenty years told me that when German and Turkish commandants
visited the place they asked the French orderly why the sick Turkish
troops had no food to eat, to which he replied that there was no money
with which to obtain it. Thereupon these heartless officials ordered
the Frenchman to be seized and soundly flogged.

From now onward the position for subjects of the Allies became worse
and worse. Directly hostilities began, gendarmes came to our house and
took me away in the presence of my mother and sister. It was a terrible
parting, as may be easily imagined. The distress of the two women was
most pitiful, and I dreaded to think what their fate might be when
left unprotected. Because of the natural outburst of anger and sorrow
on their part, they were the recipients of further mental punishment
at the hands of my captors, one of whom threatened my mother with his
rifle in order to increase her terror, while another roughly pushed her
aside whilst I was hustled from the scene. In my anguish I struck one
of them, but they soon overpowered me and dragged me off.

This was the beginning of my sufferings. When I arrived at the
Government buildings with my escort I was told that I was a prisoner
of war and was about to be sent away. I was, however, allowed to bid
good-bye to my mother and sister, who had followed me there. Afterwards
I was carefully searched, permission being refused me to take away any
luggage whatever. From early in the morning until ten o'clock at night
I was guarded in these buildings; then, a number of other prisoners of
war having arrived, we were all taken outside and placed upon donkeys.
An escort surrounded us, and we set off inland. We marched away along
a route which, fortunately, was already well known to me, for as a
tourist in the happy days of peace I had traversed it many times
previously.

At three o'clock the next morning we arrived at an Arab village, where
we rested until nine o'clock, when breakfast was served. This consisted
of Arab bread--prepared in a couple of minutes from water, flour, and
salt--and a small piece of cheese. The inhabitants of this village
pelted us with stones and subjected us to most insulting and abusive
language.


III--"I WAS TAKEN PRISONER TO AN ARAB HUT AT BEERSHEBA"

After breakfast our journey was continued until the afternoon, when
we halted until eight o'clock. Then we started off again, reaching a
place called Ber Sheba, or Beersheba, about sixty miles from Jaffa, by
the following morning. Here we were all separated, and I was taken to
an Arab hut and given a straw mattress to lie on and a filthy blanket
to cover me. The same meagre fare--native bread and a small piece
of cheese--was again served out to me, and I was left alone. After
spending two days and nights in this wretched shelter I was removed
to another, which I fully made up my mind was to be the last ere I
attempted my escape, which I was continually thinking about.

The stretch of ground allotted to the prisoners-of-war camps was
surrounded by a barbed-wire fence some twelve feet high, having only
one gateway. The camp consisted of about twenty-five huts, the bulk of
these being for the accommodation of the prisoners, and the remainder
for the soldiers. Posted to every four of these buildings was a guard
consisting of several sentries, stationed at a distance of from twenty
to thirty yards from the buildings. Every Friday it was the custom for
the soldiers--who were, of course, Mohammedans--to attend the mosque,
and on these occasions but few sentries were left to guard the camp;
the gate was also allowed to stand open. I therefore decided that, when
I had worked out a plan of escape, I would choose a Friday on which to
attempt it.

In the camp I had the good fortune to come in contact with other
prisoners of war, who generously gave me some of their money, of which
I stood in great need, for I knew that money would be absolutely
necessary to aid my escape. After a short time, having received various
small amounts in this way, I accumulated quite a useful sum.

Although the food was wretched and the accommodation miserable, I must
state in fairness that I received much kindness from different Turkish
officers, who, perceiving that I was sad and anxious, had compassion
on me and tried to console me. When the German officers, however, with
their renowned _kultur_, came to know this, they became enraged, and
forbade the officers to have anything to do with me. There was much bad
feeling, by the way, between the Turks and the Germans, because while
the latter enjoyed plenty of luxuries, the former entirely lacked them,
and received pay which was totally inadequate to their needs.

About this time many wounded soldiers began to arrive at Ber Sheba from
the Egyptian frontier, where, it was very evident, there was "something
doing." They were conveyed to our camp in large baskets--each capable
of holding ten wounded--slung upon the backs of camels. On arrival at
the village, half of the unfortunate occupants were usually dead or
dying as the result of the shaking and jostling occasioned by this
crude method of transport. As it became known that I was a medical
student, my services were utilized, and I attended to the wounded in
the hospital. One might have thought this would have secured me better
treatment, but as a matter of fact I was brutally ill-used, somebody
whom I had offended reporting to the officer commanding that I knocked
the wounded about! This ended my hospital career, and I was at once
placed under arrest and confined to my hut again. The food provided now
consisted of rice, meat, and bread, all served together in a bowl. This
latter turned out to be the bowl of fortune for me, for it occurred to
me that it would make an excellent improvised implement for removing
the earth beneath the wall of my hut, thus providing me with a means of
exit when the time came for my "flitting."


IV--"MY PLAN TO FLEE OVER SINAI DESERT TO SUEZ CANAL"

Night and day I brooded over the problem of escape. My original idea
was to elude the vigilance of the guards and get out of the camp
through its solitary gate, open on Fridays only. Once outside, I
intended to proceed to Jaffa, and somehow get on board a ship there.
This plan, however, I had to abandon, for a newly-arrived prisoner of
whom I made inquiries informed me that there was no boat available
at that port. I had, therefore, no alternative but to choose the
crossing of the terrible Sinai Desert to the Suez Canal, a distance of
approximately two hundred miles. This was a sufficiently formidable
undertaking, but even though I risked dying of exhaustion or thirst
on the way I determined to try it, if I got the chance, sooner than
endure the misery of my life in the camp. By journeying that way I
thought I might be able to give the British authorities in Egypt useful
information concerning the Turks.

It was obvious to me, of course, that I could not hope to cross the
desert, through a region that was full of Turkish soldiers, in my own
character--such an enterprise would have been sheer madness. I decided,
after much consideration, that my best plan would be to disguise myself
as a Bedouin woman.

Let me explain exactly why I chose to take on a female _rôle_--a
very difficult one for most men to sustain. Before the war I had
impersonated women on many occasions, both on the theatrical stage and
on concert platforms in Russia and Turkey--where I appeared under the
name of "Valia Pavlov"--in aid of charity. For example, although I had
only seen her twice in France, I quite satisfactorily impersonated
Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. I can successfully imitate a woman in walking,
speaking, and singing, my face, figure and soprano voice lending
themselves admirably for these purposes. I knew, moreover, that a woman
would be less suspected than a man, would not be closely questioned,
and would have more freedom. In other words, there would be less chance
of detection.

Now it is easy enough for a prisoner to decide that he will escape
disguised as a woman; the difficulty is to put the plan into execution.
But I knew what I was about, and I thought I saw my road to success,
though it was one that needed careful negotiation. Every day I was
allowed a few hours for exercise outside the camp, escorted, of course,
by my own particular guard. Having a good knowledge of Arabic, I had
the opportunity, while stretching my legs in this way, of conversing
with the Bedouins who dwelt in the neighborhood. The soldier who
accompanied me was, fortunately for me, quite ignorant of the language
of these people. This was a real stroke of good fortune, and materially
helped me in laying my plans. If I was to cross the desert in the guise
of a Bedouin woman I should need the assistance of these folk, and I
neglected no opportunity of making good friends of them. To this end
I gave them small sums of money from time to time, taking care not to
reveal to them in any way my intentions, for my knowledge of their
character led me to believe that, should I require any favor of them
later on, they would not refuse it to me, and so it turned out.

After a lot of preparatory work of this kind--most of it done under
the very nose of my unsuspecting guard--I finally selected the man
I thought could be relied upon to help me. He never for a moment
suspected my intention to escape, as I carefully explained to him that
I wanted to obtain an outfit of female attire to enable me to make a
journey to see a friend of mine who was a prisoner of war near the
Suez Canal. He swallowed my story in its entirety, and in his guileless
simplicity was convinced that I should return after accomplishing my
errand. He arranged to supply me, when I notified him that I was ready,
with a complete outfit "borrowed" from his wife, and to set me on my
way to Suez.

It was now "up to me" to devise a means of getting out of my hut and
clear of the camp. I have already mentioned my possession of a bowl,
with which I intended to dig a tunnel under the side of my hut. Let me
now describe the hut itself, in order that my position may be quite
clear.

My prison was constructed of wood and canvas, the form of the interior
being to all intents and purposes that of a bell-tent. The skin was of
canvas, lined with wood clamped together with stout iron strips. There
was a door to the hut, with a strong lock, in which the key was turned
upon me after every visit from my guard--twice to three times daily.
Directly I had fixed things up with the Bedouin I started digging my
tunnel. Sometimes the sentry disturbed me during my excavations, but
as I was always on the alert, his approach, followed by the click of
the key in the lock, gave me sufficient warning to fling my mattress
quickly over the hole, take my seat on a box, and look up calmly when
he entered, thus avoiding rousing his suspicions. There was little
danger to be apprehended from the outside, owing to the great height of
the grass and weeds which grew all around the hut. Scraping laboriously
with my precious bowl, distributing the scooped-up material carefully
over the earthern floor of the hut so as not to attract attention, and
on the _qui vive_ night and day, I worked at my burrow for three whole
days. The tension I underwent during this period, and the constant
anxiety that tortured me, are quite indescribable. I worked like a
fiend; I had fully determined that I would not remain in the camp any
longer even though death waited for me outside.


V--"I MAKE MY ESCAPE DISGUISED AS A BEDOUIN WOMAN"

My tunnel being completed, I fixed the hour of departure with my
Bedouin friend, arranging for him to be waiting at a specified spot
about two hundred yards away. The time appointed was in the dead of
night--at 12.30 A.M., to be exact--and as the hour approached
I worked myself into a feverish state of excitement. I became terribly
nervous, thinking of the risk I was about to take and the journey that
awaited me if I got free. I realized, almost for the first time, the
manifold difficulties of my enterprise, and I told myself I was only
going to my doom. Then, as the hands of my watch moved steadily onward,
the reaction came, and I grew calm and confident. Courage was needed
to make this dash for freedom--well, I would show courage. The moment
for action came, and swiftly I removed the mattress that had hitherto
concealed my secret passage, put my head through the aperture, and
peeped out to survey my surroundings.

So terrible was the tension at that moment that the very grasses which
waved in the faint night breeze and the leaves that rustled in the
trees caused me to start as though my plans had been discovered; I saw
myself, in my mind's eye, thrown back into my cage and subjected to all
the humiliating punishments and sufferings that would inevitably have
followed. So much was I overcome by my feelings at this moment that I
wept for very fear, and, kneeling down, prayed fervently to my Maker to
give me back the courage which I felt was leaving me and restore the
strength of mind and body that alone could see me safely through that
never-to-be-forgotten ordeal.

When the nerve-storm passed I quietly emerged from my hiding place and
crept silently away through the grass, making for the point where I was
to meet my Bedouin Good Samaritan. I passed through the open gateway
in the fence without accident, and arrived at the rendezvous quite
breathless. Thank Heaven! My friend was there, and to my surprise and
joy he had secured for me a camel, upon which I was to continue my
flight.

My joy at this first success is indescribable. There was no time to
be lost, however, so I speedily divested myself of my prison attire,
which, upon the advice of my Bedouin friend, I carefully buried. I then
dressed myself with all possible haste in the disguise my friend had
procured for me.

This consisted of a Bedouin dress of some blue-colored stuff with white
spots, and resembled an overall or woman's nightgown, secured around
the waist with a red sash. The head-dress was a small loose-fitting
green bonnet, which had stitched to it a cheap black cotton substitute
for woman's hair. Suspended from my ears were large brown polished
wooden earrings and droppers, and over all I threw loosely a large
piece of thin black veiling, resembling a shawl, which covered the
whole of my head, face, and figure, leaving only my eyes showing. My
feet were left quite bare. No facial make-up was necessary, my skin
being smooth and quite as brown as any Bedouin's. Being thoroughly
familiar, from my various impersonations, with the adjustment of a
woman's dress, I was able without difficulty to put this costume on in
the dark, and I was greatly helped by the fact that before the war my
parents had employed a Bedouin servant whose dresses I had worn on the
occasion of various carnivals.

The problem of shaving had already occurred to me, and fortunately
for my purpose, a very simple solution was available. I obtained some
powder which, after being mixed with water and applied to the face,
completely destroys the hair for the time being. This depilatory is in
common use amongst the Bedouins, Arabs, and Turks for the removal of
hair, whether from the body or face. My toilet being completed, I rose
to my feet--looking to all appearance a typical Bedouin woman--and the
pair of us mounted the camel and rode steadily on for fifteen hours
to a place called Wad-el-Arish. Our rations during that long, weary
journey consisted of onions, bread, and a few dates.

