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 THE LIBRARIES 
 
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.REVTF.WSCOMf ANY 
 MEW 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 Quioxte," the "Arabian Nights," 
 Dante's "Inferno," Milton's "Paradise Lost, and Re- 
 gained"— all the legends and tales of the world's liter- 
 ature 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 day£ 
 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 imagina- 
 tion 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 Head- 
 quarters of one of the armies estimates that more than 
 a million and a half diaries are being kept by the soldiers. 
 
ii True Stories of the Great IV ar 
 
 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 his- 
 toric 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 — per- 
 sonal letters, records of personal experiences, reminis- 
 cences, 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 innumer- 
 able 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, al- 
 though 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 epi- 
 sodes 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 Amer- 
 ican troops in France. Diplomats tell of the scenes at 
 the outbreak of the war; despatch bearers relate their 
 
Introductory m 
 
 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. Emis- 
 saries 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 over- 
 threw 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 ad- 
 ventures. 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 hor- 
 ror 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" ; 
 
hr True Stories of the Great War 
 
 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 ; wit- 
 nesses 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 spirit- 
 ual 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 cruci- 
 fixion and stood before Calvary ; they have caught a 
 glimpse of something finer, nobler, truer than their own 
 individual existence. Through suffering and self-sacri- 
 fice 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 tell- 
 ing humorous tales of their suffering; there is irony, 
 cajolery, good-natured satire, and loud outbursts of 
 laughter. And there is tenderness in them — kindness, 
 
Introductory v 
 
 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 pub^ 
 lishing houses, but it is the American publishers who are 
 performing the greatest service in the preservation of war 
 literature. We have given consideration wherever pos- 
 sible 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 origi- 
 nal sources, it is a pleasure to state that our Americart 
 periodicals have been given the preference. They cor- 
 dially 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 Libra-y; Mr. 
 Walter R. Bickford, former managing editor of The 
 Journal of American History ; and the staff of inves- 
 tigators 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 "Intro- 
 ductory" 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 179 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 STORV-TELLERS-170 EPISODES 
 
 STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO CAUSED THE WORLD 
 
 WAR 1 
 
 "HOW I MET THE KAISER, CROWN PRINCE AND ARCH- 
 DUKE" 
 Told by Hall Caine 
 (Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company) 
 
 MY VISIT TO KING ALBERT— THE KINO WHOSE THRONE IS 
 
 THE HEARTS OF HIS PEOPLE 8 
 
 "I AM BOUND ON A MISSION FROM THE PRESIDENT QF 
 
 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) 
 
 (Volume I) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 MY EXPERIENCES IN THE WAR HOSPITALS OF RUMANIA 44 
 
 THE HORRORS OF THE LITTLE BALKAN KINGDOM 
 Told by Queen Marie of Rumania 
 (Permission of Philadelplua 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 «7 
 
 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 SCHLESWIO 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) 
 
 (Volume I) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 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 OP 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 249 
 
 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 GER- 
 MAN 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 MEDLAEVAL 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) 
 
 (Volume I) 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 TALES FROM SIBERIA-WHEN THE PRISON DOORS OPENED 316 
 
 JOURxXEY 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" srs 
 
 "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) 
 
^^3 
 
 m^% 
 
 hoto by International News Service. 
 
 ON OBSERVATION DUTY 
 
 A Better Defense Against Enemy Eyes Than Against Bullets or Shells ! 
 
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 FORWARD ! 
 
 [> Minutes hater These Britishers Were in the Qermart 
 
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STORIES OF THE THREE MEN WHO 
 CAUSED THE WORLD WAR 
 
 "How I Met the Kaiser, Crown Prince and 
 Archduke" 
 
 Told hy Hall CainCy 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 human- 
 ity. 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 /. B. Lippincott Company: Copyright, 1915. 
 
 * 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 
 
 *A11 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. 
 
 I 
 
2 Stories of the Three Men Who Caused the World War 
 
 fight. Particularly it was believed in Berlin (not alto- 
 gether 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 justi- 
 fied 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. 
 
stories of the Three Men Who Caused the World War 3 
 
 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 Ameri- 
 can doctor lost control. "Sir," he said, "in my country 
 we have a saying that one bad practitioner is wortli 
 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 Ger- 
 man army had been summoned to say what they thought 
 of the Royal manoeuvers. All had formed an unfavour- 
 able 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 
 
4 Stories of the Three Men Who Caused the World War 
 
 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. J'Very well, if they must, they must," he is re- 
 ported 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. Sub- 
 sequent 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 suspi- 
 cion 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 esti- 
 mates of his character. The barbed-wire fence of pro- 
 tective ceremony which usually surrounds Royal person- 
 ages, concealing their little human foibles, was period- 
 ically 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 
 
Stories of the Three MeniWho Caused the World War 5 
 
 snows of the Engadine for health or pleasure. In that; 
 stark environment I myself, in common with many oth- 
 ers, 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 dis- 
 tinction, whether physical, moral, or mental. The figure, 
 long rather than tall; the hatchet face, the selfish eyes, 
 the meaningless mouth, the retreating forehead, the van- 
 ishing 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 de- 
 pends — 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. 
 
6 Stories of the Three Men Who Caused the World War 
 
 III— PEN-PORTRAIT OF THE ARCHDUKE 
 FERDINAND 
 
 Then the Archduke Ferdinand of Austro-Hungar}% 
 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, stifif-set, heavy-jawed, with a 
 strong step, and a short manner; obviously proud, re- 
 served, silent, slightly imperious, self-centred, self-opin- 
 ionated, 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, cus- 
 toms, 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. Other- 
 wise it might be possible to justify this estimate of his 
 
Stories of the Three Men Who Caused the World War y 
 
 character by the narration of little incidents, and one 
 such, though trivial in itself, may perhaps bear descrip- 
 tion. 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 judg- 
 ment of a man whose bemuddled intellect cannot dis- 
 tinguish 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.) 
 
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 hy 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 Cap- 
 tain 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 sub- 
 ordinate post, one much below the dignity of my five rows of 
 gold braid." With his masterful touch Pierre Loti is immor- 
 talizing 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, /. B. Ltppincott Company: Copyright 1917. 
 
 I_"ON MY WAY TO GENERAL HEADQUAR- 
 TERS 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 
 IKing Albert, I pass through Furnes, another town wan- 
 tonly and savagely bombarded, where at this hour of the 
 
 8 
 
My Visit to King Albert 9 
 
 day there is a raging storm of icy wind, snow, rain, and 
 hail, under a black sky. , . , i , 
 
 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-hum- 
 ouredly, 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 communi- 
 cated 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 Ufe, 
 combined with good food, has bronzed the cheeks of 
 these men whom the shrapnel has spared, but their prin- 
 cipal 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. 
 
10 My Visit to King Albert 
 
 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 dis- 
 tance 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 wait- 
 ing to "down" the Boches. And I should like so much 
 to make a detour 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 recog- 
 nise 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 
 
My Visit to King Albert II 
 
 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 brother- 
 liness. 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 drip- 
 ping service-caps. What numbers of soldiers there are 
 in the smallest villages, Belgian and French, very frater- 
 nally intermingling. By what wonderful organisation ot 
 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 
 
12 My Visit to King Albert 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill— "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 Majeste), 
 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 simplicitv 
 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 cor- 
 ridor 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 surpris- 
 ing 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 
 
My Visit to King Albert 13 
 
 pomp, in spite of the splendour of some of their palaces, 
 I have never yet felt such reverence for sovereign maj- 
 esty 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 "in- 
 terview." 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 ex- 
 
14 My Visit to King Albert 
 
 quisite 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?" 
 
 Nov/ we talk about the Dardanelles, where in this hour 
 serious issues hang in the balance ; he is pleased to ques- 
 tion me about ambushes in those parts, which I fre- 
 quented 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 him- 
 self 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 al- 
 ready 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 beginniiig, 
 did not seem designated for the throne, and who, per- 
 haps, 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 
 
My Visit to King Albert 15 
 
 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 confi- 
 dence 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 rev- 
 erence. 
 
 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 bar- 
 barism. 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 
 
1 6 My Visit to King Albert 
 
 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 con- 
 cert of sympathy, enthusiasm, magnificent appreciation, 
 and for whom are stored up crowns of most pure and 
 immortal glory. 
 
 V— A LITTLE JOURNEY TO THE BATTLE- 
 GROUNDS 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 abso- 
 lutely and infinitely alone, in the midst of this stage set- 
 ting 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, 
 
Journey to Battlegrounds of France 17 
 
 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 excava- 
 tions — 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 hun- 
 dreds 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 cen- 
 turies. 
 
 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 pos- 
 sibly 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 ter- 
 ribly reinforced them, multiplying them twice, nay, ten 
 times, since my last passage, these stake nets, and our 
 
i8 Journey to Battlegrounds of France 
 
 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 cease- 
 lessly 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 shel- 
 tered 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 
 
Journey to Battlegrounds of France 19 
 
 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 unceas- 
 ingly 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 
 
20 
 
 Journey to Battlegrounds of France 
 
 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 under- 
 ground 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 stead- 
 ily ; 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." 
 
 Vn—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 
 
Journey to Battlegrounds of France 21 
 
 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 hand- 
 some 20-year-old face, which is at the same time vigor- 
 ous 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 ? 
 