Upon arrival at Wad-el-Arish my good friend and I parted company,
for he feared to accompany me farther lest he should run into
danger, as there would be great risk for him in passing that way by
reason of the troops journeying in the same direction. I used all my
powers of persuasion to induce him to continue with me, assuring him
optimistically that no harm would come to him, but despite all my
efforts to allay his fears, he declined. Ere we parted, he bestowed
on me such good things as he was able to spare for my comfort and
sustenance during my travels, giving me a flask of water, dry bread,
and dates. Then, after a hearty farewell, he retraced his steps, riding
the camel, while I continued alone on foot, following the track left by
the troops who were journeying across the desert.


VI--"I MEET A PACK OF HUNGRY JACKALS IN THE DESERT"

My first day in the desert was a hot and tiring one, but in spite of
the discomfort I continued to walk on until the evening, never losing
sight of the soldiers and camels far ahead. When darkness fell I
settled down on the sand for the night with only a dirty blanket for my
covering, the desert for my bed, and the heavens to shelter me.

With the coming of dawn I was on my way again. The second and third
days, being uneventful, call for no description; but I recollect
that, on the fourth day, I was accosted by several Turkish patrols,
who endeavored to question me. A happy thought struck me, and I kept
silent, simply motioning to them with my fingers, giving them the
impression that I was deaf and dumb, and therefore an object of pity.
I knew only too well the nature of these Mohammedans--fanatical in the
extreme, pitying only the afflicted and maimed of their own caste. Had
I been a _real_ woman, I should have been terribly afraid of some of
these ruffianly fellows, but as it was I feared nothing but discovery,
and my pretence of being deaf and dumb gave me excellent protection.

When one or two of them seemed inclined to interfere with me, their
comrades, pitying me, shouted angrily: "Haram, haram! For the love of
God, don't touch her." With that they left me, and very thankfully I
went on my way.

By the fifth day my slender stock of provisions was running low, only
a few dates and a little bread remaining, but my good luck seemed
destined to continue, for I met with hospitality from some of the
soldiers I encountered, who gave me bread, dates, and water. About two
o'clock in the afternoon of the sixth day a terrible wind arose, and
the sandstorm which followed nearly blinded and choked me. I could do
nothing but crouch down and cover myself with my blanket as best I
could, remaining in that position until ten o'clock at night, when the
wind ceased. I continued my journey during the night so as to make up
for lost time, and to my horror was met by a pack of prowling jackals.
These beasts, when hungry, are dangerous to the solitary traveller,
and my alarm can well be imagined; but curiously enough the fear was
reciprocal, and the skulking brutes disappeared.

On the seventh day of my interminable journey I met an old Bedouin
riding on a camel, and was not long in fraternizing with him. After
paying him the customary compliments--not forgetting a little money,
that magic key to the Bedouin heart--I travelled with him for five
days, the pair of us riding together on his camel. This event, I
think, appealed to my sense of humor more than any other incident of
my escape. For five whole days and nights we were in each other's
company--yet the simple old fellow never discovered or even suspected
my secret. To him I was just simply a woman of his own race. He treated
me with respect, and, in his Bedouin way, even showed me kindness. I
laugh now when I think about it, and how startled he would have been
to learn the truth. He left me at the end of the fifth day, at a point
where our routes diverged, and once more I went on alone on foot.

On the twelfth day of my journey across the desert, what with the
hardship and the poor food, I began to get exhausted. I felt feverish
and deadly tired, but realized that I must not give way, and,
remembering how fortune had favored me hitherto, I determined to press
forward and reach the Canal as speedily as possible. I was plodding
doggedly on, a few hours later, when I sighted a party of mounted
gendarmes approaching, and the thought instantly flashed through my
mind that I was being chased; they would take me prisoner again, and
drag me back to be punished. The idea filled me with terror, but I
managed to evade them by concealing myself behind a hillock of sand,
where from sheer exhaustion and nerve-strain I fell fast asleep.

The thirteenth morning of my trip had dawned when I awoke, and I knew
that the journey was nearing its end. This was well for me, for I
was beginning to run short of food again, having only a little bread
and a few dates left, so I ate sparingly lest my stock should become
exhausted ere I reached my next resting-place.

Towards the close of my wanderings that day luck again befriended me,
for I chanced to meet a party of Bedouins encamped in the desert, and
they provided me with the now familiar fare of onions, salt, water, and
bread. Like the Turks, they had not the slightest suspicion that I was
other than I seemed.

From these people I learned definitely that my journey was nearing
completion; only one and half day's travel was needed, and it would
be ended. My anxiety seemed to increase during these last hours of my
pilgrimage, and many a time I almost succumbed from weakness, but I
forced myself to continue.

At last, to my joy, I perceived signs of some sort of civilization in
the distance--tents, soldiers, and all the miscellaneous equipment of
a Turkish army and its innumerable camp-followers. I trudged on and on
through this concourse, quite unchallenged--who would bother about a
poor deaf-mute Bedouin woman?--and eventually arrived near the Canal.
How excited I was at sight of it! How I longed to be on the other side!
On the opposite shore I could see soldiers, but I was too far away to
distinguish what troops they were.


VII--"TURKISH HORSEMEN FORCE ME BACK ACROSS THE DESERT"

On approaching nearer to the Canal I came to a place opposite El
Kantara, where some English soldiers on the farther bank pointed their
rifles at me and forced me to stop. Away behind me, at the top of a
slope, were some Turkish patrols on horseback, and to my dismay I saw
that they were watching me closely. I had hoped to get near enough to
the British to open up communication with them, but this now seemed out
of the question; directly I made a move in that direction the horsemen
would swoop down upon me.

Evidently I should have to wait for a better chance, so with a
sinking heart I walked towards the Turks, thinking that by adopting
an indifferent attitude I could dispel any suspicions I might have
aroused. I sat down as they approached me, and when questioned by them
explained that I was a Bedouin woman going to Egypt. (I thought it
advisable on this occasion not to keep up my pretence of being deaf and
dumb.) They told me roughly that this was impossible; there was a war
on, and Egypt was closed to strangers.

Then came the bombshell; they ordered me to return whence I came, and,
to make my departure certain, conducted me away from the camps and told
me not to let them see me wandering about again.

I do not like to dwell upon my feelings at that awful moment. Here
had I risked my life to escape, and spent many weary, anxious days
in crossing the desert, only to be turned back when actually in
sight of my goal, and almost within hail of British soldiers! It was
heart-breaking, maddening. I could hardly control myself as I went
slowly back into the desert, and I dared not think of what lay in store
for me. I might perish miserably in the sand-wastes, or I might stagger
on till I fell once more into the hands of my late keepers, who would
punish me savagely for my abortive escape.

There is a bright lining to the darkest cloud, however, and so I
discovered. I had not proceeded very far on my return journey when
I came across a party of Bedouins who, as luck would have it, were
travelling in the same direction. I promptly made friends with them,
and for a small sum of money they allowed me to ride on camel-back with
their wives, the journey to Ber Sheba taking about six days. Never
once did any of them suspect me. Undoubtedly my disguise was well-nigh
perfect, but it must also be remembered that the Bedouins are a simple
people, and the reverse of cultured, so that my task was tolerably easy.

Arrived at Ber Sheba once again, I bade good-bye to my new friends and
sought out my old Bedouin acquaintance at the place where he lived.
He was amazed to see me back so soon, and told me that the Turkish
authorities had been greatly perturbed over my escape, and were still
searching for me. It would be unsafe to remain, he told me, so I only
stopped with him a very short time.

It was obvious to me that it would be of no use to try the desert route
again, so I evolved a new plan. Leaving Ber Sheba, I made for a place
called Gaza, some thirty miles away, proceeding immediately after to
Jaffa, where I managed to exchange my Bedouin dress for that of a
European lady. I should here explain that I have found it necessary
at several points in my story not to go into details, and I must
also suppress the names of the kind friends who provided me with the
disguise. Sundry good people who helped me are still in Palestine, and
it might go hard with them if I gave any clue to their identity.


VIII--THE RESCUE--ON AN ITALIAN STEAMER TO EGYPT

When I reached Jaffa the Italian steamer _Catania_ had just arrived at
the port, and I promptly embarked upon her, despite the strict scrutiny
of a German female Customs official. She looked over all the women who
boarded the steamer, but she never dreamed for one moment that I was a
disguised man, and I passed on to the boat without question.

On the voyage I made friends with a lady refugee, and, finding that she
was to be trusted, confided my secret to her. This good woman helped
me out of my last difficulty by lending me a suit belonging to her
husband, to don directly I landed in Egypt. Oh! the delight of once
more resuming a man's attire and a man's ways of life!

Arrived in Egypt, and once more in my own proper person, I visited
the British military authorities at Alexandria, who referred me to
No. 5 Indian General Hospital at St. Stephano. Here, being a medical
student, I secured employment and remained for some time doing Red
Cross work under Colonel Pridmore, the officer commanding that
institution, to whom, and to Mrs. Pridmore, I am much indebted for many
kindnesses. Later I went to No. 2 Australian General Hospital at Cairo.
Subsequently I was transferred, at my own request, to London, where I
enlisted in the Army Service Corps and became a British soldier. Since
then I have had the pleasure of appearing before many thousands of my
soldier comrades as a female impersonator, amusing them with my songs
and the story of my adventures.

It is one thing to act the part of a woman for the sake of amusement;
it is quite another to do it in an attempt to secure one's liberty,
with death as the price of discovery.




TALES OF GERMAN AIR RAIDERS OVER LONDON AND PARIS

"_How We Drop Bombs on the Enemies' Cities_"

_Told by the Air Raiders Themselves_

  The first stirring sensations of the Great War, which aroused the
  imaginations of the people, were the sailing of the fleets of ships
  in the air and under the seas. The world was indeed startled when
  the squadrons of Zeppelins rose from Germany, crossed the seas,
  and hovered over England, dropping bombs on ports and cities, and
  hurling death from the clouds. Here are two stories of German raiders
  in which they tell how it feels to drop bombs from the skies on
  European capitals. The German authorities permitted the publication
  in a Hamburg newspaper of a very exciting and detailed account of a
  Zeppelin raid upon London by one of the crew of the airship. This
  account was designed to arouse the enthusiasm of the German nation
  for the daring and difficult work done by the Zeppelins, and to
  make them realize the havoc and terror they created in England. A
  translation of the narrative follows:


I--"HOW WE ZEPPELINED THE HEART OF LONDON"

_Told by Commander of a German Air Fleet_

Our Zeppelin received orders at 6 o'clock in the evening to fly from
our hangar in Belgium for an attack on London.

The giant airship slipped easily out of the long shed with noiseless
motors, and after rising to 8,000 feet, the altitude most suited for
steady flying, our captain steered by compass straight for London.

Our true German hearts beat high this night with the hope of doing some
great and irreparable damage to London....

Perhaps we should destroy their House of Parliament ... or their War
Office ... or the Foreign Office ... or the official dwellings of the
Prime Minister and the Chancellor of the Exchequer.... Well did I know
the location of all these places from my long residence in London.

Our commander said that a bomb dropped in a certain space of half a
square mile in London could hardly fail to destroy some person of great
importance in the official or wealthy classes of England.

Perhaps we might strike a school or a hospital or a party of women.
We should regret such accidents, but it is impossible to modify
our splendid and effective aerial warfare simply because innocent
combatants place themselves in the way of legitimate objects of
attack.... We know that London is a fortified city, and non-combatants
who remain there do so at their own peril.

The way had for months been prepared by previous aerial attacks and
reconnoissances for a more accurate and effective blow at the heart of
London. All lights, both street lamps and those in dwellings, have been
lowered by order of the English Government to a point that causes the
busiest thoroughfare at night to present only a dull glow a few hundred
yards away.

On the other hand, powerful searchlights operated in connection with
anti-aircraft guns, and other military works are kept constantly
playing on the sky in the search for our airships. If we can discover
the topographical position of these searchlights and batteries we can
establish the other principal centres of the city from them and throw
our bombs with some approach to accuracy--that is to say, we can at
least drop them on a quarter where we know that there are public
buildings or where important officials reside.

To establish the location of these points has been the work of our
earlier air reconnoissances, and as a result of this system our work
must become more and more deadly every day. We have, for instance,
found that powerful searchlights and batteries are operated at Woolwich
on the extreme eastern outskirts of London, at St. James's Park, which
is in the centre of the metropolis, at Hampstead Heath on the north,
and at the Crystal Palace, south of the Thames. The English are not
likely to move all these defensive points, and if one is moved and not
the others, the captain of the Zeppelin can discover the change by
reference to the other points.

As our Zeppelin can travel seventy miles an hour at its maximum, the
journey of a little more than two hundred miles from Belgium could be
performed in a few hours. Darkness was falling as we passed over the
stormy North Sea for we did not wish to be seen and reported by patrol
ships.

The cold was intense and could be felt through the fleece-lined
clothes and heavy felt shoes with which we were provided. Our Zeppelin
carried four tons of the most destructive explosives ever created by
science--sufficient to annihilate the heart of London, the greatest
city in the world. The amount was divided into forty bombs of 100
pounds each, and eighty of fifty pounds each. The larger bombs are
designed to destroy fortifications and heavy buildings. The smaller
ones are for the purpose of setting fire to houses, and contain an
explosive that develops a temperature of 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit.

We made out the mouth of the Thames from certain lightships and shore
lights that have been maintained. At about 10 o'clock we found a
powerful searchlight playing on us. This we knew from our information
to be Woolwich, the important English arsenal. As we no longer desired
to conceal our presence, we discharged ten of the larger bombs in the
vicinity of the searchlight.

The bombs are discharged from tubes pointing downward from a steel
plate in the floor of the airship. The bomb is furnished with a steel
handle, and by means of this it is lowered into the tube. A bolt
fitting into a hole in the bomb holds it in the tube. The marksman
presses his foot on an electric button in the plate in the floor of the
car and this withdraws the bolt, releasing the bombs. He can drop two
bombs at once if he wishes, and the third two seconds later.

The height at which the airship flies, its speed and the effects of
wind at present render impossible scientific aim in the sense that an
artillerist would use the term. Nevertheless a considerable degree of
effectiveness is attained by Zeppelin marksmen, while a poor marksman
may entirely waste his ammunition. To hit a mark half an acre in extent
is good marksmanship from a Zeppelin. In practice a regiment of wooden
dummies was set up in a field and one of our aerial marksmen succeeded
in wiping out the whole regiment.

If Zeppelin marksmanship is still rudimentary, the destructive
power of our bombs, on the other hand, is terrible beyond anything
dreamed of before this war. One of our 100-pound bombs striking
fairly will destroy any existing building not constructed purely as
a fortification. Even if it strikes in a street, it will dig a hole
a hundred feet deep, destroying gas pipes, electric wire conduits,
subways and any subterranean constructions that may be beneath the
surface. Thus the destruction and paralyzing of all life in a city can
be practically assured if we use sufficient bombs. Our bombardment of
Woolwich was followed by the extinction of the searchlight, and we
had reason to believe that we had inflicted serious damage at this
important centre.

We knew that in a few minutes we should be over the heart of London.
Our daring commander decided to sail very low, following the course of
the Thames which he knew would take him near all the objects he wished
to reach.

Suddenly the huge outline of a building loomed under our noses. Seen
against the dull, cloudy sky, it appeared colossal. We almost struck
it. It was a church! It was St. Paul's Cathedral! An instantaneous turn
of the elevating rudder saved us from a collision with the monstrous
dome. A few seconds more straight to the westward and we knew that we
were over the centre of official and fashionable London.

Our commander ordered the bombs discharged as fast as we could throw
them. The ship circled slowly round and round, peppering death on the
solar plexus of the British Empire.

Beneath us was the Strand, with its theatres and hotels, the House of
Parliament, the Government offices in Whitehall and Parliament street,
the residences of the aristocracy in Mayfair, the fashionable clubs
in Pall Mall, Buckingham Palace, the War Office, the Admiralty and
Westminster Abbey.

It was a night of terror for London! The searchlights and the guns
played upon us constantly. At night the anti-aircraft fighters use
shells that spread a long trail of luminous red smoke through the
darkness in order to mark the position of the airship for the other
gunners firing shrapnel. It was a grand and inconceivably weird
spectacle to watch the electric beams and the long red trails playing
about in the air, while shrapnel burst about us and our great bombs
exploded on the earth below with a glow that we could faintly discern.

It is exceedingly difficult for a gunner to hit an airship at a height
of 8,000 feet, or even lower. We enjoyed a feeling of tremendous power
and security. Our daring commander ordered our craft to circle lower
and lower in his determination to inflict the greatest possible injury
on the enemy.

At last we could see the outlines of buildings on the ground. Below us
was a great open square and in the centre a very high slender column.
It was the ... British monument to their noted Admiral Nelson standing
in the centre of Trafalgar Square.

"Give old Nelson a bomb!" roared our brave commander.

Down went a bomb aimed straight at the head of the one-eyed admiral.
The fervent wishes of every man in our crew went with it. Whether it
struck the mark time alone will show.

We had ventured too near the earth, and an unusually well-aimed shot
struck the forward part of our vessel. One of our mechanical experts,
in his anxiety to ascertain the nature of the damage, climbed out on
a stay, fell and was, of course, lost. That was our only casualty. We
found later that the shot had only penetrated one "ballonnet" and had
not interfered with our stability in any important degree.

Our commander threw the elevating rudders to their extreme upward
angle, and in a few minutes we were practically out of danger once
more. We threw all our supply of bombs upon London and then turned for
home again. Steering by compass and the stars for Belgium, we made the
return journey without mishap. The dawn was just breaking when we came
in sight of certain landmarks which guided us to our hangar.

There are certain details of the raid which I should not wish to
reveal, and could not reveal without making myself liable to the death
penalty. An attack by a Zeppelin is always accompanied by other air
craft, both dirigibles and aeroplanes, in order to give protection to
our capital airships and create confusion among the enemy. The English
never know whether they are firing at a Zeppelin or a semi-rigid
dirigible of similar shape, but comparatively small importance. These
are the scouting cruisers of the air. Moreover our raiding forces
split up in the darkness according to prearranged plans, thus causing
hopeless confusion among our terrestrial opponents, even if the
approaching attack has been reported to them in advance.


II--HOW IT FEELS TO DROP BOMBS ON PARIS

_Told by a Young German Aeronaut in a Letter to His Mother_

Dear Mother:

Thank God! After a veritable Odyssey, to-day at noon I again reached
my division. With much joy I was greeted on all sides, for, after a
four days' absence I was given up for lost. Dear little mother, I shall
tell you the story from the beginning. During the forenoon I went up
at D---- for the purpose of ascertaining the enemy's position at L----
and F----, and to take notes on their movements. Ober-Lieutenant K----
went along as observer, and my biplane soon carried us to a height
of about 800 metres above the enemy's position, which was sketched
and photographed time and again. As expected, we were soon the object
of a lively firing, and several times I felt a well-known trembling
in the machine--a sign that a shot had hit one of the wings. After a
three-hour flight we were able to give our reports to General Herringen
at headquarters. He praised us warmly and ordered that we be served a
roast chicken and he gave us some fine Havana cigars.

As I was again preparing my aeroplane in the afternoon, with the help
of several chauffeurs, who filled the benzine tank, and as I was
patching the four bullet holes with linen, a Bavarian officer told me
that he would like to observe the retreat of the English from the large
pike toward M----. I prepared my machine immediately, and around 4
o'clock, with Major G----, I went up. By following the streets it was
soon evident that the English retreat was without plan or order, but to
all appearances the troops wanted to reach fortified positions as fast
as they could. Perhaps they would flee all the way to Paris.

Paris! The Bavarian officer shrieking something to me. Though the motor
almost drowned, I understood what he meant. I glanced at the benzine
indicator. I possessed sufficient oil. Paris it would be!

Steering toward the south, we journeyed for half an hour, and then out
of the distance, far, far below, the gray stone housetops of the French
capital took shape. Something impelled me to increase our speed, and we
raced toward the city at seventy miles an hour. Incredibly fast Paris
becomes clearer and more distinct.

The chain of the forts St. Denis! Montmartre stands out through the
mist! The iron pillars of the Eifel Tower!... We are directly above
Paris. The major points below with his finger; then he slowly turns to
me, raises himself from his seat and shouts, "Hurrah!"

And I? From sheer joy, mother, I nearly went out of my mind. I began to
make the wildest circles in the air. I felt I could do anything. There
the white Sacred Heart Church, here the Gare du Nord, there Notre Dame,
there the old "Boul Mich," where as a student I had so often caroused
and which now, as conqueror, I soared above.

The heart of the enemy seemed defenseless; the proud, gleaming Seine
lay below me. Everything horrible which I always thought of Paris as
possessing vanished--only an impression of the wonderful and the great
remained; and I loved Paris more as a conqueror.

Over the housetops I swung in great circles. Little dots in the streets
showed me that crowds were gathering. They could not understand
how a German could handle the French invention more skilfully and
advantageously than the French themselves. They began to shoot at us.
It was fine. They were very bad shots. I felt like dropping a bomb--not
to kill them, but simply to see something blown up. Then from the
direction of Juvisy came a French monoplane. As it was more swift
than my biplane, I had to turn and try to escape. My Bavarian comrade
prepared my rifle and seized his pistol. The Frenchman approached
closer and closer. I attempted to reach the protecting clouds at 6,000
feet, but my pursuer flew swifter than we, ever nearer and nearer.
Suddenly I became aware of a second monoplane only 500 yards away.
It attempted to block my path. We had to act. I shot at the airman
ahead of us. Then a turn and the Major took aim. He shot once, twice,
three times. The enemy's machine, which was now next to us only 100
yards away, toppled, tilted upward, and then fell to the ground like
a stone. But our other pursuer was almost on top of us and shot at us
with pistols. Close to the gas lever a bullet hit the fuselage. Then
impenetrable fog concealed us from the enemy. I could hear the buzz of
his motor grow fainter and fainter.

When we again emerged from this gray ocean of clouds it was twilight.
But suddenly, before, behind and on the sides, white smoke clouds
appeared bursting shrapnel. Still flying above the enemy's position,
we were directly exposed to their artillery fire. Devil with it! The
fire grew worse. I knew from the little trembles that the machine
was getting blow upon blow, but it never entered my mind that those
shrapnel balls meant death to me. Something in man remains unmoved by
logic and knowledge--especially when you're in the air. There, of a
sudden, a white-yellow fire in front of me. The machine reared up. The
major seemed to reel to his feet. Blood was pouring from his shoulder.
The covering of the wings was tattered. The motor buzzed and roared as
before, but the screw was missing. A grenat shattered our propellor,
but, thank heaven, did no worse. My machine began sinking to earth. I
succeeded in gliding and threw the biplane down into the woods. The
branches and tree tops crashed to splinters. I struck the steering gear
and then was no longer aware of what went on around me. When I again
became conscious I was lying next to Major G. on the forest ground
surrounded by a group of German reservists. Recognizing the machine,
they had forced themselves into the forest in small numbers to save us.
Major G. had to be removed to the nearest hospital. I only received a
crushed leg.

  YOUR AFFECTIONATE SON.

(The two foregoing stories are here retold by permission of the _New
York American_, to whom they were sent from Germany.)




TALES FROM SIBERIA--WHEN THE PRISON DOORS OPENED

_Journey Home of a Hundred Thousand Exiles_

_Told by (name withheld), an Eye-Witness_


I--"RUSSIA IS A REPUBLIC--YOU ARE FREE"

The exiles in the Irkutsk prisons were watching eight fellow prisoners
who were being flogged. Suddenly, in the doorway, an official appeared.
It was the Provincial State Attorney. There was a look of great tidings
in his face.

"Russia is a republic," he cried. "You are free."

The news of the revolution had reached across the vast stretches of
Siberia. It was a moment of tense excitement. Bewilderment and then
jubilation beset the exiles. An hour later began one of the strangest
spectacles in modern history--the exodus from Siberia. It is estimated
that a hundred thousand political exiles began their race back to
Russia.

Traveling from the most inaccessible mines and settlements, they
journeyed by sledge or trudged on foot to the nearest point on the
Trans-Siberian railway. It was a race against time. The Spring thaw was
approaching. If the exiles did not reach the railroad within two weeks
the roads would be impassable. The wilderness would become a sea of
mud. Far in the north, in the coldest settlements of the lower Lena, it
would be impossible to move forward until the ice breaks on the river
two months later.

The first large party consisted of one hundred and fifty political
convicts and administrative exiles, including twenty members of the
Jewish revolutionary band. The exiles were traveling in special cars
and had been on the road continuously from March 24, five days after
they first heard of the revolution.

The cars were met by a vast crowd at the railroad-station, which
cheered them tumultuously. The returning exiles returned the cheers,
but they were in a deplorable physical condition--shaggy, uncouth,
unwashed, and extremely emaciated.

Many were crippled with rheumatism, two had lost hands and feet from
frostbites, and one, who attempted flight a week before the revolution,
had been shot in the leg when he was recaptured. He was lying in a
prison-hospital when he learned that he was a free man.