22 Journey to Battlegrounds of France 
 
 I see on his breast the handkerchief with which they 
 tried to cover his face; it is of fine Hnen, embroidered 
 with a Marquis's coronet — the coronet of one of his 
 bearers. He had wanted "to go on seeing things," doubt- 
 less 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. 
 
k 
 
 TIVE LA FRANCE' —HOW MEN DIE 
 FOR THEIR COUNTRY 
 
 Last Messages of French Soldiers 
 
 Told hy 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 
 
 23 
 
24 ''Vive La France'' 
 
 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 beard- 
 less 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 com- 
 rades 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 !" 
 
"Vive La France" 25 
 
 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 unre- 
 proaching eyes and answered me : "On the one side, and 
 on the other, I fear nothmg!" 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 hy Maurice Barres, m memory of Max Bar thou, 
 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 ex- 
 amines himself as to what his duty and his honour de- 
 mand. 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 ? 
 
26 "Vive La France" 
 
 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 work- 
 man at the front, who, from the neighbourhood of Pont- 
 a-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. Lis- 
 ten rather! I shall speak to the Prussians only in dia- 
 lect, and they won't understand a word. Do you also 
 
"Vive La France'' 27 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren, 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 
 
28 ''Vive La France" 
 
 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 Flor- 
 ence, 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 heav- 
 ens. 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 myste- 
 rious 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, 
 
 29 
 
30 For God and Italy 
 
 like the fisherman walking barefooted on the beach cov- 
 ered 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 Knos- 
 sus, 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, tonight 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 sup- 
 port 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 com- 
 manders 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. 
 
For God end Italy 31 
 
 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 per- 
 fumed 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 nos- 
 trils. 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 ManeUi used in 
 the epistle he sent to Leonard Strozzi when the Genoese 
 were vanquished by the navy of the Venetians and Flo- 
 rentines. 
 
 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 gun- 
 wale, 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, pro- 
 tected 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 wea- 
 pons and contrivances, and full of alert men. In order 
 
3^ For God and Italy 
 
 to go from stern to prow it is necessary to crouch, bend, 
 pass under a greasy torpedo, leap over outstretched sail- 
 ors, 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 grasp- 
 ing the railing. 
 
 I ascend the bridge. We are already clear of the an- 
 chorage. 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 inentinguishable 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 im- 
 mense silver rake. 
 
 The commander is against the railing, leaning out to- 
 ward darkness, with his whole soul in his scrutinizing 
 eyes. Now and then he turns his ruddy face and trans- 
 mits an order with exact and sharp words. The helms- 
 man 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 engme room. "Four— Three—Zero." 
 
For God and Italy 33 
 
 We are making twenty-three knots an hour. The foam 
 of the great wake gUtters 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, fig- 
 uring 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. 
 
 Ill— A DRAMATIC MOMENT IN THE NIGHT 
 
 Impatience gnaws my heart. I strain my sight to dis- 
 cern in the darkness the signal which has been prear- 
 ranged. 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 com- 
 mander is furious. Orders are megaphoned and every 
 word seems to crowd the adventurous air with danger. 
 The manoeuvre is executed with sort of rhythmic pre- 
 cision. 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. 
 
34 For God and Italy 
 
 "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 1" 
 
 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 Invitfo leads." 
 
 His clear orders through a series oT manoeuvres draw 
 away the flotilla from the shallow waters and on to the 
 safe course. Beyond, on the shore, the enemy's search- 
 lights are seen crossing each other like white blades. Un- 
 der 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 fun- 
 nels are our despair. They still emit too much smoke and 
 
For God and Italy 35 
 
 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 shatter- 
 ing 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 battle- 
 ships rent and sinking. 
 
 "Four — Three — Three — Zero." 
 
 We assume our position at the head of the line, re- 
 turning 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 cofifee, 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 hy 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 trans- 
 lation of excerpts from this diary, translated from the Russian 
 by Miss I. Rojanskq 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 black- 
 ened 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 
 
 36 
 
The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 37 
 
 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— *1 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 Gali- 
 cian 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 depar- 
 ture, troops commenced appearing in the immediate 
 neisfhborhood. At first came small detachments, but these 
 were quickly followed by more formidable bodies. In 
 a short time lines of uenches were dug on both sides 
 of the farm and real warfare began. 
 
 The firing v/as 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 
 
38 The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 
 
 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 shoul- 
 der. 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 re- 
 mained 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. 
 
 Ill— "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 re- 
 mained lying there, silenced by everlasting sleep. 
 
 There was no one to bury the bodies, and they grad- 
 ually 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 
 
The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 39 
 
 firing line rather than be stifled in this horrible atmosphere 
 of death and stench. 
 
 The engagements, having lasted several vveeks, became 
 more and more stubborn. The trenches crept nearer and 
 nearer, until they resembled two live, gigantic horns about 
 10 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 tran- 
 spires in the enemy line and do not allow to pass with 
 im.punity 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 cow- 
 ardly. He always tried to conceal his cowardice under a 
 ma^k of arrogancsi, 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 
 
40 The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 
 
 of the garden hung a thick, milky fog. The feet sank 
 deep into the sticky, soaking mud. The Lieutenant's as- 
 sistant 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 ob- 
 ject was only 200 yards, it seemed to them from time to 
 time as if they had lost their bearings and were goin^ 
 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 envel- 
 oped m fog. 
 
 Reaching a corner of the house, the Lieutenant stopped 
 short, drew from his ulster a big field revolver and whis- 
 pered 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 dan- 
 ger 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 con- 
 flagration. 
 
 With this in view, he gave orders to his subordinate to 
 pile up straw on the side of the building directlv 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 
 I he poor Lieutenant was in a state of frenzy. It was 
 not the personal danger alone that now excited his imagi- 
 nation. He was tormented by the mystic fear of that 
 
The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 41 
 
 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 de- 
 composition? 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 Rus- 
 sian 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 hngered a lonely arm, curled, swollen, and 
 
42 The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 
 
 slightly lifted, it hung in a threatening posture ; from un- 
 der 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 pandemo- 
 nium 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 hos- 
 pitals. 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 m 
 
The Blood of the Russians in Fight for Liberty 43 
 
 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 remember- 
 ing 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 Ire- 
 land. 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 de- 
 voting 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 coun- 
 try 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. 
 
 44 
 
My Experiences in the War Hosp'tals 45 
 
 . . . 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, dis- 
 tressed 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 
 
46 My Experiences in the War Hospitals 
 
 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 disap- 
 peared. 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 
 v/ould be realized; especially I wondered how many 
 would come back. . . . 
 
 The sun had set, the smoke had dissolved into noth- 
 ing; the voices of my soldiers were but a remembrance 
 . . . slowly I turned my foot toward home. . . . 
 
 Ill— "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 fo come 
 among them, each soldier desirous to see his Queen. . . . 
 
 Nerer do I leave a call unanswered; everywhere do I 
 go ; no sight js too sad, no fatigue is too great, no way 
 too long, but sometimes it h 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, 
 tay my fingers upon heated brows, gaze into dying eyes, 
 
My Experiences in the War nospitals 47 
 
 listen to whispered words — and everywhere the same 
 wish follows me : "May you become Empress — Empress 
 of all the Rumanians 1" Stiffening lips murmur it to me, 
 hopeful voices cry it out to me ; it goes with me wherever 
 I move : "What matters our sufiferng as long as you be- 
 come Empress — Empress of all the Rumanians!" In- 
 finitely 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 suffer- 
 ings ; 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. 
 
48 My Experiences in the War Hospitals 
 
 Then, as though from very far, came the words, the 
 same brave words: "May the great God protect you. 
 May He let you Hve 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 sufifering 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 .cfreat 
 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 hy Sven Hedin, Noted Swedish Explorer — Aw- 
 
 thorized Translation from the Swedish 
 
 hy H, G. Dew alt erst or if 
 
 This is one of the most remarkable narratives of the War. It is 
 a great historical record, as well as a fascinating story of per- 
 sonal 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. 
 
 * l_"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 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 in original sources. 
 
 49 
 
50 "With the German Armies in the West'' 
 
 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 mourn- 
 ing for lost relatives and everybody's thoughts are cen- 
 tered 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 win- 
 dow-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 Tiergarten- 
 strasse, 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 every- 
 one'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 
 
'With the German Armies in the IVesf' 51 
 
 to my journey. It was desirable that no one in a re- 
 sponsible 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 sim- 
 ple one. Only a few days' journey away the greatest war 
 of all time was being waged. It was clear that the out- 
 come of this struggle would decide the political develop- 
 ment for the next fifty or hundred years, or perhaps 
 longer. In any case its shadows must envelop the re- 
 mainder 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 com- 
 pany, 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 in- 
 coming papers, orders, reports and communications. The 
 soldiers record their own personal experiences, the officers 
 their military observations. Many a note-book has no 
 doubt protected a heart or checked the death-dealing bul- 
 let. Thus the sections of the German General Staff, 
 whose task it will be in due course to prepare the ma- 
 terials, 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. 
 
52 "With the German Armies in the West'' 
 
 II— "I MEET HERR VON ZIMMERMANN" 
 
 — I am standin^s^ on the doorstep and ringing the bell 
 at the Foreign Office at y6 Wilhelmstrasse, Berlin. 
 