Five days after the triumph of the revolution 6,000 exiles entered
Irkutsk, but the vast majority were unable to proceed west, owing to
the lack of rolling-stock. These encamped about the town and along the
railroad, and at least a month will be needed before they can be sent
home.

The crowds at Tyumen cheered the famous terrorist, Nicolai Anuikhin,
who shot and killed the chief of the Petrograd-Warsaw Railway in 1906.
His victim, General Fuchloff, was about to kidnap 400 railroad strikers
and send them to Siberia.

Anuikhin, who introduced himself as "a released jailbird," is a
gigantic, broad-shouldered, elderly man, with a gray imperial and an
excited manner of speech. He said:

"After one year in European convict prisons I spent ten years in the
Alexandrovsk prison, fifty miles from Irkutsk. This is the biggest
convict jail in Russia and contained 12,000 ordinary criminals and
about 500 political prisoners, mostly sentenced to life _katroga_, the
severest form of Russian punishment short of death.

"I spent the first five years in the so-called probation class, with
hands and feet manacled and chained to a wheelbarrow which I had to
take everywhere. In addition I was repeatedly flogged by order of the
Governor. The Assistant Governor, during the absence of his chief,
ordered daily floggings for his own satisfaction.

"The occupants of the different dormitories communicated by means of
tappings and other systems of signaling. Although we also had means of
communication with the outside world, we knew nothing of the revolution
until the morning of our release.

"After our release we learned that the Assistant Governor, on getting
the news of the revolution, declared that he would give a farewell
flogging, 'in order to prepare my jailbirds for sweet liberty.'"

Among the political prisoners from Tobolsk was Alexander Popoff. He was
sentenced to death for an alleged plot against the Emperor, a charge
which he declares was a fabrication by the police. Popoff, who is a
highly intelligent artizan, was chained by the wrists and ankles for
four years. In describing his release, he says:

"A most remarkable feature of amnesty day in Tobolsk was the sudden
demand for blacksmiths. The prison blacksmith, fearing the vengeance
of the convicts, fled, and private blacksmiths, in the general orgy of
revolutionary triumph, could not be found.

"In the meantime sixty chained men waited for their liberation. The
newly formed committee of public safety, unable to find blacksmiths,
drove the still chained convicts to the dismissed Governor's palace,
where a banquet had been prepared, and we had our first free meal.
Above the din of speeches and cheers for the Russian Republic could be
heard the jangling of our shackles."

The news of the revolution reached the prisoners in Siberia by
various channels, but in all cases the announcement was unexpected
and dramatic. In several places the police were wise enough to tell
the news themselves in order to escape the danger of suddenly finding
themselves in the power of men they had abused with impunity for years.
The exiles rarely rose against their jailers. Basil Muravin, once a
social revolutionist, tells this story:

"When the revolution occurred I was in the small Udinsk
transport-prison awaiting the arrival of other convicts for dispatch
together to the east. I had long lost hope of pardon when I learned
that I was free. The discovery came in a most dramatic way. I was at
the time in chains as a newcomer of unknown character. I heard a sudden
shouting and afterward a terrific rifle-firing. It sounded as if a
million cartridges had exploded in quick succession.

"Next bullets began to fly over the prison-yard. Finally a bullet cut
the halyard of the Russian flag which waved over the prison-building.
The flag dropped on the roof and shortly afterward a crowd stormed the
prison and hoisted there a revolutionary ensign. My last experience of
the old régime was a visit by the former Governor of the jail, who,
fearing retaliation, begged me to sign a statement acquitting him of
ill-treatment. Though his treatment of the convicts had been bad, I
agreed, not desiring to mar Russia's new freedom by acts of petty
vengeance."

In another case the priests announced the revolution in the churches.

Fifty exiles, who were in the congregation, rushed out, determined on
vengeance on the local police-captain, who was a wanton tyrant. They
were met by the policeman's ten-year-old daughter, who stood before her
father and exclaimed, "Kill me first!" The child's action saved the
captain's life.


II--STORY OF THE HUSSAR WHO ESCAPED FROM SIBERIA

This is the tale of a Hussar who had escaped twice from Russian
prisons, faced murder, come half-round the world, and ran the British
blockade. He was a reserve officer in the Austrian Army, a Hungarian
captain in a famous regiment of Hussars. He was stationed in the
fortress at Peremysl when the Russians advanced into the Karpathians
and took the city. Taken prisoner, he was marched off to a detention
camp near the front where the officers were separated from the
soldiers. The men disappeared, but the officers were taken to a
military prison near Odessa.

The prison fare was not particularly bad, but the monotony of the place
was dreadful. Shut up as they were without anything to think of, they
began to have all kinds of imaginary grievances--principally against
one another. "If half the challenges to deadly combat are carried out
there will be a duel a minute after the war," he says. It got to be
positively ludicrous. Pompous and sensitive enough in all conscience
in ordinary circumstances, the German and Austrian officers, under the
nervous conditions of prison life, lived under a hair-trigger. If you
accidentally bumped into a man on your morning walk, or if you forgot
to bow in the usual manner, you promptly had a challenge to a duel--to
be fought after the war, as there was nothing to fight with in prison.

Having been brought up along the Galician borders, this Hungarian spoke
Russian like a native. This fact encouraged him to make an attempt to
escape.

For some remarkable reason the Russians had allowed the captured
officers to retain all their money. He himself had several thousand
dollars in his pockets. When it became whispered around that he
intended to make a getaway, other officers asked him to carry money
back to their families. The result was that when he slipped away he had
nearly $30,000 in cash on his person.

He didn't tell me exactly how he managed to get away, but I inferred
that it was through the bribery of some of the prison guards. At any
rate he slipped out of the prison one night and turned eastward.
His general plan was to make his way down through the passes of the
Caucasus Mountains through Armenia, and thence to Turkey, where he
would be safe.

Hiding by day and walking by night, he managed to get to a
half-civilized little hamlet on the edge of the great mountains.

The wilderness of the journey before him left him rather appalled. He
had intended to buy a horse and try to make his own way through, but he
saw that this would be impossible. It inevitably meant losing his way
and starving--if he were not killed by wandering bandits!

The town was full of wild-looking Kurdish mountaineers armed to the
teeth. He decided to open negotiations with one of these to act as his
guide. The first one approached readily agreed to act as his guard,
guide, and escort on the long journey through the mountains. He said
the fellow was as dirty as a pig and looked as tough as a Malay pirate,
but his belt was filled like an arsenal.

Under his advice, the Hungarian officer bought a horse for about three
times what it was worth. The arrangements were all made and they were
to start the next morning when the wife of the Kurdish peasant at whose
hut the Hungarian had taken lodging whispered him a word of warning.

"Don't go with him," she said. "As soon as you are one day out, he will
kill you."

"Why should he kill me?" asked the Hussar.

The woman shrugged her shoulders. "Well, it is a long journey," she
said, "why should he take all that trouble when he could get your money
in some other way?"

Her logic was at least convincing if not reassuring. The Hungarian took
a little walk through the one street of the town. In the light of her
warning, he saw that all the men there would kill a baby to get a drink
of milk. They looked vicious enough to commit any crime.

The Hussar sat down to think it over. If he tried to go on through
the mountains alone he would probably be followed and killed, or
assassinated for his rifle by the wandering Kurdish tribes in the
mountains. If his luck was good enough to keep him from being shot, he
would lose his way and starve. If he went out with his guide, it was
simply a question of how long the man allowed him to live. There was
only one thing left to do--he must get back to the prison from which he
had escaped, where he would find food, shelter, and safety.

He got up in the middle of the night, slipped out of the hut, and took
the trail again. Without a great deal of difficulty he found his way
back to the prison. A day or two later the sentinel at the officers'
prison was amazed to see a Hungarian Hussar come nonchalantly up the
road and ask to be let into prison.

They led him before the Russian governor of the prison who was furious.

"Where have you been?" he demanded.

"Why," said the Hussar blindly, "I have always wanted to see these
wonderful mountains, so I just went out for a day or two to see the
scenery."

"What do you think this is, a summer resort?" roared the Russian
colonel.

The Hussar was ordered for a time into solitary confinement. But
the Russian commandant was a pretty good fellow. Besides, with his
education and his knowledge of Russian, the Hungarian was very useful
about the prison. So they restored him to favor very soon.

Meanwhile his uniform had worn out. They had to give him some kind of
clothing, so they fitted him out with the clothes of a Russian peasant.

The loose, easy-going discipline of the prison, his pockets full
of money, and these Russian clothes made escape the second time
ridiculously easy.

He said it could scarcely be called escaping. He literally put on his
hat and walked. He figured it out this time that the way to avoid
detection was not to hide around dark corners; but to disarm suspicion
by openly mixing with the crowds.

Wherefore he went openly down the streets to the railroad-depot, bought
a ticket to Moscow in the ordinary way, and traveled just like any
other passenger.

At Moscow he stopped for several weeks. His story became decidedly
vague at this point.

He told me that he fell in with a woman who had the _entrée_ to army
circles in Russia and that she got him a card to a Russian officers'
club where he hung around for two weeks, mingling with the officers
without his nationality being suspected. The woman had in the meantime
dressed him up in good clothes and had changed his Austrian money into
Russian coinage.

The Hussar tried to give me the impression that the woman had fallen a
victim to his manly charms and had thereby been induced to turn traitor
to her country. I couldn't quite believe this, he didn't look the part.

From what we have since learned of Russian conditions, it seems very
probable that, when the Hussar got to Moscow, he hunted up the circle
of German spies who were operating there, reported for duty, and was
taken care of.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Well, what am I going to do--stay here for the rest of my life?"
demanded the Hussar testily.

"Patience, my son," said the old man. "To-night there is another
train--a scrubby little local train that runs back and forth across the
border carrying the peasants and traders. No one pays any attention to
that train. You will be on it when it goes out to-night."

When the local train left that night the Hussar was one of the
passengers. The others were dirty, badly smelling Manchurian farmers.

But it carried him safely across the border and into China. Without
further difficulty he made his way to America.

He was on his way to the Eastern coast and expected to take ship for
Austria within a month. When his companion hinted that he would find
it harder to get through the British blockade than to hoodwink the
Russian officials, he winked. And sure enough, within three months the
Westerner had received a card from him. He was back at his old table in
the café of Peremysl, drinking cool concoctions from tall glasses.

(The foregoing stories are: (I) told in the _New York Evening World_;
(II) told in the _Los Angeles Times_, and reprinted in the _Literary
Digest_.)




SURVIVORS' STORIES OF SINKING OF THE _LUSITANIA_

"_How We Saw Our Ship Go Down--Torpedoed by a German Submarine_"

_Told by Passengers of the Ill-Fated "Lusitania"_

  These tragic stories are like voices from the grave--the ocean
  giving up its dead. They are told by those who were saved from
  the tragedy ship on that fearful day, May 7, 1915 (at 2:08 P.M.
  Greenwich time) when the _Lusitania_, fifteen miles off "Old Head of
  Winsale" on the Irish coast, was torpedoed by a German submarine.
  The _Lusitania_ sailed from New York at noon, May 1, 1915, carrying
  1,959 persons--passengers and crew. It had been warned by official
  notices from the German embassy that it would be attacked by German
  submarines, which only aggravates the crime by making plain its
  deliberate intention. The voyage was uneventful until the seventh,
  when the ship, running at 17 knots, was nearing its destination. It
  was shortly after luncheon, the sea was calm, when two torpedoes
  struck the _Lusitania_. The scenes of terror which followed are
  described by the survivors--a few of their stories, typical of their
  fearful experiences, are told here. The ship sank in less than twenty
  minutes, and 1,198 men, women, and children went down into an ocean
  grave.


I--STORY OF CAPTAIN W. T. TURNER, COMMANDER OF THE "LUSITANIA"

I was on the bridge of the _Lusitania_ (at 2:08 Friday afternoon, May
7, 1915, off Old Head of Kinsdale on Irish Coast) when I saw a torpedo
speeding toward us, and immediately I tried to change our course,
but was unable to manoeuvre out of its way. There was a terrible
impact as the torpedo struck the starboard side of the vessel, and a
second torpedo followed almost immediately. This one struck squarely
over the boilers. I tried to turn the _Lusitania_ shoreward, hoping to
beach her, but her engines were crippled and it was impossible. Until
the _Lusitania_ came to a standstill it was absolutely out of the
question to launch the boats--they would have been swamped. It has been
suggested that it was impact with ammunition in the cargo that made
the work of the torpedoes so deadly, but if there had been ammunition
in the cargo the _Lusitania_ would have been blown to pieces. I saw
the torpedoes with my own eyes as did many others. It was cold-blooded
murder.