 The Under Secretary of State, Herr von Zimmer- 
 mann, 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 Head- 
 quarters. 
 
 "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 Staflf, 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 Ex- 
 cellency 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 Im- 
 perial Volunteer Automobile Corps to the Main Head- 
 quarters. Everything that can in any way expedite his 
 journey is to be placed at his disposal." 
 
"With the German Armies in the West'* 53 
 
 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 i8th 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 Taiibes 
 in their canvas sheds. . . . 
 
 Now we begin to look about. Yes, it is obvious that 
 the Main Headquarters are still at Luxemburg. Sea- 
 tries 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 charm- 
 ing Swedish Countess has just sat down to dinner at the 
 Kolnischer 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 
 
54 *'With the German Armies in the West" 
 
 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 Em- 
 peror, 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 every- 
 thing for my journey, and I was shortly to receive de- 
 tails 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 Lieu- 
 tenant-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 ap- 
 paratus 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 
 
"With the German Armies in the West" 55 
 
 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, re- 
 sided at the Kolnischer 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 fol- 
 lowing 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, Lieu- 
 tenant-General von Gontard, Acting General a 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 noth- 
 ing is carried for show. Among the Emperor's suite I 
 recognized a couple of old acquaintances, the Headquar- 
 ters Commandant, Adjutant-General, Colonel-General 
 
56 "With the German Armies in the West" 
 
 von Plessen, and the President of the Navy Council, Ad- 
 miral von Miiller, of Swedish descent, who spoke Swed- 
 ish as fluently as German. The others were his Excel- 
 lency von Treutler and Lieutenant-General Baron 
 Marschall, Colonel von Mutius, acting aide-de-camp, the 
 Princes Pless and Arnim and the Emperor's body-physi- 
 cian, 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 personal- 
 ity. 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," * 
 says the German army to its Fatherland. And here in 
 our midst stands its supreme war-lord, a picture of man- 
 liness, 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 wait- 
 ing 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, 
 
 * From the line "Lieh Vaterland mapst ruhiq sein'* ("Be undis- 
 mayed, dear Fatherland"), in Die Wacht am Rhein. 
 
"With the German Armies in the West" 57 
 
 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 al- 
 ways 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 in- 
 terrupted by questions delivered with lightning precision, 
 which one must endeavor to answer equally quickly and 
 clearly. A good answer never fails to elicit the Em- 
 peror'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 heart- 
 ily that his shoulders shake with it. 
 
 At the Emperor's bidding we passed into the dining- 
 room. Admiral von Miiller sat on the left, I on the right 
 of our august host, and opposite him was Adjutant-Gen- 
 eral 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 Eu- 
 rope. . . . 
 
58 'With the German Armies in the West'* 
 
 On a table in the chancellerie were cigars and ciga- 
 rettes round a lighted candle. Here the conversation was 
 continued with zest and vigor, and jest and earnest, hor- 
 rors of war and funny stories were all jumbled together; 
 finally the Emperor took his leave, wishing me a suc- 
 cessful and instructive trip, and went up to his apart- 
 ments, 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 thini 
 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 
 Pnnce's Army. His name was Hans von Gwinner and 
 he is the son of the great banker and Bagdad Railway 
 magnate m Berlin. He was a wide-awake and capable 
 young fellow and drove his car himself. I sat down be- 
 side 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 
 franctirenrs. A whole lot of them had recently been 
 
"With the German Armies in the West" 59 
 
 caught by the Fifth Army and shot without hesita- 
 tion. ... 
 
 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 wel- 
 come 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 
 chateau, 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 friend- 
 ships. 
 
 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 apart- 
 ments. 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 at- 
 tractive 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 for- 
 tunate 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 
 
6o ''With the German Armies in the West" 
 
 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 sol- 
 diers, the ceremony being precisely the same as with the 
 officers ; but I found it hard to distinguish what the sol- 
 diers said in their loud, rough and nervous voices. At 
 last I distinguished the words: Danke untertdnigst Kai- 
 serliche Hoheit (I humbly thank your Imperial High- 
 ness). 
 
 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- 
 <jeneral 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 Miiller, 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 horse- 
 radish 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 
 
"IViih tJie German Armies in ike West" bi 
 
 we traveled over almost the whole world with the ease 
 bred by familiarity. The Crown Prince, like the Em- 
 peror, began with Tibet, and from there it was but a 
 step across the Himalayas to the palms of the Hugh 
 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 Mala- 
 bar 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 Om.- 
 durman 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 
 tonight 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 satis- 
 factory 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 Detaille 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 
 
62 'With the German Armies in the West'* 
 
 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 Headquar- 
 ters! 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 chateau 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 chateau, her estates and the beautiful park in the 
 same condition as when she went away. There was a 
 certain aristocratic grandeur about the chateau, though 
 signs of decay were already making themselves appar- 
 ent. 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 out- 
 side. 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. . . . 
 
'With the German Armies in the Wesf 63 
 
 VIII— WITH THE GERMAN SOLDIERS— "TO 
 VICTORY OR DEATH" 
 
 But events move all too fast. Observations and im- 
 pressions 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 in- 
 numerable 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 ciga- 
 rettes, 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 com- 
 rades. They are Ersatztruppen, i.e., reinforcements, but 
 I do not see a single face which betrays the slightest feel- 
 ing 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. Ersatztriippen! it means that their 
 duty is to replace the fallen, and that the same fate awaits 
 themselves. Yet they are gay and happy. ''Duke et de- 
 corum 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 
 
64 "With the German Armies in the West'* 
 
 sling. We meet an empty ammunition column, an end- 
 less 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 2i-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 exert- 
 ing themselves unduly. They move at a walking pace — 
 anything else would be imposible 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 travel- 
 ling these endless columns are an impressive and attrac- 
 tive 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 
 
"With the German Armies in the IV est" 65 
 
 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 war- 
 riors, 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 suffi- 
 cient. "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 vised 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. 
 
66 "With the German Armies in the Wesf* 
 
 when the aristocratic-looking cars, bearing the mark, 
 General Oher 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 in- 
 fantry 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 roar- 
 ing sea of loud hurrahs. Gradually the ranks thinned 
 out and finally came the stragglers — for there are foot- 
 sore 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. 
 
"With the German Armies in the IVesf 67 
 
 The spirits of the company were as cheerful and uncon- 
 strained as usual; though one would have expected high- 
 sounding speeches, toasts and cheering. 
 
 Dinner had been going on for some time when Pro- 
 fessor 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 under- 
 neath 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 re- 
 covery. 
 
 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 Com- 
 mand of the Army again drove up to the chateau. 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. 
 
68 "With the German Armies in the West" 
 
 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 fore- 
 noon 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 '-Iter out of his pocket and asked me to read it through 
 . .» .efully. Whilst His Majesty was talking to his suite, 
 c read the letter. It was addressed to the Emperor per- 
 onally 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 Maj- 
 esty 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 
 
"With the German Armies in the West" 69 
 
 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 he -- 
 but the numerous posts stationed on the road tool^ v 
 much of our time. It was five minutes to eight whc^ 
 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 gen- 
 eral — a born strategist and a thoroughly schooled soldier. 
 As regards appearance, manner and speech, he is fas- 
 cinating and congenial in the highest degree, neither regal 
 nor humble, but without artifice and modest like an ordi- 
 nary mortal. When one knows that he has recently 
 experienced the greatest private sorrow which could be- 
 fall 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 
 
yo 'With the German Armies in the West ' 
 
 he grieves over the death of the Httle prince of thirteen, 
 the darHng 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 phys- 
 ical 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-humour- 
 ously : "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 him- 
 self 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 him- 
 self. 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 
 
'With the German Armies in the West" 71 
 
 of me, he extended his hand across the table and cried 
 gaily:' ''Giiten Tag, mein licber 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 Lowenstein at his left. 
 Right opposite the Emperor sat the Crown Prince— the 
 host— with Colonel-General von Plessen, Adjutant-Gen- 
 eral, at his right and myself at his left. Next to me on 
 the other side was Ueut.-General von Marschall, with 
 Colonel Tappen, of the Crown Prince's staff, on his left. 
 To the left of Prince Lowenstein 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 gentle- 
 men 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 m 
 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 whim- 
 sical 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 
 
'J2 "With the German Armies in the West'* 
 
 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 mar- 
 shalling 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 light- 
 ning 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 bombard- 
 ment of Ostend. 
 
 It was past half-past ten when the Emperor laid down 
 his cigar and rose to say good-bye with that vigorous 
 hand-shake 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. 
 
"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 Argyll 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 drawmg 
 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 Magasine. In 
 a letter to his publishers, Capt. Beith describes the circum- 
 stances under which he is writing: "I write this from the 
 stone floor of an outhouse, where the pigmeal is first accumu- 
 lated 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. 
 
 73 
 
74 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 ♦ 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, diffi- 
 cult 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 pin- 
 cushion. 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 Armentieres. 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 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 in original sources. 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 75 
 
 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 Zacchseus. 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 Zacchseus. 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. Zacchaeus 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 bv a whirring- snueak overhead. Then 
 comes an earth-shaking crash a mile behind us. We whip 
 
76 "The First Hundred Thousand'* 
 
 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 in- 
 terest in the proceedings, and retire to our dugouts, ho- 
 ping 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 Zacchseus and 
 Unter den Linden — including Minnie — that we mainly 
 rely for excitement. 
 
 Ill— 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 pro- 
 ceed 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 bur- 
 
*'The First Hundred Thousand'' 77 
 
 dened 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," repHed 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 detour. 
 
 At this Ayling's Number One, who was carry mg a 
 machine-gun tripod weighing forty-eight pounds, said 
 something-— something distressingly audible— and groaned 
 
 deeply. , 
 
 "If we'd come the way I wanted," contmued the guide, 
 much pleased with the effect of his words upon his audi- 
 ence, "we'd a' been there by now. But the Adjutant, 'e 
 
 savs to me " 
 
 '"If we had come the way you wanted, mterrupted 
 Ayling brutally, "we should probably have been in King- 
 dom Come bv now. Hurry up!" Ayling, in common 
 with the rest of those present, was not in the best of tem- 
 pers, and the loquacity of the guide had been jarring upon 
 him foi some time. 
 
 The Cockney private, with the air of a deeply-wronged 
 man, sulkily led on, followed by the dolorous procession. 
 Anothei 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 mud- 
 diest opening and plunged down it. For two hundred 
 yards or so he continued serenely upon his way, with 
 
78 "The First Hundred Thousand'' 
 
 the air of one exhibiting the metropoHs 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 them- 
 selves 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 si- 
 lent 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 ta 
 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 po- 
 lite 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, mak- 
 ing one last effort to redeem his prestige, "as 'ow " 
 
''The First Hundred Thousand" 79 
 
 "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 
 of?, 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 l" 
 
 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-gun- 
 ners, who in the fullness of time will convey their voluble 
 weapon to its forward extremity, and "loose oflF a belt or 
 two" in the direction of a rather dangerous hollow mid- 
 way between the trenches, from which of late mysterious 
 
8o "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 sounds of digging and guttural talking have been de- 
 tected 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 micro- 
 phone. 
 
 Behind the firing trench even greater activity pre- 
 vails. Damage done to the parapet by shell fire is being 
 repaired. Positions and emplacements are being con- 
 stantly 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 pathet- 
 ically 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 dug-outs, in the 
 firing trench or support trench, overheated company com- 
 manders 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 Head- 
 quarters 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 First Hundred Thousand'* 8i 
 
 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 night- 
 work 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 wil- 
 derness. But so long as each side confines itself to purely 
 defensive and recuperative work, there is little or no in- 
 terference. That slave of duty, Zacchaeus, keeps on peg- 
 ging away; and occasionally, if a hostile patrol shows it- 
 self too boldly, there is a little exuberance from a ma- 
 chine-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 
 yourc. 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 comoaratively 
 peaceful. But what is that sudden disturbance in the 
 
82 "The First Hundred Thousand'' 
 
 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 can- 
 not 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 them- 
 selves faint, and the Rugby football player has reason to 
 be thankful for his previous training in the art of "getting 
 through the scrum." How^ever perfect your organiza- 
 tion 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 regi- 
 ment could be found to replace it. Our own first bat- 
 talion once remained in the trenches, unrelieved and only 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 83 
 
 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 o fthe 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 im- 
 portant 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. ^^ 
 
 *T don't mind being kept in trenches for several weeks, 
 remarked their commander to the staff officer who re- 
 ceived 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 pack- 
 age, 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(i)." 
 
84 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 But the night is wearing on. It is half-past one — 
 time to knock off work. Tired men, returning from ra- 
 tion-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 speed- 
 ing our empty ration-wagons upon their homeward way. 
 Let them! So long as they refrain from practising di- 
 rect 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 straw- 
 berry-jam pinchers !" observes Private Tosh bitterly, roll- 
 ing into his dugout. By this opprobrious term he desig- 
 nates 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 cer- 
 tain 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 dark- 
 ness. 
 
 This is the favorite hour for attack. At any moment 
 the guns may open fire upon our parapet, or a solid wall 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 85 
 
 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 stand- 
 ing corn. But apparently there is nothing doing this 
 morning. The day grows brighter, but there is no move- 
 ment 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 mem- 
 ber 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 dubi- 
 ously. 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 
 
86 "The First Hundred Thousand'' 
 
 head with a bandanna handkerchief, "that a whiff of chlo- 
 rine or bromine wouldn't do these trenches a consider- 
 able amount of good. It would tone down some of the 
 deceased a bit, and wipe out these infernal flies. Wad- 
 dell, 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 morn- 
 ing 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 shav- 
 ing — he proceeds to "search" a tract of woodland in our 
 immediate rear, his quarry being a battery of motor ma- 
 chine-guns, which has wisely decamped some hours pre- 
 viously. Then, after scientifically "traversing" our sec- 
 ond 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 drop- 
 ping six "Black Marias" into the deserted ruins of a vil- 
 lage 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. 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 87 
 
 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. Yes- 
 terday three men were wounded; and owing to the im- 
 possibility 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, know- 
 ing 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 re- 
 flection, 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 bis- 
 cuit 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-00-oo-oo-UMP !" 
 
 — followed by a heavy thud upon the roof of his dug- 
 
88 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 out. Earth and small stones descend in a shower upon 
 
 "Dirty dogs!" he comments, looking at his watch 
 Ihen he puts his head out of the dugout. 
 
 "Lie close, you men !" he cries. "There's more of this 
 commg. 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 
 mto 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 
 mmutes later Bobby, having despatched his wounded to 
 the dressmg-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 bein^ 
 shelled from P 27. Retaliate !" 
 "Verra good, sirr." 
 
 The telephone orderly disappears, to return in five 
 mmutes. 
 
 "Major Cavanagh's compliments, sirr, and he is com- 
 mg up himself for tae observe from the firing trench " 
 
 "Good ^gg !" observes Captain Blaikie. "Now we shall 
 see some shooting, Bobby !" 
 
 Presently the Gunner major arrives, accompanied by 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 89 
 
 an orderly, who pays out wire as he goes. The major ad- 
 justs 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 tele- 
 phone by the Cockney orderly, in a confidential under- 
 tone. 
 
 "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 peri- 
 scope, cannot see the actual result of the shot, though he 
 tempts Providence (and Zacchaeus) by peering over the 
 top of the parapet. 
 
 "Number one, two-nothing minutes more right," com- 
 mands 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 
 
90 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 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 debris spring 
 up before the wood. Answer comes there none. The of- 
 fending 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 intro- 
 duce 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 diam- 
 eter, 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 dug- 
 out or parapet can stand against her.) 
 
 "Did she do much damage?" inquires the Gunner. 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" Qr 
 
 "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 men- 
 tioned." 
 
 "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, our 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 medi- 
 tatively. "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 WilHe'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 
 m.ornings 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 
 
92 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 about two every morning. The result is that we have to 
 mount guard over the breach all day. We build every- 
 thing 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. *T think 
 the best plan would be a couple of hours' solid fright- 
 fulness, from every battery we can switch on. To-mor- 
 row 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 attend- 
 ant escort of white shrapnel pufifs 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 after- 
 noon," replies Captain Wagstaife. "I think he has had 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 93 
 
 an eye-opener. There are no flies on our Divisional Ar- 
 tillery." 
 
 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-ex- 
 plosive shells directed into her suspected place of resi- 
 dence. 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 "plas- 
 tered" 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 Wagstaflfe. "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." 
 
 '7 was nearly a casualty," confessed Bobby modestly. 
 
 "How?" 
 
 "That first shell of ours nearly knocked my head oflf! 
 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 
 
94 ''The First Hundred Thousand'' 
 
 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 chateau. 
 
 It is a sadly transformed wood. The open space before 
 the chateau, once a smooth expanse of tennis-lawn, is 
 now a dusty picketing-ground for transport mules, desti- 
 tute 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 chateau gar- 
 dens, 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 pre- 
 centor'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 be- 
 hind the main firing line. A series of trenches zigzags 
 in and out among the trees, and barbed wire is interlaced 
 
"The First Hundred Thousand" 95 
 
 with the undergrowth. In the farthermost corner Hes an 
 improvised cemetery. Some of the inscriptions on the 
 Httle 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 Tom- 
 mies and Highland Jocks, side by side with their Ca- 
 nadian kith and kin. A little apart lie more graves, sur- 
 mounted 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 par- 
 ticularly pleasing and well-modulated voice. After that 
 he preached a modest and manly little sermon, contain- 
 ing 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 
 
96 "The First Hundred Thousand" 
 
 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 apologetic- 
 ally— 
 
 "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 ceme- 
 tery' — "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 prepa- 
 rations. 
 
 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 Con- 
 version 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 nar- 
 ratives of a trained novelist direct from the battlefield.) 
 
SOME EXPERIENCES IN HUNGARY 
 
 In the Palace of Prince and Princess K 
 
 By Mina Macdonaldy 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 Hun- 
 garian Prince who resided in the vicmity of Pressburg. This 
 gave her an opportunity of gauging the sentiments of those con- 
 nected with the House of Hapsburg. They discussed the War 
 with frankness in her presence. The family treated her pre- 
 cisely 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 dur- 
 ing 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. 
 