I was in the water four hours after the _Lusitania_ sank. I am a strong
swimmer, and so was able to keep afloat until I was rescued. When I was
swimming about, suddenly a German submarine rose to the surface amid
the wreckage, then submerged again. Some persons in lifeboats nearby
saw the submarine even better than I did.

(As Captain Turner went about the streets of Queenstown he tried
bravely to cheer the survivors, but he seemed stunned. For the most
part he walked with bowed head, and many of those he met did not
recognize him. When told of the recovery of Charles Frohman's body, and
of the finding of many other Americans among the dead, tears came to
his eyes.)


II--STORY TOLD BY W. B. PHILLIPS, AN AMERICAN PASSENGER

It was seven or eight minutes after 2 o'clock when the torpedo struck
us, and my watch stopped at 2:33, when I went into the water a half
minute before the _Lusitania_ disappeared. Captain Turner was on the
bridge when the ship went down, and the last order I heard him give
was "Hard aport," just before the torpedo struck. It seems as though
he was trying to turn the ship to escape the torpedo. I rushed on deck,
but met two women in the companionway who shouted "torpedo"! I rushed
back to my stateroom for some belongings, but as the water was coming
through the promenade deck I didn't wait, but rushed back to the deck
again. Most everybody went to the cabins for life preservers. There was
no panic, though lots of excitement. Not even a panic when the ship
went down.

The worst thing was the inefficiency with the lifeboats. On the port
side many of the davits wouldn't work and the boats would not go over.
The tackle broke on one of four or five boats I saw lowered, while one
dropped from the davits and split in two. A few of the collapsible
boats floated away upside down, while one raft, which some one cut away
with an axe, crushed some men who were trying to climb into a boat.

There was a great whirlpool when the _Lusitania_ finally settled into
the sea, but no suction. I was drawn into the whirlpool, but had no
trouble in swimming out. She went down very fast at one end. Our
boat, which was the most crowded of all, with eighty-four in it, was
almost swamped by the wireless antennæ, which swept across us as the
_Lusitania_ keeled over for the last time before she righted and sank.

The daughter of Lady Allan told me she saw the submarine, but I know of
no one else who did. Shots were fired while we were in the small boats,
about twenty minutes after the _Lusitania_ sank, but I don't know if
they were from the submarine. They might have been signals from land.
The only boat in sight was a fishing smack, or pilot boat, three or
four miles away. There was smoke on the horizon, and one vessel seemed
to be coming up, but she sheered off.

The wireless operator told me he got in four wireless signals and got
an answer to the last one. The boats rowed toward the smack, which took
part of the people on board and towed two other boatloads. It was 5
o'clock when we were picked up, and at that time no boat was anywhere
near the scene of the wreck. One trawler got to the wreck about 5:30.
It was followed by two torpedo boats and eight or nine other boats.
Captain Turner had ordered some lifeboats swung over the side on
Wednesday and all swung over on Thursday morning, but the rafts and
collapsible boats were not touched, but remained securely fastened.
There was plenty of boat accommodation if there had been time to get
them over.

The men all waited until no women were in sight before they went into
the boats. I never believed it true before, but there seemed to be a
regular chorus all the time on the _Lusitania_: "Women first! Women
first!"


III--STORY OF OLIVER P. BERNARD, AN ENGLISH PASSENGER

I think I can say that I was one of the few persons who really saw a
torpedo discharged at the _Lusitania_. Coming on deck from the dining
saloon. I was leaning against the starboard rail of the ship when I
saw the periscope of a submarine about two hundred yards away. Then
I noticed a long white streak of foam. It gave me the impression of
frothy fizzing in water. A woman came to me and said: "There's a
torpedo coming." Before she had finished the explosion took place and
tons of debris were blown up through the four decks. Almost immediately
there was a terrific impact, followed by an explosion. The _Lusitania_
was going at fifteen knots at the time. The shot was perfectly aimed at
the boat, and when it struck, debris, dust and water were thrown up in
a dense column through the entire superstructure of the vessel about
the bridge. A hundred must have been blown to atoms, including trimmers
and stokers, to say nothing of men and women in the forward cabins, who
were about to come on deck.

The _Lusitania_ fell over to starboard and then slowly righted part
way. Nearly every one rushed below. I went to the flying deck and stood
between the funnels, where I could see them making an awful mess of
getting the boats out. They were cutting and hacking at them. The first
boat floated away empty. The next three were smashed. The Marconi main
room was put out of commission by the first torpedo; then the wireless
operator rushed to the emergency room, and just as he got the first
reply to the "S. O. S." the whole apparatus went out of action.

The first torpedo hit amidship by the grand entrance to the saloon and
rear of the bridge. A Marconi man rushed to me and offered me a chair,
and said I had better take that, as it might be useful and better than
nothing.

A few moments after the explosion the vessel toppled over, as if she
were in drydock and some of the underpinning on the starboard side
had been knocked away. There was a frantic dash from the starboard
entrances to the port side and from below women were shouting, "What
shall we do?" They knew well what had happened, as the chance of being
torpedoed was discussed every day. I heard nothing else on the voyage.
When the _Lusitania_ listed still more I slid off the flying deck on
to the boat deck, and from there fell into a boat lying alongside.
As I got into the boat she was swept almost away by one of the
funnels falling across her, and we only managed to push clear. I saw
a minister's wife sucked right down one of the funnels and shot out
again, looking like a piece of burned coal. We managed to save her. I
rowed for some time with a woman between my knees before discovering
that she was dead.

There was no great excitement, in the real sense of the word. Most of
the women tried hard to keep cool, and except for occasional screams of
"Where is my husband? Where is my child?" they acted bravely. I noticed
more people going below than coming on deck after the explosion. The
last person I spoke to before the vessel went down was Mrs. Mason, the
young American daughter of William Lindsay, a manufacturer of Boston,
who was on her honeymoon. She was asking for her husband.

Alfred Vanderbilt I saw standing outside the grand entrance of the
saloon, looking quite happy and perfectly composed. He was holding a
jewel case for a lady, for whom he was apparently waiting. I did not
see Charles Frohman until I saw his body in a mortuary. His was the
most peaceful face among all those I saw there. There was no trace of
agony, and unlike others his features were not disfigured in any way.
Frohman was none too well on the voyage, and was hardly able to walk,
so he remained in his cabin most of the time, where, I believe, he was
when the ship sank. Elbert Hubbard and his wife I also believe went
down in their cabin.

The first two boats from the port side were manned principally by
officers. The slow speed gave the Germans an absolutely pointblank
shot. They couldn't miss. Only God's fair weather and daylight brought
us ashore. If the _Lusitania_ had been convoyed or had put on speed she
would have been here now.

The wireless operators were still sending out calls from their
emergency apparatus, the main wireless room having been disorganized.
The ship was now listing badly to starboard, and, taking a swivel
chair which an operator offered to me, I slid down into the water
and to a boat which was still attached to the davits and which was
partly covered with water. We cleared the boat not a moment too soon,
for we had hardly done so when the vessel went down on the starboard
side, one of the funnels grazing our heads. In the twinkling of an
eye the monster vessel disappeared amidst the cries of those who had
been caught. It was one long indescribable scene of agony. There was
floating debris on all sides and men and women and children clinging
for dear life to deck chairs and rafts which littered the water. Many
were entangled in wreckage, and one by one they seemed to fall off and
give themselves up.

About the last thing I saw happen on the boat was the chief Marconi
operator taking a photograph when the vessel was listed to 45 degrees,
but the pictures were spoiled by the water. We rowed around for three
and a half hours before we were picked up.


IV--STORY TOLD BY GEORGE A. KESSLER, AN AMERICAN PASSENGER

I saw the wake of the first torpedo the moment before the _Lusitania_
was struck. I was on the upper deck. Looking out to sea, I saw all at
once the wash of a torpedo, indicated by the snakelike churn on the
surface of the water. It was about thirty feet away. Then came the thud
as it struck the ship. Mr. Berth and his wife, of New York, first class
passengers, were the last persons I spoke to on the ship. About this
time all the passengers in the dining saloon had come up on deck. The
upper deck was crowded, and the passengers were wondering what was the
matter, few really believing that the ship had been torpedoed. They
began to lower boats. I saw Berth help his wife into a boat. I fell
into the same boat and we were shipped down into the water.

About a minute after the boat struck the water, I looked up and cried
out: "My God! The _Lusitania_ is gone!" We saw her entire bulk, which
had been almost upright just a few seconds before, suddenly lurch over
away from us. Then she seemed to stand upright in the water and the
next instant the keel of the vessel caught the keel of our boat and we
were thrown into the water. There were only about thirty people in the
boat and I should say that all were stokers or third class passengers.

When the boat was overturned I sank fifteen or twenty feet and I
thought I was a goner. However, I had my lifebelt around me and I
managed to rise again to the surface. There I floated for possibly
ten or fifteen minutes, when I made a grab at a collapsible lifeboat,
to which other passengers were clinging. We managed to get it
shipshape and clamber in. There were eight or nine in the boat. It
was partly filled with water, and in the scramble which occurred the
boat overturned, and once more we were pitched into the water. This
occurred, I should say, eight times, the boat righting itself each
time. Before we were picked up by the _Bluebell_ six of the party of
eight or nine were lying drowned in the bilge water in the bottom of
the boat. It was cold-blooded, deliberate murder and nothing else--the
greatest murder the world has ever known.


V--STORY OF CHARLES T. JEFFREY, AN AMERICAN PASSENGER

I was in the smoking room when the explosion took place. It shook the
whole ship, just as a train would shake if the locomotive suddenly
stopped and backed into it. I did not, of course, know what it was, and
it did not occur to me that we had been torpedoed. I thought it might
be a mine, or that we had run upon a rock, but it simply did not occur
to my mind to imagine anything so horrible as that this defenseless
ship with its helpless passengers would be torpedoed without warning.

I left the smoking room and went out on deck to look over the side
at the spot where the ship was when the explosion took place. It was
about 300 feet away. The ship began to take a list to starboard, but
very slowly. There was no panic, either then or at any other time. Many
other passengers came out and looked over the side, just as I did, but
there were no signs of alarm or any rushing about.

I went down to "A" deck to see what was happening there, but there
was no commotion, any more than there was on the upper one, to which
I returned. But the ship was listing more and more. The lifeboats had
been swung out the previous day, and I saw women and children being
put into them by sailors. There was no rushing for the boats, no
struggling for places; everything was being done with perfect calmness
and orderliness. I went down to my cabin, meeting many people in the
alleyways with lifebelts and others going for them.

I made my way aft, and seeing no one on the navigating bridge,
scrambled up there, where I could observe everything that was happening
along one side of the ship. The ship now heeled over so much that the
passengers were clinging to the deck rail. It was a terrible sight;
their helplessness, with the great ship steadily going down under us.

Suddenly there came a terrific rumbling, roaring noise; the huge ship
trembled as her funnels went over, and she just slid under the waves
by the head. Then she seemed to be suddenly checked, as though her bow
had struck something, but it was only momentary, and in another moment
she disappeared under the water. I went down with her, but came to
the surface again very quickly. All around me I saw great numbers of
persons struggling in the water. Presently there floated near me a
rectangular sheet metal can, like the air tank of a lifeboat, and I
clutched it. I waited for a rescuer, but there was none in sight. Then
two men came along, hanging on to a barrel with handles on each end, so
I brought my tank over and caught on to it for company. We were hanging
on for some time, when a man of seventy-five and a boy of seventeen
came along on a plank. The boy could not swim. We caught them and added
them and their plank to our party.

After another twenty minutes or so we saw in the distance what looked
like a raft, so we swam toward it, pushing our supports. It took us
nearly half an hour to reach that raft, and it turned out to be a
collapsible boat.

We were in this boat some time, and were taking in water steadily,
when a man weighing perhaps 250 pounds floated by, without any life
preserver. He was all in, but we got him aboard. Next a foreigner, who
could speak no English, got in with us. Then a woman floated along with
a deck chair and an oar, and we took her aboard, but it was doubtful
how long we could remain afloat, so one man took the can I spoke of and
pushed off on his own account.

At last, at 6.10, after four hours in the water, the trawler took us
in. We were stiff and cold, and went down to the engine room to dry
our clothes. We were tended with the greatest care by the crew. It
was an experience no man would like to face again, and those who went
through it will have a lasting memory of its horror. Why, I remember
on the voyage over remarking that I never saw so many babies and young
children on any ship.


VI--STORY TOLD BY DR. DANIEL V. MOORE, AN AMERICAN PASSENGER

After the explosion quiet and order were soon accomplished by
assurances from the stewards. I proceeded to the deck promenade for
observation and saw only that the ship was fast leaning to starboard. I
hurried toward my cabin below for a lifebelt and turned back because of
the difficulty in keeping upright. I struggled to D deck and forward to
the first-class cabin, where I saw a Catholic priest.