 * 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 repre- 
 sentatives of every race, religion, and political party to be 
 found in Austria and Hungary, keep the town like a 
 
 *A11 numerals relate to stories herein told— not to chapters 
 in the original sources. 
 
 97 
 
98 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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 school- 
 master and the inn-keeper, constitute the population of 
 village, are all dirty, drunken, hard-working, and intelli- 
 gent. 
 
 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 beauti- 
 ful, and Billy aged eighteen, large and dark and interested 
 in all things pertaining to sport; General T , round, 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 99 
 
 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 circum- 
 stances could make beautiful, and which became heart- 
 breaking when invariably pronounced there as **Sherry." 
 
 Everybody knew and liked Excellenz von R , vvho 
 
 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 coach- 
 man who had driven Excellencies to and from the Schloss 
 for the past twenty-five years, found it beneath his dig- 
 nity 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 eld bones 1 
 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-Aus- 
 trian, sniffed at this lack of breeding, and answered very 
 casually "So." Excellenz, though she was still weeping, 
 was ver>^ angry and shook her fist at Jan, but she got her 
 
100 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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 Excel- 
 lenz 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 Sara- 
 jevo." 
 
 "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 crea- 
 tion ! 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 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary loi 
 
 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." 
 
 Ill— GLIMPSES OF THE LIFE OF A PRINCESS 
 
 Excellenz von R during her stay in K re- 
 mained 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 
 
102 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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 be- 
 ing educated in the Convent of the Sacre Coeur in Buda- 
 pest, where all disliking her, the nuns advised her mother 
 to have the girl's education completed at home — an ad- 
 vice 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 actu- 
 ally established themselves in the large velvet chairs 
 placed for the Prince and Princess. Billy could not suc- 
 ceed in dislodging them, and Claire and I, on arrival, had 
 to use force — to the amusement of all the peasant chil- 
 dren — 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 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 103 
 
 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, "yo^ 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 rose- 
 bushes. He was Croatian and bitterly anti-Austrian. 
 
 "Ach Fraulein ! There are sad days coming, for that 
 wasn't an ultimatum that went to Serbia— it was a decla- 
 ration of war. The Serbs will f^ght, Fraulem. 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 offtcers-old General Putnik— that's a man ! They 11 
 beat us, Fraulein, and I'll have to go and fight against 
 them too-against my own race. Bah ! we re slaves here 
 in Austria." 
 
104 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 V— THE PRINCE WAS "IRRITATED BY THE 
 WAR" 
 
 Then came the Serbs' reply and the partial mobilisa- 
 tion 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 Coding 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 Einjahr- 
 igerfreiwilliger was a man of peace and did not appre- 
 ciate a Government which enforced days of warlike pur- 
 suits 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 Hun- 
 gary 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 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 105 
 
 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 mili- 
 tary 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 gesticu- 
 lating crowds of people — all soldiers and recruits were 
 drunk — the women- folk sobbing and screaming — the gip- 
 sies who lived in the town drunken and singing and danc- 
 ing 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 
 
io6 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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' geo- 
 graphical 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 be- 
 moaning 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 em.broidered 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." 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 107 
 
 "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-tem- 
 pered. 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 ist, 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 mahog- 
 any-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 
 
I08 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 Austria felt cross and shocked. How could France de- 
 clare 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 Poincare would be guillo- 
 tined for rushing his country into war like that. Oh, 
 yes,^ all were agreed, nothing was surer than that Poin- 
 care 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 be- 
 fore 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 sillv." 
 
 "There you are right," I said, "he probably would have 
 sold his country." 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 109 
 
 "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 Neiie 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 conflagra- 
 tion : that jealous of Germany's dangerously increasing 
 foreign trade, she sought to cripple it by a war, and ac- 
 cordingly 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, 
 
no Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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 smil- 
 ing, 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 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary iii 
 
 her absolution, and her enforced abstinence from commu- 
 nion 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, say- 
 ing, 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 througout the country over the imag- 
 inary 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 
 
112 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 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, Fraulein," very mournfully. 
 
 "They didn't expect you to believe it, I hope?" 
 
 But the Princess interrupted. "Don't ask these awk- 
 ward 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 Gartner, 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 Bul- 
 garian who had come from Moscow to Agram through 
 Roumania, and he says the Russian mobilisation is com- 
 plete, 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, High- 
 
Some Experiences in Hungary 113 
 
 ness, 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 game- 
 keeper 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 Hotzendorf expected the 
 whole Serbian army to be surrounded in a few days by 
 the Austrians under General Potiorek, who, in his capac- 
 ity of Military Governor of Bosnia, when the Archduke 
 and his wife w^ere 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 
 
114 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 Vienna. He was no longer young, but he was very enter- 
 prising, 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 greet- 
 ing 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 sug- 
 gest 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. 
 
Some Experiences, in Hungary 115 
 
 "Na, Fraulein; don't ask me that. To have that 
 known is as much as my hfe 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 Clare, the Admiral, and I went to tea t 
 Aunt Sharolta. 
 
 "Japan will regret what she has done," and in antici- 
 pation 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 re- 
 plied, 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 Eng-^ 
 
'l6 Some Experiences in Hungary 
 
 land, too ! Willy will teach them the lesson they need. 
 How^glad I am that no child of mine ever learned Eng- 
 lish !" By this time we were literally roaring with laugh- 
 ter, and he paused in surprise. "What are you all laugh- 
 ing 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 
 191 5, when, despite the efiforts of her kind host and host- 
 ess, 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.) 
 
"FORCED TO FIGHT"— THE TALE OF 
 A SCHLESWIG DANE 
 
 ''What My Eyes Witnessed in East Prussia'^ 
 
 Told hy 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. 
 
 * 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 Liege, the hor- 
 rors of the fight through Belgium, and the long strife 
 in the trenches of Flanders, had cost many men their 
 lives or their reason. . . . 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 in the original sources. 
 
 TT7 
 
Ii8 'Torccd to Fight" 
 
 I remember how Belgium was laid waste. But to 
 tell the truth, things were much the same in East Prus- 
 sia. Before the invasion, it was in many parts a mel- 
 ancholy country. But it looked more pitiable than 
 ever, as we marched through it, with the Russians re- 
 treating before us. Trampled fields, ploughed up by 
 shells, burnt farms, property wantonly injured or de- 
 stroyed, 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 touch- 
 ing 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 wretched- 
 ness. But it was home — the one fixed point in their 
 existence. If they once forsook that, they were ex- 
 posed 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 
 
"Forced to Fighr 119 
 
 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 be- 
 ing 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 them- 
 selves 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 be- 
 wilderment and despair at the downtrodden and ruined 
 country ; women lying down and trying to warm their 
 little ones at a naked, impoverished breast, or groan- 
 ing in misery and hopelessness over the dying eyes 
 
I20 "Forced to Fight" 
 
 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 tremb- 
 ling 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 vio- 
 lence. Old men are mocked and tortured, women out- 
 raged 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 jus- 
 tifiable, 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 
 
*' Forced to Fight" 121 
 
 have no murder or other deed of shame on my con- 
 science. 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 ap- 
 palled 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 allov/ed to say that 
 without being stamped as cruel and merciless? 
 
 There is, amongst my Russian experiences, an in- 
 cident 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, chas- 
 tising 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 atone- 
 ment 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 bil- 
 leted 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 
 
122 "Forced to Fight" 
 
 been taken and the corn trodden down. Many homes 
 were quite deserted, and no one knew where the in- 
 mates 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 Avas 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. 
 
 Ill— STORY OF A PRUSSIAN MOTHER 
 
 In one of the poorest of the small houses in the 
 
''Forced to Fight" 123 
 
 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 lit- 
 tle 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 
 
124 ^'Forced to Fighf 
 
 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 
 v/oman 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-rend- 
 ing 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, press- 
 ing 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 va- 
 cantly 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. 
 
"Forced to Fight" 125 
 
 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 star- 
 ing 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 lieu- 
 tenant came up. He tried to soothe her and patted 
 her shoulder, but every time he touched her she shud- 
 dered 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. Tray 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, 
 
126 "Forced to Fight" 
 
 and he kicked me along the floor. My husband was 
 lying murdered on the door-step; 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 pris- 
 oners as they passed by. 
 
 There was a strange, penetrating force in her eyes. 
 They burned like live coals. They flashed like ra- 
 piers. 
 
 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 !" 
 
''Forced to Fight" 127 
 
 At first the captive soldier stared at her in sur- 
 prise. Suddenly a wave of deep red sufTused 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 nar- 
 row 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 permis- 
 sible 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 appall- 
 ing things I saw, as something infinitely beautiful and 
 
 exalted. 
 
 I felt that at that moment I had seen cold, stern 
 
 Justice face to face. 
 
128 "Forced to Fighr 
 
 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 win- 
 dow-sills of the station-house. The faces of the sta- 
 tion-master's wife and children against the window- 
 panes. The smell of asphalte from the sun-baked plat- 
 form. 
 
 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. 
 
"Forced to Fight" 129 
 
 Then I jumped out of the carriage, and the next in- 
 stant 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 tremb- 
 ling voice: . , -.nr 1 
 
 ^'Oh, thank God we've got you back agam ! Wel- 
 come 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 m 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 vou are looking quite well." 
 
 "Yes', am I not?" I said. "Quite well— I thmk 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, fa- 
 miliar 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 
 
130 *' Forced to Fight" 
 
 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 fiancee 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 
 
"Forced to Fight" 131 
 
 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 fright- 
 ened 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 
 
132 "Forced to Fight" 
 
 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 chil- 
 dren 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.) 
 
"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 thriH of the charge, the depression of retreat, the elation 
 of outwitting a clever enemy and all the little incidents of hero- 
 ism, self-sacrifice and comradeship that have become common- 
 places in the daily lives of the British Tommies, are most in- 
 terestingly described in this Oxford man's account of "Adven- 
 tures of a Despatch Rider" by permission of his publishers, 
 Dodd, Mead and Company. 
 
 * I— STORIES OF THE SIGNAL OFFICE IN 
 NORTHERN FRANCE 
 
 It had been a melancholy day, full of rain and doubt- 
 ing nev/s. 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 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories told herein — not to chapters 
 in the book. 
 
 133 
 
134 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 
 
 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 differ- 
 ently. 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 CO. 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 high- 
 est 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 
 
''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 135 
 
 booming of guns and occasionally the terrific, overwhelm- 
 ing crash of a shell bursting in the village. 
 
 I was given a glass of wine. Cadell, the Brigade Sig- 
 nal 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 gen- 
 eral to work in some less unhealthy place. The telephone 
 operators moved, A moment's delay as the general en- 
 deavored 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— 'T 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 vil- 
 lage 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 vil- 
 lage 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 any- 
 where but in the cursed village of Festubert by Bethune. 
 There was another scream and overwhelming relief. The 
 
136 ^'Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 
 
 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 putre- 
 faction. 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 v/ant 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 rain- 
 ing 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 in- 
 fernal jerky clicking sound I have begun so to hate. 
 
"Adventures of a Despatch Rider'* 137 
 
 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 exhilarat- 
 ing. I have just had a talk with our mutual friend Ca- 
 dell, the Signal Officer of this brigade, and we have de- 
 cided 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 doubt- 
 less excellently executed trenches at Liberton. 
 
 The line to the * has just gone. It's almost cer- 
 tain 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, vv^ell ! 
 
 The shrapnel fire appears to have stopped for the pres- 
 ent. 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 
 
 ♦Dorsets, I think. 
 
138 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 
 
 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 Rtisticana. 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 in- 
 dividual, creates in one such an immense regard for self, 
 that so long as one does well it matters little if four of- 
 ficers 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.* He is probably one of three 
 survivors of an original twenty-eight. He is not fright- 
 ened 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 
 
 * I do not say this paraerraph is trne. It is what I thought 
 on 15th October, 1014. The weather was depressing. 
 
*' Adventures of a Despatch Rider'' 139 
 
 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-en- 
 gine 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 reverber- 
 ating 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 to- 
 wards you a shell makes a cutting, swishing note, grad- 
 ually 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 arch- 
 way 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. 
 
 %-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 * without a thought, except that 
 the roads are very greasy and that lunch time is near. 
 
 Optimist 1 
 
I40 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider'' 
 
 Again, yesterday, I put our Heavies in action, and in 
 a quarter of an hour a fine old church, with what ap- 
 peared from the distance a magnificent tower, was noth- 
 ing 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 revel- 
 ling 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-bear- 
 ers 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 ; 
 
^'Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 141 
 
 that comforted us, for if your troops are advancing you 
 don't fire shrapnel over the enemy's Hues. 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-heart- 
 edly 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 or- 
 ders. 
 
 The explanation of it all came later and was simple 
 enough. The French, without letting us know, had at- 
 tacked the Germans on our right, and the Germans to 
 keep us engaged had m.ade 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 slaugh- 
 ter. And half gunnery is luck. The day before yester- 
 day we had a little afternoon shoot at where we thought 
 the German trenches might be. The Germans unac- 
 countably retreated, and yesterday when we advanced 
 we found the trenches crammed full of dead. By a com- 
 bination 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 offi- 
 cer of the Cheshires. He was charming to me ; I was 
 particularly grateful for the loan of a razor, for my own 
 
142 ''Adventures of a Despatch Ride/* 
 
 had disappeared and there were no despatch riders handy 
 from whom I could borrow. 
 
 Talking of the Cheshires reminds me of a story illus- 
 trating the troubles of a brigadier. The general was din- 
 ing 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 compli- 
 cated 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 191 o 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 occu- 
 pied 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 — glor- 
 iously comfortable. The room was a little draughty be- 
 cause the fuse of a shrapnel had gone right through the 
 door and the fireplace opposite. Exceot for a oeDoerine: 
 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 
 
"Adventures of a Despatch Rider" >i43 
 
 their victorious career in the square of La Bassee. 
 
 In connection with this attack I was sent with a mes- 
 sage 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 direc- 
 tion of La Bassee. 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 
 Bassee 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 head- 
 quarters 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 gen- 
 eral. I strolled out by the sugar factory, and had a good 
 look at the red houses of La Bassee. Half an hour later 
 a patrol went out to explore the sugar factory. They 
 
144 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 
 
 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 fac- 
 tory 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 re- 
 gretful joy the slaughter of the few Germans who, es- 
 caping, 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 
 
''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 145 
 
 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 mo- 
 ment. We knew, because we had put together informa- 
 tion that we had gathered in the course of our rides and 
 inform.ation which — though the Clerk might think it un- 
 important — 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 prepa- 
 rations, for Divisional Headquarters, the brain controlling 
 the actions of seventeen thousand men, must never be 
 left in a position of danger. And wounded were pour- 
 ing 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 
 
146 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider'* 
 
 of Neuve Chapelle, compelled us to withdraw and re- 
 adjust 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 far- 
 ther 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?* And when you praise the deeds 
 of Ypres of the First Corps, who had experienced no 
 La Bassee, 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 Bri- 
 gade I was sent out to the 14th. I found them at the 
 Estaminet de TEpinette on the Bethune-Richebourg road. 
 Headquarters had been compelled to shift, hastily enough. 
 
 * 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 suffi- 
 cient to describe our infantry. 
 
"Adventures of a Despatch Rider'' 147 
 
 from the Estaminet de La Bombe on the La Bassee- 
 Estaires road. The estaminet had been shelled to de- 
 struction half an hour after the brigade had moved. The 
 Estaminet de TEpinette 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. 
 
148 ''Adventures of a Despatch Rider'' 
 
 VIII— THE GIRL WHO WAS SHOT 
 
 At the Estaminet de TEpinette 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 head- 
 quarters fell madly in love with her. They even quar- 
 relled. 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 mightly indignant. The girl was told 
 by her numerous sweethearts what was the matter. She 
 was angry and sympathetic, and sv/ore that through her 
 the spy should be discovered. She swore the truth. 
 
 One night a certain lewd fellow of the baser sort pur- 
 sued 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 
 
''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 149 
 
 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 docu- 
 ment closely. One sign looked like an aeroplane, an- 
 other 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 docu- 
 ment 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 LEFEVRE. 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?" 
 
150 "Adventures of a Despatch Rider'* 
 
 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 ex- 
 humed multitudinous turnips. No further damage was 
 done, but the field was unhealthily near the Estaminet de 
 I'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 ofif 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 ar- 
 rived 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. 
 
"Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 151 
 
 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 appear- 
 ance, 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 
 allov/ed no light. I slithered along at about six miles 
 an hour, sticking out my legs for a permanent scaffold- 
 ing. Many troops were lying down at the side of the 
 road. An ofhcer in a strained voice just warned me in 
 time for me to avoid a deep shell-hole by inches. I de- 
 livered 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 ani- 
 mals 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 fright- 
 ened, 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 
 
152 "Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 
 
 began to discuss musical comedy and the beauty of cer- 
 tain 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 car- 
 ried 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 LINli 
 
 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 bri- 
 gade 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 
 
''Adventures of a Despatch Rider" 153 
 
 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 cov- 
 ered with grease. Every corner was blind. A particu- 
 larly 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" cor- 
 ner 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 for- 
 got 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 — talk- 
 ing 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 dur- 
 ing 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 gen- 
 eral. The car, which was old but stout, had been left 
 
154 *' Adventures of a Despatch Rider** 
 
 behind by the Germans. The driver of it was a reservist 
 who had been taken from the battaHon. 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 
 Bcuvry 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 Bethune. As for Festubert, 
 Givenchy, Violaines, Rue de Marais, Quinque Rue, and 
 La Bassee, 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.) 
 
WITH A B.-P. SCOUT IN GALLIPOLI— 
 ON THE TURKISH FRONTIER 
 
 A Record of the Belton Bulldogs 
 
 Told by Edmund Yerhury Priestman, Scoutmaster of 
 the 16th (Westbourne) Sheffield Boy Scouts 
 
 These anecdotes and experiences are related in the letters writ- 
 the 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 Cam- 
 paign. 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. Button and Company, of New York. All rights reserved. 
 
 * 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 dug-out on a hillside, while a weary "fatigue" party 
 is digging more dug-outs. Writing isn't easy, as I have 
 to balance the paper on my knee, so pardon ! This little 
 hole in Europe {i.e. this dug-out) appears to belong to a 
 
 ♦All numerals relate to stories herein told—not to chapters 
 in the original sources. 
 