I could find no belts and returned again toward E deck and saw a
stewardess struggling to dislodge a belt. I helped her with hers and
secured one for myself. I then rushed to D deck and noticed one woman
perched on the gunwale, watching a lowering lifeboat ten feet away. I
pushed her down and into the boat, then jumped in. The stern of the
lifeboat continued to lower, but the bow stuck fast. A stoker cut the
bow ropes with a hatchet, and we dropped in a vertical position.

A girl whom we had heard sing at a concert was struggling and I caught
her by the ankle and pulled her in. A man I grasped by the shoulders
and I landed him safe. He was the barber of the first-class cabin, and
a more manly man I never met. He showed his courage and his will later
on.

We pushed away hard to avoid the suck, but our boat was fast filling
and we bailed fast with one bucket and the women's hats. The man with
the bucket became exhausted and I relieved him. In a few minutes she
was level full. Then a keg floated up and I pitched it about ten feet
away and followed it. After reaching it I turned to see the fate of our
boat. She had capsized and covered many. Now a young steward, Freeman,
by name, had approached me, clinging to a deck chair. I urged him to
grab the other side of the keg several times. He grew faint, but harsh
speaking roused him. Once he said: "I am going to go," but I ridiculed
this and it gave him strength. By stroking with our legs we succeeded
in reaching a raft.

We were in the water about one hour and a half. At this time I suffered
from violent vomiting. Then followed appalling chills, but by beating
myself I restored my energy and was soon handling an oar. Freeman
collapsed, but recovered after reaching the patrol boat _Brock_. There
were about twenty-three persons on the raft. They worked nobly in
picking five of us up after what seemed an eternity.

The good boat _Brock_ and her splendid officers and men took us aboard.
I went to the engine room and stripped to the skin. Here and in the
room above I cared for men and women as they were rescued. Little
ten-year-old Frank Hook had his left thigh bone fractured. This I
reduced and splinted, and in a short while Frank asked, "Is there a
funny paper on the boat?"

At the scene of the catastrophe the surface of the water seemed dotted
with bodies. Only a few of the lifeboats seemed to be doing any good.
The cries of "My God!" "Save us!" and "Help!" gradually grew weaker
from all sides and finally a low weeping, wailing, inarticulate sound,
mingled with coughing and gurgling, made me heartsick. I saw many
men die. Some appeared to be sleepy and worn out just before they
went down, others grew gradually blue and an air of hunger gave their
features a sardonic smile.

There was no suction when the ship settled. She went down steadily and
at the best possible angle. The lifeboats were not in order and they
were not manned. Most of the people rushed to the upper decks.

I did not hear a second explosion. There is no more horrible or
pitiable sight possible than the sight of the faces of mothers and
babies and girls here in the morgues.

Weighing all the facts soberly convinces me that it was only through
the mercy of God that any one was saved. I sailed from America that
I might offer my services as a surgeon. I have visited the Valley of
Death and am heartsick.


VII--STORY OF FUNERAL OF "LUSITANIA'S" DEAD--TOLD BY AN EYE-WITNESS

Ninety-two passengers of the _Lusitania_ who formed part of that
pitiful handful of maimed, dead and dying brought ashore with the
survivors of the disaster that followed the attack on the vessel by a
German submarine were buried with services that have no parallel in
history. Under a sky in which not a single cloud floated and to the
strains of hymns played by British soldiers they were laid to rest two
miles behind Queenstown in a cemetery bursting with spring greenery and
tucked between hills flaming with gorse. The services at the graves
began at four o'clock, and at half-past four the sod of Ireland was
being shovelled upon the coffins.

Queenstown sensed the full horror of the _Lusitania_ disaster. Up
to the time that the long stream of coffins began to disappear over
the hill behind the town there was about the affair, what with the
continued searches for survivors and the bustle about the morgue,
something of the unusual and theatric. But when the funeral started the
realization came that each of these cheap coffins held a body and that
in the Atlantic, less than twenty miles away, there were more than a
thousand in addition, all victims of a German submarine.

The townsfolk stood hatless nearly all forenoon as the coffins were
conveyed to the cemetery on carts. This process required hours, and
it was not until three o'clock in the afternoon that the funeral
procession proper left the Cunard offices at the waterfront. There were
only three bodies, one each in a hearse, in this cortège, the other
eighty-nine already having been placed in the graves.

With the British army band playing Chopin's "Funeral March" the funeral
procession marched through the crooked streets past the cathedral,
which stands on the highest point of the town, and then took its
course along an undulating country road, now rising and now sinking
between green hills. Along this road country folk were clustered for
the most part, perched on stone fences behind the soldiers who guarded
the road the entire two miles from the cathedral to the cemetery.
Those waiting in the graveyard first heard, borne faintly on the soft
breeze, the notes of the funeral march and then the sound of muffled
drums. A moment later the sun flashed on the band instruments and the
cortège took form in the distance. Not for more than an hour, however,
did it reach the lane bordering the cemetery, which it entered in the
following order:--

A major of the Royal Irish infantry on horseback, five members of the
Irish Constabulary and a group of Protestant churchmen, then in black
robes came thirteen priests, and behind them were the hearses, draped
with British flags, to the rear of which trudged the mourners, among
them several American survivors of the disaster.

The sailors from the steamship _Wayfarer_, which was recently torpedoed
but was able to make port, came next, and behind them the members of
the Corporation of Cork, headed by the Lord Mayor. A company of marines
followed and then came sailors of the various British ships in harbor.
The British officers, numbering a hundred odd, marched erect but slow.
Next in line were captains Miller and Castle, Attachés of the American
Embassy in London. Both were dressed in khaki uniforms. A party of
British naval officers and Admiral Sir Charles Coke, of Queenstown,
followed them. The Most Reverend Robert Browne, Bishop of Cloyne, rode
in a carriage.

The procession was a full hour in passing into the cemetery. There
soldiers guarded the walls as six other soldier pallbearers lifted
the coffins from the hearses and set them beside the graves. The
three coffins rested beside separate graves. The other eighty-nine
had previously been placed in three great pits--sixty-five in one, in
layers two deep, and twelve each in the other two. Conducted by Bishop
Browne, the Catholic service was held first, the choir boys bearing
incense, appearing from a cluster of elms and coming to the graveside.
The Church of Ireland service, that is, the Protestant Episcopal,
followed, and finally the non-conformist rites were performed. As the
last words of this service were spoken the muffled drums rolled and the
familiar hymn, "Abide with Me," swelled forth. Sailors who had replaced
the soldier pallbearers then lowered the coffins into the small graves,
and simultaneously the earth began to thud on the coffins in all the
graves. The crowd, nearly all with eyes wet, slowly left, some to
take jaunting cars, but most of them to trudge across the fields of
the city. As they reached the crest of the hill immediately above the
harbor flashed into view and in it the flag of every vessel fluttered
at half mast.

Many children and little babies lie in the morgues like so many dolls.
The townspeople covered them with flowers yesterday and it is probable
these little ones will be placed in a grave together.




WITH THE AMERICAN SOLDIERS ON THE FIELDS OF FRANCE

_Personal Experiences Direct from the Front_

  This is a series of personal narratives and letters from the
  American soldiers with Pershing in France. This great American army
  "captivated the French imagination." Our boys who have gone across
  seas to fight with the Allies carried the American flag into new
  glories and triumphs that will become epics of valor in the annals
  of mankind. These letters have been collected by the _New York Sun_,
  with whose permission they are given permanent historical record.
  They give a clear insight into the American soldier's life in the
  first days of Pershing's army in France.


I--STORY OF LIFE OF THE AMERICAN SOLDIER

(Told by Private Joseph A. Deegan, of the Eleventh Railway Engineers)

_The daily life of the American soldiers and their relations with
those of other nations is an intimate and interesting phase of the war
concerning which little has been published. Here is a description of
them among the French, the Chinese laborers and Hindus and the German
trenches:_

Fine is no name for the way I feel. The climate in the part of France
we have finally settled in is just betwixt and between. It is lukewarm.
Over in England it was rain, rain, rain. Everything was wet and
muddy. We slept and ate in mud right up to our mustaches. However,
the blooming little isle had its good points, so I ought not to
knock it. London gave us a royal welcome, and I now have a few good
friends there. A live time also awaits me if I ever go back to Exeter,
Aldershot or Folkestone.

But turning the film back to La Belle France, here we have nice
climate, an exciting war, excellent champagne and a set of girls that
would make the boys back home green with envy. What more could a
man ask? The only trouble with the French people is their unfailing
habit of trying to overcharge us. However, we are getting on to their
curves now and take discounts off every price they ask. For instance,
when I go into a candy shop the proprietress will exclaim: "Ah, _bon
Americain_." Then she will proceed to quote me one and one-half francs
for a bar of five-cent chocolate. After a little hesitation and
figuring on my part I slip her half a franc, and even at that she is
making a 75 per cent profit. She accepts the slight reduction with a
deprecating air, and probably mutters to herself: "Those Yankees are as
stupid as foxes." Aside from our little monetary differences we and the
French are the most affectionate of comrades.

Somewhere in France we camped next door to a Chinese labor camp. There
was a small army of them. The Mongolians are the best pals we have
run into yet. They were so honored by the attention paid to them by
the whites that they broke their necks to please us. When I said to
a Chink: "Gimme a cigarette, Charlie," he would run a quarter of a
mile to his tent and come back with a fistful. Some of the Chinks even
wanted to lend money to our boys. Unfortunately, however, our bunch
got to selling them, at exorbitant prices, gold rings that after a
rainstorm resembled the Irish flag, and wrist watches with the small
item of works entirely missing. The English soldiers sort of wised up
the Yellow Perils to our tricks and before we parted company with them
they became noticeably cool toward us. Well, they were Coolies, anyhow.
That's a cool joke.

Lower down in France we were camped directly opposite a tribe of
Hindus--you know, the kind with knotted Turkish towels for hats. These
birds bury and pick the pockets of all soldiers killed on the front, so
you cannot sell them trinkets. They have carloads of them. The Hindus
are surlier and dirtier than the Chinese gentlemen, and we did not
mingle with them so freely. If you want to get them drawing knives just
holler, "Buddha _no bon!_" They are fanatics on religion. About a week
ago we visited their camp and they immediately challenged us to a tug
of war. They had about twelve on one end of the rope and we had only
seven. Evidently, however, they are not over strong, because we pulled
them almost up to the firing line. They are hard losers, and might have
drawn their bowies, but I think they suspected we were Irish, so they
remained peaceable.

The guns play a constant tattoo at night, and I am getting used to
them now. The other day a few other fellows and myself made a tour of
inspection among some recently deserted German trenches up near the
line. In them we found feather beds, a box of cigars and, last but not
least, a beautifully toned organ. The feather beds were wet and coated
with mud, so we couldn't bother with them. You will say "Impossible"
when I say I left the cigars there also. This I did, however, as the
Germans have a playful habit of poisoning such dainties. The organ was
badly warped and too far below the ground to attempt to salvage, but we
stayed there for a while and I made the subterranean passages echo to
the strains of "Ragging the Scale."

Another pet trick that the Germans employ is to leave a watch hanging
on the wall of their abandoned trenches. Said watch connects with
a high explosive bomb which explodes when the Ingersoll is removed
from the wall. The other night I was talking with a couple of English
soldiers, who told me that the English and Bavarians became so friendly
at one stage of the war that a squad of the English soldiers crossed
over to the German trenches one night, had a little souse party with
the Bavarians and returned back to the allied trenches in the morning.
For this they were court-martialled. They say that the Bavarians will
frequently holler over to the English not to fire any shots so that
they can eat their dinner in quiet, and they will reciprocate in like
manner. The English apparently have no hard feelings against the
Bavarians, but sure do hate the Prussians. Yesterday I saw a vicious
air fight. The German aviator looped the loop with his machine fully a
dozen times in order to escape the machine-gun fire from the Allies'
planes, and escape he did, for I saw him shooting over the German lines
leaving his pursuers far behind.

Any German prisoners I see I always give them a cheery, "_Wie gehts?_"
and some of them answer "Good morning" in English. They are sick of
the war and claim they are glad to be prisoners. Visited a large
French city the other day which the Germans had occupied but which was
recaptured by the French. No human being could imagine the destruction
that has been wrought there. Among the thousands of houses there is not
a single one that could be lived in. Most of them are beaten to dust,
churches and everything else. An old Frenchman there told me with tears
in his eyes how his daughter and the rest of the girls of the city had
been forcibly taken away by the Germans when they were evacuating the
city. I can now understand enough French to converse in a broken way.
The slogan here now is, "Give the Germans hell and take no prisoners."
From all stories and indications they have acted like barbarians and
deserve the worst treatment possible. Their fire is becoming weaker and
I think their days are numbered. The Americans will put the finishing
touches on them, and don't be surprised if I send you a postcard from
Berlin some day.