156 With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 
 
 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 Penin- 
 sula, for in the left-hand a party of some i,cmdo,ooo 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 large 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. Hug- 
 gins' valise as a table. 
 
With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 157 
 
 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, dug-outs, etc., and 
 marks them on his map, probably numbering them 
 points I, 2, 3, and so on. He also has an accurate range- 
 finder 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 efifect, and we get a few shells along, while the ob- 
 serving officer scores the hits. Other days I rather sus- 
 pect 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, 
 
158 With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 
 
 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 * — but the enemy 
 never got within very exciting distance of the section of 
 the trench I was responsible for. Anyway, you can shov/ 
 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 pos- 
 sibility of our being of the least use as a fighting unit 
 ever again. As a matter of fact, in numbers, health, and 
 
 *A sudden attack was made on the right of the nth Division 
 and upon the extreme left of the 29th Division about 2 o'clock 
 on the night of the ist instant. It commenced with shell, ma- 
 chine gun, and rifle fire on Jephson's post and along Keretch 
 Tepe Sirt ridge. Brigadier-General Maxwell was holding the 
 right section of the nth 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. 
 
With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 159 
 
 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 hard- 
 ships 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 re- 
 moved, 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 Cat- 
 bells ridge. First comes a place like Eel Crags, all cover- 
 ed with dug-outs on the Newlands side and occupied 
 by hundreds of troops. Then you come on, still on the 
 same side, by a foot-path 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 main- 
 land of Turkey, a bit of Bulgaria, and a bit of Greece. 
 
l6o With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 
 
 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 Cat- 
 bells, 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 ex- 
 act 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 any- 
 thing 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 pump- 
 ing 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. 
 
With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli l6l 
 
 HI— "WHISTLING WILLIE"— AND THE HUMAN 
 
 GUNS 
 
 When you have Hved for ten days in a region where 
 they wander whistHng 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 pro- 
 jectile 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, hooooom! ziszzzz! Here we are — 
 tishco !" Yes, he's a brisk, pushing lad, is WiUie, 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 — ''Whizdiszlizzle ," he whispers to himself con- 
 fidentially, as much as to say, "Now where, down be- 
 
i62 With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 
 
 low, is a good fat Brigadier, or a mountain battery, or 
 a pile of stores (dash it, I must hurry up and spot some- 
 thing ; I'm nearly exhausted) — oh, a girls' school, a cab- 
 bage-patch — anything!" And down he comes — whang! — 
 as often as not half a mile from anything he could dam- 
 age. 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, ap- 
 parently, 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 spite- 
 ful nature. 
 
 And then there is poor Stumer Steve. *Tf 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 alto- 
 gether. 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 
 
With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 163 
 
 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 ad- 
 vent known. Just a greasy flutter overhead and then 
 '' Crash r 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 Archi- 
 bald springs into life. Whoop-pop I 
 
 Somewhere (it generally takes a good deal of findmg) 
 a tiny puff of smoke appears against the blue. Never by 
 any chance is it in the same quarter of the sky as the air- 
 craft. Whoop-pop! Whoop-pop I 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 dis- 
 
164 With a B.-P. Scout in Gallipoli 
 
 appeared 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.) 
 
"IN THE FIELD"— THE STORIES OF 
 THE FRENCH CHASSEURS 
 
 Impressions of an Officer of Light Cavalry 
 
 Told hy Lieut. Marcel Duponty 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 Ga- 
 briel," and "Christmas Night." Some of these stories are here 
 told by permission of his publishers from his book, ''In the 
 Field." — /. B. Lippincott Company. 
 
 * 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 gen- 
 tle, monotonous noise of water falling drop by drop 
 from the pent-house onto the road. 
 
 ♦All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 from original sources. 
 
 165 
 
1 66 '7w the Field With the French Chasseurs'^ 
 
 Arriving at Pevy the evening before, just before mid- 
 night, 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." 
 
 *Tt 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 pre- 
 cious treasure — in your saddlebags, will be changed into 
 a wet bundle on which large and inedible 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 pull- 
 ing down my campaigning cap over my ears. Well, after 
 all, the evil was less than I had feared. It was not rain- 
 ing, 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 
 
'In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 167 
 
 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 ap- 
 peared, 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, pat- 
 ting 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 dishearten- 
 ing ; but it could not be helped, and it was of no use to 
 complain. I turned and went slowly up the steep foot- 
 path that led to my billet. 
 
1 68 "In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 
 
 II— "I OPENED THE HEAVY DOOR— AND 
 ENTERED THE CHURCH" 
 
 Pevy 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 protec- 
 tion from the north wind. The few alleys which inter- 
 sect 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 Pevy 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 distinguish- 
 able. 
 
 Passing through a low, dark porch, I opened the heavy 
 
*'In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 169 
 
 door studded with iron nails, and entered the church, and 
 at once experienced a feehng of relaxation, of comfort 
 and repose. How touching the little sanctuary of Pevy 
 seemed to me in its humble simplicity ! 
 
 Imagine a kind of hall with bare walls, the vault sup- 
 ported 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 dif- 
 ferent 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. 
 
 Ill— "I KNELT— THE PRIEST WAS SAYING 
 MASS" 
 
 But my attention was attracted by a slight noise, a kind 
 pf soft and monotonous murmur, coming from the altar. 
 The choir was almost in darkness, but I could distinguish 
 
170 '7w the Field With the French Chasseurs*' 
 
 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 speak- 
 ing 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. Occa- 
 sionally he turned towards the back of the church to pro- 
 nounce 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 
 
"In the Field With the French Chasseurs'' 171 
 
 prayer, comfort, repentance, or supplication, harmonious 
 Latin phrases, which sounded to me Hke exquisite music. 
 And as an accompaniment in the distance, in the direc- 
 tion 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 mo- 
 ments ! 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 un- 
 profitable days. 
 
 Without any efifort, 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. 
 
 ''lie, 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 : 
 
172 '7w the Field With the French Chasseurs" 
 
 "Mount horses! . . . Mount horses!" 
 
 I was sorry to leave the Httle church of Pery ; 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 abbe coming out 
 of a barn, with his sleeves tucked up and his kepi 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 Mon- 
 tigny-sur-Vesle, a pretty little village half-way up a hill- 
 side 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 be- 
 tween the French and German trenches, and the employ- 
 ment 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 ! 
 
*'In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 173 
 
 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 every- 
 thing 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 ap- 
 pointed 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 divi- 
 sional 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." 
 
174 "-^^ the Field With the French Chasseurs'^ 
 
 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 deli- 
 ciously 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 — ap- 
 peared 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 collect- 
 ing 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 distin- 
 guish 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 artil- 
 lerymen wrapped in their large blue caped cloaks. The 
 bells shook out their solemn notes, and seemed to be 
 
"in the Field With the French Chasseurs" 175 
 
 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 dis- 
 cipline 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. 
 
176 '7« the Field With the French Chasseurs^' 
 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 VOfficier, 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 embar- 
 rassed 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 unex- 
 pected procession appeared. In front of a bearded priest 
 walked four artillerymen in uniform. One of them car- 
 ried 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 vest- 
 ments 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 dis- 
 tinguish 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 
 
'7n the Field With the French Chasseurs" 177 
 
 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 Salu- 
 iarisr 
 
 The harmonium gave the first notes, and I braced my- 
 self 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 abso- 
 lute 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 
 
178 ''In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 
 
 indifference. What a fine picture it would have made for 
 a Rembrandt! The bodies of the men were mvisible 
 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 
 siffht 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 accus- 
 tomed 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 happi- 
 ness was choking him. He tried in vain to find the words 
 he wanted, used the wrong ones, and only confused him- 
 self 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 m 
 memory of soldiers who have died on the field of hon- 
 our. . . . Hail! Mary, full of grace. . . ." 
 
'7n the Field With the French Chasseurs" 179 
 
 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-sacri- 
 fice 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 im- 
 pressive ; 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 deli- 
 cious piece of beef a 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 
 
i8o "In the Field With the French Chasseurs" 
 
 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. 
 
"FIELD HOSPITAL AND FLYING 
 COLUMN"— IN RUSSIA 
 
 Journal of an English Nursing Sister 
 
 Told by Violetta Tliur start 
 
 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. 
 
 * 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 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 from original sources. 
 
 181 
 
i82 ''Field Hospital and Flying Column'' 
 
 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 in- 
 describable 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 un- 
 expected need. 
 
 The Grand Duchess met Princess V. in the lounge 
 just as we arrived from Lodz, and begged that our Col- 
 umn might go and help for a time at her hospital. Ac- 
 cordingly, 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 con- 
 valescent 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 Rus- 
 sian 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 
 
''Field Hospital and Flying Column" 183 
 
 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 restau- 
 rant 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 debris of a battlefield had 
 been picked up and was lying in piles in the station wait- 
 ing to be sent off to Warsaw. There were truck-loads 
 
184 "Field Hospital and Flying Column" 
 
 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. Hozv 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 shoul- 
 der. 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 un- 
 necessary 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 pend- 
 ing. 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 
 
"Field Hospital and Flying Column" 185 
 
 a number of young boys at the front who make them- 
 selves very useful in taking messages, carrying ammu- 
 nition, 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 after- 
 wards 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 ma- 
 terial over their shoulders, a bright-colored shawl, gen- 
 erally orange, on their heads, and brilliaiit bootlaces — 
 magenta is the color most affected. The men, too, wear 
 
1 86 ''Field Hospital and Flying Column'' 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill— 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 in- 
 terminable messages from the field telephone, and under 
 the v/indow 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 Skier- 
 nevice, 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. 
 