II--STORY OF A VOLUNTEER IN AMERICAN RED CROSS

(Told by Edward J. Doyle, with American Army)

_The experiences and the souvenirs--such as a piece of shell shot
through an ambulance and buttons cut from the uniforms of German
prisoners--of a volunteer in the American Red Cross service are
recorded in this letter._

Sherman was right, but he knows nothing about it. I suppose by this
time you know all about the attack, and needless to say I have been
through it all. Haven't had my clothes off in over a week and my total
sleep might average about three hours a day for that time, so you can
imagine how I feel. We haven't been working all the time, but we get
shelled out of every place we try to sleep, when we get a chance, and
that's worse than working. We are quite a way to the left of where
I wrote from last. We relieved a section that could not stand the
work--that was before the attack--and you can imagine what it was
during and since the attack.

We arrived at B---- a week ago this morning and started in. That night
the Germans shelled that town, and imagine, it's about fifteen miles
from the German lines. We were alone in a barn, and when the shells
began to go over our heads and gas with it, you can see how much sleep
we had. Next morning Bud and I started out, and the car is running
rotten. The Germans are shelling the road all the way from here. This
is our first post out of R----, about three miles from B----. Don't
try to look up these towns; it's a useless task. Poste 4, a like
distance from R----. We get in the middle of Hill ----, about a mile
from Poste 2, when the car dies.

About 100 yards ahead of us is a crossroad and the Boche is shelling
it. Bud and I didn't realize where we were, and all alone, mud over our
shoe tops where we stopped. We worked on the car for one and a half
hours, falling in the mud every time a German shell came through the
air. We got eleven holes in our car from that morning, and a piece of
shell went right through an inch rod on the front of the car. I'll show
you a picture of that. We were the first in the section to get hit, and
how we escaped alive is the wonder of every one who has seen the car,
and we are always the center of attraction when we stop along the road
or at the postes. I have a piece of shell that went through the car--a
souvenir. We were in the most dangerous part of the whole woods--French
guns on every side of us, but of course we didn't know--and those were
what the Germans were after.

When we finally decided we couldn't get the car to run we made for
a nearby dugout, and a Frenchman there told us we had our nerve. I
left Bud there and walked back to this post--about three and one-half
miles--got another car and towed our own back--that was our baptism of
fire, and it was plenty. We got our car fixed up that day and worked
all that night and the next day. That night we were dead, and the damn
Germans shelled B---- again, and we had to get out twice during the
night and run for a nearby quarry, and no one who has not been through
it can imagine the feeling of being awakened by hearing a shell go over
your head, and almost before you can get into your shoes and out of a
place another drops near by. It's a thousand times worse than being on
a shelled road because you can see a shell hit the road and invariably
another follows--wait for the second one to land and then beat it--some
sport.

I'm at P. J. Left now, our most advanced post with the exception of one
about a mile from here, which we make only at night, as the Germans
can see the road from their first lines. They must have seen us on the
road--some plane of theirs--as they have been shelling here ever since
we arrived. We're in the dugout now and I don't expect to find my car
when I come out at the rate the shells are landing around here.

Now for the attack. Sunday we were at Post 4--a piece of shell just
landed on my helmet. I'm just at the entrance of the dugout--got to
stop--it's getting too warm.

Friday, 1:50 P.M.--Just got out of P. J. Left. They shelled it
from 12 o'clock yesterday until 9:30 last night. Blew up everything in
sight but our dugout; killed a couple of the brancardiers; blew up the
kitchen, and you should have seen what was left of our car--everything
was hit on the darn thing but the air in the tires.

The French made another attack last night on Hill ---- and took it. You
have undoubtedly read about it if you have followed the news. Back for
the attack now--Sunday we were at Post 4, that is, my car--and we made
a couple of trips from there, and all Sunday night the woods were just
ablaze with guns firing and the boys went over the top at 4:40. All we
carried that night had been gassed and there was a bunch of them. At
5:10 a car came to poste, saying they could not make Poste 2--the road
was blocked--so the lieutenant telephoned and gave me a note to deliver
to Poste 2--that meant get it there. Well, we started out, and such a
sight! There was one whole ammunition train along the road that had
been shelled and gassed--every horse dead--and not only horses. We got
to Hill ----, where Bud and I were stuck, and such a sight!

Two trains had been gassed, and we cut the horses that were still alive
from the carriages and then there was a stampede. I shall never forget
that morning--the road blocked, shell holes, gas, dead horses, at least
fifty of them, in less distance than a city block, and this awful
racket. Well, we got the road cleared and made Poste 2, and there it
was worse than ever. Our chief and sous-chief and about six of our boys
had been there all night, gas masks on for nine hours. Two of them had
shell shock, another hysterical, and the dead and wounded all around
us. I'm poor at description, and you could never picture such a scene.
Well, we got a load and started back. You could still cut the gas, and
after we had gone a way one of the couchés rapped on the window. We
stopped. The fellow on the top stretcher had died, his head had fallen
off the edge of the stretcher and he was leaking from the mouth on
the chap below. We took him out, fixed his head on the stretcher and
started on, shells dropping all around us. How we ever got through no
one knows, but we did, and that's just the way things went. Carried
Boches and cut buttons off some of the prisoners--have a Boche helmet
and gas mask--souvenirs.


III--STORY OF AN AMERICAN ENGINEER IN FRANCE

(Told by (name suppressed), 11th Regiment Railway Construction
Engineers)

_This member of Company D, 11th Regiment Railway Construction
Engineers, swings pick and axe and acts as chauffeur on a handcar, but
he enjoys it heartily._

For several days we have been busy getting some new drills, but
unfortunately I am not at liberty to tell you the nature of them.

All day yesterday was my own time, but I was too busy cleaning up to
write. The sun was shining most of the day, for a change, so I was able
to wash my clothes, air my blankets, etc., and take a real bath.

We made stoves out of some large oil cans, and as we have deep pans we
boiled our clothes out and then scrubbed them well on our washboard.
But the real treat was our bath. We walked about half a mile to a
British camp, where they have some bath. They have rigged up a small
room with live steam in it. We stood in the room for at least a half
hour and just perspired. Then a cold shower and, believe me, for the
first time since I left home I was real clean.

Do you remember how you laughed at my army shoes because they were so
heavy? Well, you should see our shoes now. They are the same as the
Tommies wear in the trenches. The soles are nearly as thick as the
heels on our other shoes. Besides, the heels and soles are studded with
iron plates and hobnails. Of course they are very heavy, but for all
of that they are very fine shoes, as the wear in them surpasses the
lighter American shoe and they are better protection from water. We
have also discarded the canvas leggings and are now wearing the spiral
cloth puttees.

We are still in a rest camp belonging to the British, but suppose we
will be moving off to our own base in the near future. The powers that
be know best.

In the Base Camp--Hurrah! Received your package yesterday in perfect
condition, and maybe I wasn't happy, also the squad, for of course they
have to have some of it. Best of all, the cigarettes and tobacco are
real American products. I do not care for the English stuff. And the
candy--well, "nuf sed!"

Last night a number of us walked around a very interesting battlefield.
If I should give you its name you would remember it as one of the
famous ones of the war. I have never seen so much junk lying round as
there is on this old battleground. Bullets, old shells, helmets, guns
and what not. There is so much stuff we did not bother to pick it up.
We found a number of English rifles and shrapnel helmets, some with a
lot of holes in them. I guess the men who wore them are dead. As for
graves, well, in some spots they are as thick as daisies.

You wanted to know if I had taken any pictures. Unfortunately all
cameras were confiscated, so nothing doing in that direction. As it is,
there is very little scenery of interest where we are. The country is
fairly well blasted and the tops of all the trees are gone; but you can
see such pictures in the Sunday supplements.

I do not know, of course, if the newspapers say that we are being well
fed or not, but we certainly do not feel the effects of the U-boat
war. While we were in the rest camp we did not eat any too well, but
now that we are in a permanent camp everything is changed. How does
roast beef, tomatoes, brown gravy, butter, tea, jam and apple dumplings
sound? Of course the apple dumplings were not hard to get, as we have
the apples growing in our camp. The flour, however, came from the good
old U. S. A.

For the last few days I have been swinging a heavy pick and axe and
playing chauffeur (with some other fellows) on a handcar. Believe me,
it is hard work pumping one of those cars heavily loaded against a head
wind or on an up grade. However, the work is doing me worlds of good. I
am feeling fine and getting stronger every day.

There is something doing on our front to-night. From all the banging
noise Tommy must be strafing Fritz good and plenty.

We have had several issues of tobacco since we arrived in this part
of the world. I do not know where the tobacco comes from, but imagine
it is part of the money collected from our good citizens in New York.
The only trouble is that it is English tobacco and not the good old
American kind.

It would surprise many of our curio seeking friends to see what we
do with those that we pick up. Our poker is an old French bayonet,
something that many a person would put in a cabinet under lock and key.

On Leave.--Immediately after breakfast I started for a very famous
city some nine or ten miles from our camp. I stopped in for a friend
of mine, in one of the other companies. We started to walk to town
in hopes of having a motor lorry (just plain motor truck in America)
overtake us, but we had covered some five miles before we were
overtaken by a horse-drawn wagon.

This particular city (censor forbids my giving name) was never reached
by the Huns except at long range bombardment. One can hardly believe
the amount of destruction the Huns are capable of doing when they start
out on their career of hate.

In this town they seem to have centered their vengeance on a most
beautiful church and one of the fine old cemeteries that France is
noted for. The church was not entirely demolished, but I think it is
beyond repair. As for the cemetery, many a poor Frenchman returned to
the surface before the Angel Gabriel had blown his trumpet.

Just next to this old cemetery is a new one. Instead of old tombstones
and marble crypts, this plot is marked with many small white wooden
crosses. Here and there one can find a more pretentious cross,
indicating an officer. One cannot realize the tug at the heartstrings
until one has seen the hand marks of "Kultur." The only consolation, a
brutal one, is that on the way to the town are many graves with German
names on the crosses.

But let's get cheerful and talk of the main object of my trip, to get
something to eat. The real fun of the day came while we were eating.
Fritz paid us a visit by aeroplane and dropped a few visiting cards in
the shape of bombs. A couple of Tommies were eating in the same room,
and as they showed a great deal of _sang froid_ I was compelled to do
the same. However, my real fear was that I wouldn't be able to finish
my eggs, but would have to dive for a bomb-proof. Fortunately he was
driven away before much damage was done and I finished my eggs in peace.

I forgot to tell you that our quarters are the most comfortable we
have had. We are in a hut which is built like a tunnel. The outside is
made of corrugated iron, but the inside is lined with wood. There are
fourteen of us in my hut, but there is plenty of room. We sleep on cots
for the first time since we left Fort Totten.


IV--STORY OF AN AMERICAN WITH A SIEGE BATTERY

(Told by Wallace Gibbs)

_Our guide in this trench is with a British siege gun battery shelling
and being shelled by the Germans on the Flanders front. He tells of a
stormy night under shell fire._

  Aug. 13, 1917.

Your letter followed me all around Blighty and over half of France. And
yet it got me. Got me in the middle of a tree-shattered, shell-pocked
country field, in a wee hole in the ground. That's some postal service
for you!

Guns are going merrily to-night. Fritz was putting up S. O. S. signals
a bit ago. He dropped one on our cook house about a quarter of an hour
ago. Poor "Ginger," our cook, got it badly. Head, back and leg.

You can't dodge 'em here; there's too much row. Besides, one don't hear
the shell that's going to get one. Don't know whether that's a blessing
or not. A vivid imagination is no good to any one out here. Some
fellows are jumpy with expectation; others are always smelling gas, and
so on.

Saw a boche plane brought down yesterday. He made a terrific attempt to
get right, almost succeeded, then nose dived plumb!

Can you picture me in a little narrow, gravelike hole, writing
this--and guns firing behind me and Hun shrapnel whining and bursting
with a ping just outside? That's the doings just now. Fritz is being
real nasty.

You just live on chance at this game. One gets callous--only thoughts
of home annoy a bit. One fellow got killed early this morning. It was
hard lines. Fritz was pushing the shell over; it was black and wet,
only gun flashes giving light now and again, leaving it blacker than
before. (Things are rotten in the night!) One came very near to where
they were unloading shell. He made a dive for an old trench: just then
another burst. He copped it when he had only a yard to go. Another
second would have done it. It's all luck. I was at the cook house
to-night; I left just a bit before. I said to a fellow, "Are you going
up to the guns?" He said, "No." So I pushed off on my own.

Still that's only stray shooting, nothing to what we give Fritz. He
must have hell in his lines. He's getting what the British once got,
only more so. He didn't have to fight then, he merely walked over. Now
he gets as good as he gives, and he don't like it. You never saw such
a weary, scared-looking crowd in your natural as the mob that came in
from the latest push. I was sorry for the boys--some looked only 15
years old. They were mixed with big, sour, dour, square-head swine. We
are looking forward to giving them another dig soon.

The men are not commenting much on the U. S. A. coming in. They don't
comment much on anything, now everybody is in; but it will make a big
difference.

It's a very nice war in "Blighty," with nice time, polished buttons and
a pair of swanky boots and heaps of glory reflected from the lads out
here. But out here--well, a fellow might fight a Hun, but damned if he
can fight a shell!

Still, it's marvelous how little notice one can take of them when
they're somewhere else, but it don't half buck up one's ideas when
they get personal. The soulful Huns usually open up at night time when
fellows are trying to forget--shells and guns, lice and biscuits. (Oh,
those army biscuits!)

Well, George, this has got to finish. Gas is coming over now in shells,
dozens of them; I must put on my mask. The air is growing sweet and
sickly. Isn't he a rotter?... All clear again. Jove, he dropped them
close! Some experience between those two lines, eh? Hope this finds you
in the Pink. Best regards to everybody.


V--STORY OF AN AMERICAN AMBULANCE DRIVER AT BATTLEFRONT

(Told by James M. White--"Somewhere in France")

_The thrilling experiences through which drivers for the American
Ambulance in France pass are narrated in this letter. Mr. White has
been decorated with the Croix de Guerre._

So many things have happened ... that I hardly know where to begin.
Also, I am pretty tired out, so please excuse this letter if it is
rather incoherent. We have been working our present posts now for three
weeks and often it has meant forty-eight hours steady. Not only has it
been hard work but it has been most exciting. One of the boys who has
been always with the section says that never has he seen such all round
hard and exciting work. It is practically over now and we will all be
very glad to go _en repos_.

You have seen by the papers of around this date what a successful
attack the French have made. Out of the numerous sections of the
ambulance we had the honor of doing the hardest work, and it has been
well appreciated, for letters have been written to the General about
it. That probably will mean a citation for us.

When I write you about what we have gone through I do it, not for
personal reasons, but because I want you to know that this work is no
play, and far from being an occupation of the "semi-heroic rich." I
have seen more of war in five minutes in this sector than in months
in the other places we have been. Nine of our twelve cars have been
hit, but luckily only one chap has been wounded, and that not very
seriously. I really think there is a divine Providence watching over
us, for you would hardly believe some miraculous escapes that have
taken place.

I have seen demonstrated something which I had heard but never
believed, namely that a shell can land so close that its proximity
saves one, the eclats going over one's head. Shells play queer tricks
at times. Three cars were standing in a row, one with two wounded. A
shell landed near and the concussion blew whole panels out of each car
and killed the two men. The remarkable part is that neither the cars
nor men were actually hit by anything but dirt.

Nowadays the Germans seldom send over waves of gas. They seem to prefer
to send in hundreds of gas shells. These have the same whistle as the
high explosives but do not explode with a loud noise. It is more like
the opening of a gigantic ginger ale bottle. They do a lot of damage,
for they often catch one unawares. They will pick out a hollow and
just drench it with gas shells; some smell like garlic and others like
mustard. We have found it impossible to drive at night with masks on,
especially those of us who wear glasses, for they immediately fog up.
All of us dread these shells, much preferring to take our chance with
the high explosive. A soldier was telling me of a new gas that they
send in by shells. Wherever there is a perspiration on the body it
forms an acid which gives a very bad burn. The men suffer most around
the necks, under the arms and on the hands.

Altogether, this has been a tremendously interesting period. The aerial
activity has been intense, there being lots of fights and numerous
captive balloons brought down. The Germans have a nasty habit of coming
over at night, flying low and turning their mitrailleuse on the roads
which they know are crowded with wagons carrying material.

By a lucky shot the other day the Germans started a fire in a small
munitions depot quite close to us. I have seen displays of fireworks,
but this had them all beaten with a four hours' display. Some of the
abris up front are perfect marvels of safety and comfort and I shall
try and give you an idea of one. One side of a solid stone hill had
been used before the war as a quarry. This particular side happened to
be away from the Boche. It has been so tunnelled that one walks through
cave after cave with plenty of head room and spacious rooms. Everywhere
there is plenty of light supplied by an electric generator and one
finds a wonderfully complete and clean operating room. Remember this
is all within a mile and a half of the front-line trenches, which in
modern warfare is a short distance.

The wounded get splendid treatment; but of course stretchers take the
place of beds, for it is by no means a hospital. They can comfortably
take care of 200 men and, mind you, all of this has been cut out of
solid rock. At such a post we get the men and take them back to the
field hospital, where they may again be sorted for transport to the
hospitals further back.

We carried quite a few German wounded yesterday and it is very
interesting to hear their ideas about things in general. Most of them
seem to be in great perplexity about why we declared war. Some of them
seem like mere boys and others quite old, but then that holds for all
armies.

It is almost a month since I heard from America, but then I know how
busy you all must be with the moving. Please tell Tom that the second
package of tobacco has come and I am ever so grateful. I lost my
passport but have another. I had to have new pictures taken and walked
all over Paris on a hot day to find a place, hence the expression.


VI--STORY OF HOW PERSHING SAW THE GERMANS ATTACK

(Told by J. Welling Lane, with American Ambulance)

_The writer of this letter, J. Welling Lane, left his place with the
banking firm of Montgomery, Clothier & Tyler, 14 Wall street, New
York, in April, 1917, to go to France with the American Ambulance. He
had served on the Mexican border with the First Field Artillery._

  France, Aug. 23, 1917.

DEAR ----:

Well, old man, I can certainly tell of some real experiences now. The
latest: Last night we had an air raid, beginning around 9 o'clock,
when the Boche came over and dropped some bombs, trying for some gun
positions near here, then at exactly 12:30 A.M. a big raid.
There must have been at least five machines or more came flying very
low and dropped a bomb within twelve feet of our barracks, wounding one
of the boys who slept in the corner nearest the bomb in the bottom of
his heel. He will be all right soon, but will take quite some time to
recover.

It is a wonder to all he did not get it anywhere else. I drove him to
the hospital with our Lieutenant and waited until they extracted the
eclat, and am keeping it for him. It went through the wooden wall,
through the blankets and carried a piece of blanket into the wound.
Then another of the fellows lying opposite received a hard scratch, but
only a scalp wound.

Our Brigadier, or Quartermaster, who keeps tires, etc., was sleeping
in a little shed within seven feet of the hit, and when we all rushed
over we heard him groaning, and I broke in the door to find him on the
floor. He was hit in three places, a long piece in his side and one
little piece piercing his backbone. He is dead now. Our barracks is
riddled with holes from the eclat. The hole is about three feet deep
and very narrow, the eclat spreading in all directions. There were all
told eight bombs dropped around us.

  Sept. 26, 1917.

One did not explode and can be seen in the ground near a stable. If
it had exploded it would have no doubt killed many horses. That was a
pretty close call for all of us, no doubt being brought on by the new
gun position. One of the guns, by the way, was the one that silenced
the German gun that used to shell Dunkirk, being able to shell twenty
to twenty-five miles.

We just gave them a most successful attack when every objective was
gained besides 6,000 to 7,000 prisoners--174 officers were taken. We
assisted Section 18 of the American Ambulance and I worked from 11
o'clock Sunday to Wednesday at 7 P.M., and during that time
had only about seven hours sleep. But strange as it may seem, no doubt,
the excitement and all, I did not feel sleepy or tired but as fresh
as if I never had worked. We secured our meals after a fashion, often
times missing some.

The wonderful part is the few wounded other than very slight wounds
upon the French side. The Boche said the artillery work was awful. One
English speaking person said he had no food for three days and of a
battalion of 1,000 men only twenty-one were left. The food they are
getting is very poor and very little and every one was tickled to death
to be a prisoner.

Some of the strangest sights were the Germans working as brancardiers
helping to carry the wounded. One instance which I photographed was a
Boche coming down the road helping a wounded Frenchman. Another was
five prisoners coming down from the post of secours that we moved up to
as soon as the position had advanced, which before was on the three
line trenches, came down the road without any guard at all. They just
told them to walk to the next village. It is all so wonderful; never
have I been so close or in such an interesting place.

From our post secours, which by the way has been advanced again to the
spot which before the attack was no man's land--you can see all the
French lines being on the side hill, the Boche positions being on top.
Now advanced about four kilometres. This attack we have been through
makes up for the long repose we have had. Our division was not in the
attack, only one regiment, and we only assisted Section 18, but they
are a white livered bunch and our section did duty continually while
they sat around telling their weird tales of gas and having to work so
long without sleep, &c. Far from the spirit all section four has, who
were fighting all the time for more work. All the time grumbling did
not have enough.

One man who is dying now I heard is to get the Medaille Militaire, the
very highest honor the army has, and is only bestowed upon the men when
there is no chance for them. Some section we have, haven't we? Now
another of our boys will receive the Croix de Guerre medal. He came
down one portion of the road usually shelled with three couchés and one
assis on the seat beside him. As he came down they were dropping them
in. The boys were tiring and replacing the cars in between the shots,
which came at 2½ minute intervals, and one broke near him, wounding
the assis beside him.

A piece of eclat caught our man in the arm, making a slight flesh wound
and leaving a piece of wood in it. It had passed through a part of the
body of the car and blew this wood into him. He had enough gas in the
feed pipe to carry him about a hundred feet outside of the zone when
another of our section cars came along and took his assis, who by now
was a couché down for a dressing. Our man stopped a carrier and had
them take his blessés back to the post while he tried to start his
car, but was unsuccessful. He ran down a trench through the falling
shells from another post of secours with a note to our post telling
that everything was O. K., and the wounded taken care of. They took him
to the hospital, and he is now back with us, but not in service for a
while. He is to get a medal.

We are certainly being hammered up a bit, but think the worst is over,
so there is absolutely no need to worry about me, as I haven't come
near anything yet. Pershing and Pétain were down the road while the
attack was on, and also our post was visited by a Regular American Army
Medical Colonel while we were in action. It is now all over and the
service is to be taken over by the American Army. I don't know what
difference it will make with us. Since last night's fracas we are to
have a guard posted all night to warn us of any more raids so we can
get into our trench, which is more than safe against any repetition.

An English speaking boche gave me a photo postal card of himself and
mate and gave the date and place and signed his name. I have a boche
gas mask and many buttons and shoulder-straps. The boches do not
recognize hospitals plainly marked with red cross, since they threw
bombs on a nearby hospital, burning up four buildings, killing 170 and
wounding forty-one. 'Tis one of the hospitals we evacuated too, but
now is being evacuated by a French section. A British section of the
best which has been in this section with the French army two years and
has been twice cited in army orders was hit and one couché killed and
four were wounded and the driver only a slight flesh wound during the
attack. Strange to say, so many ambulances always come clear. Their
speed helps. Good luck to you all.




Transcriber's Notes


Obvious errors of punctuation and diacritics repaired.

Inconsistent hyphenation fixed.

P. 32: inentinguishable sparks -> inextinguishable sparks.

P. 36: Rojanskq -> Rojansky.

P. 64: imposible on this road -> impossible on this road.

P. 91: our of harm's way -> out of harm's way.

P. 111: througout the country -> throughout the country.

P. 115: Clare, the Admiral -> Claire, the Admiral.

P. 148: mightly indignant -> mightily indignant.

P. 155: writ-the -> written.

P. 156: no large than an average mouse -> no larger than an average
mouse.

P. 166: inedible yellow stains -> indelible yellow stains.

P. 172: Péry -> Pévy.

P. 204: XIII--AT AMERICAN EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS -> XIII--AT THE
AMERICAN EMBASSY IN BRUSSELS.

P. 229: the countryside files by -> the countryside flies by.

P. 244: the invariable ananswer -> the invariable answer.

P. 249: Gen. Peltier -> Gen. Pelletier.

P. 251: such glorious sirvice -> such glorious service.

P. 278: a speel with a tank -> a spell with a tank.

P. 312: Odyssy -> Odyssey.

P. 316: the most inaccessible mines -> the most inaccessible mines.

P. 332: "V--" added to subtitle.

P. 350: was not entirely demonished -> was not entirely demolished.

P. 358: brancardiens -> brancardiers.

P. 358: post of securs -> post of secours.