"Field Hospital and Flying Column'* 187 
 
 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. 
 
 AH 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 dress- 
 ing-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 boil- 
 ing soup could be got all night through. This depart- 
 ment 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 
 
1 88 ''Field Hospital and Flying Column'' 
 
 violent explosion that shook the place ; this was the Rus- 
 sians 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 automo- 
 biles had started off to Warsaw with some wounded offi- 
 cers, 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 equip- 
 ment and heavy cases of dressings, and put them at 
 
"Field Hospital and Flying Column" 189 
 
 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, Colo- 
 nel S., a Russian dresser, and Julian. We caught a local 
 Red Grosser. "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 "Re- 
 serve" was two small, empty rooms, where thirty Sis- 
 ters 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 
 
190 "Field Hospital and Flying Column" 
 
 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 ar- 
 rived, 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 fol- 
 lowing 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 fac- 
 tories a few beds in the local hospital are generally sub- 
 sidized, in larger ones they usually find it more con- 
 venient 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 for- 
 eign 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. 
 
"Field Hospital and Flying Column" 191 
 
 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 ex- 
 cellent, but, of course, all boots wear out very quickly 
 under such trying circumstances of roads and v/eather. 
 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 Aus- 
 trian, which is almost blue. I heard in Belgium that at 
 the beginning of the war German soldiers were constantly 
 mistaken for our men. 
 
AN UNCENSORED DIARY— FROM 
 THE CENTRAL EMPIRES 
 
 By Ernesta Drinker Bullitt, An American Woman vh 
 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 hus- 
 band on his interviews with the diplomatists as special corre- 
 spondent with the Philadelphia Public Ledger. Her conversa- 
 tions with historical personages give one an intimate ac 
 quaintanceship with the great characters in the world's traged> 
 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 
 Bernstorfi and Baroness von Bissing asked her to tea; ambas- 
 sadors and statesmen parleyed with her. She recorded her 
 daily experiences without any thought of their future publica- 
 tion. 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 : Double- 
 day, Page and Company: Copyright 1917. 
 
 I— WITH LETTERS FROM COUNT 
 BERNSTORFF 
 
 Copenhagen, May 14, IQ16. 
 
 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 Ger- 
 many. Before daring to approach Bentheim, the German 
 frontier, we were equipped with passports, thrice vised; 
 
 192 
 
An Uncensored Diary 193 
 
 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 2^d. 
 
 Denmark is hospitable, inexpensive, and friendly. We 
 iiave 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, be- 
 havior, 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 ammuni- 
 tion, 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 amia- 
 bility being reached, we move on to the weather. 
 
194 -^w Uncensored Diary 
 
 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. . . . 
 
 Ill— WITH AMBASSADOR GERARD IN BERLIN 
 
 Hotel Esplanade, Berlin, May 2gth. 
 
 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. Or- 
 ders 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 
 
An Uncensored Diary 195 
 
 papers for two hours a day, they now all work morn- 
 ings, afternoons, and sometimes evenings. 
 
 IV— AT TEA WITH BARON ROEDER 
 
 June ^d. 
 
 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 Ger- 
 man 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 Hinden- 
 burg is quite immoderate. In the eyes of German chil- 
 dren, a campaign against the Russians is a most praise- 
 worthy 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 ham- 
 mer it in. . . . 
 
 Lunched with the Jacksons. Mr. Jackson was Secre- 
 tary of the Embassy here for years. The Germans trust 
 him. Baron von Mumm told me. Baron and Baroness 
 Roeder were there and Countess Gotzen. I asked Baron 
 Roeder what he did and he said he was Master of Cere- 
 monies 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 
 
196 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 tale. The old gentleman said he thought the naval vic- 
 tory was due principally to Zeppelins. The Bluchers 
 joined us for coffee. Count Bliicher looks like the pic- 
 tures 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 hap- 
 pen 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 Bliicher talking to that mad Irish- 
 American, John Gaftney. 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 Bliicher 
 and Gaffney were in a great state of mind over Case- 
 ment. Gaffney says he is a hero who sacrificed himself 
 for his country, and Countess Bliicher that he is a life- 
 long friend and therefore must be got off from hang- 
 ing, whatever he has done. She has written a letter to 
 England, saying Casement is mad, in hope that it may 
 help to save him. 
 
An Uncensored Diary igy 
 
 "I don't fancy he will like that — coming from me," 
 she said, "but it was the only thing I could think of do- 
 ing/' 
 
 I asked Count Blucher 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 Gotzen. I sat between 
 a Spaniard and Prince Christian of Hesse. The Span- 
 iard 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 some- 
 thing else to tide me over. After a few Christian names, 
 I ran him down to his visiting card and Baron von Pa- 
 pius. 
 
 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,oco 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 unaf- 
 fected. . . . 
 
 Vn— WHEN THE CZARINA BURST INTO 
 TEARS 
 
 June loth. 
 Saw Fraulein Marelle and Fraulein Schulhoff, of the 
 
198 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 Lyceum Club, this morning. They were telHng us stories 
 of the invasion of East Prussia. . . . One lady, whom 
 Fraulein Marelle knows, a Frau von Bieberstein, had her 
 chateau cut to ribbons. Her tapestry chairs were sliced 
 up with knives, her china and mirrors broken, her beauti- 
 ful 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 chateau 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 im- 
 mediately — those who stay are all outraged. 
 
 VIII— A VISIT WITH ZIMMERMANN 
 
 June I2th, 
 
 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 Zim- 
 mermann in the Foreirn Office. He, with Von Beth- 
 
An Uncensored Diary 199 
 
 mann-HoUweg, 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 bound- 
 aries, 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. H you would really develop 
 your natural resources, we in Europe would be help- 
 less. . . ." 
 
 IX— TEA WITH BARONESS VON BISSING 
 
 June 2'/th. 
 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 ex- 
 citable. 
 
200 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 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 Gen- 
 eral, 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 Delcasse'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 Delcasse'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 Biss- 
 ing, 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 
 
An Uncensored Diary 201 
 
 a pleasant little joke of theirs, about our invading Bel- 
 gium 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 Ger- 
 many 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 disap- 
 proval 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! 
 
 WeVe heard from Freiherr von B that there 
 
 was a really recognizable one in Diisseldorf. All the 
 women went to the City Hall and demanded more meat 
 and potatoes. The Mayor stuck his shaved head out of 
 
202 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 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 Bocklin 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 Bocklin 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 Bocklin's rescue. The Baron 
 let both assassins go, instead of having them shot as he 
 had the right to do. Bocklin'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 
 
An Uncensored Diary 203 
 
 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. . , . 
 
 Xn— TALK WITH COUNT BLUCHER 
 
 July isth. 
 Lunched at the Lays*. They had a party for Prince 
 Christian of Hesse and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Rog- 
 er's mother and father. The Bluchers were to have been 
 there, but old Count BlUcher chose this morning to drop 
 dead ofit* his horse. He must have been a charming old 
 man. Most of his life he spent trying to evade his Ger- 
 man 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 Amer- 
 ica 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 
 
204 ^^ Uncensored Diary 
 
 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 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 re- 
 quested to leave on the grounds of being anti-German. 
 Tact and diplomacy have a hard life in Belgium now. . . . 
 Philip Piatt, 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 
 
An Uncensored Diary 205 
 
 man to me. They clicked their booted heels together and 
 kissed my hand. This audience over, the Governor ap- 
 peared. 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 wo- 
 men." . . . 
 
 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 de- 
 jected. He was in command almost two weeks before 
 the news came out. It must be a great blow to the Aus- 
 trian 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 exe- 
 cuting in reality what he had lectured the military stu- 
 dents 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 Hinden- 
 burg started at two in the morning and worked out his 
 plans as he sped towards the advancing Russian army. 
 In three days the enemy v/as in retreat and Germany was 
 saved. Is it a wonder the people call him : Unser Hin- 
 denburg f The story goes that the General who was in 
 
2o6 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 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 poli- 
 tics. A few years ago, when there was a general in- 
 spection of troops, they conducted a sham battle. Gen- 
 eral 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 Bern- 
 storff 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 of- 
 ficer 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. 
 
An Unc elisor ed Diary 207 
 
 Another real grievance was that everyone had tried to 
 give her things to bring to friends and relatives in Amer- 
 ica. 
 
 "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 13th. 
 
 Went to Herringsdorf on the one o'clock train Satur- 
 day 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 
 
2o8 An Uncensored Diary 
 
 States couldn't go to war with us, because we have 500,- 
 
 000 trained Germans in the United States," the Ambas- 
 sador repHed : "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 hy 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, deal- 
 ing with the deeper things of human life. His sketch of "The 
 Beloved Captain" is here told by permission of his publishers, 
 E. P. Button and Company. 
 
 * 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 "Kitch- 
 ener'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 (them- 
 selves) ; 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 
 
 ♦All numerals relate to stories told herein — not to chapters 
 in the book. 
 
 209 
 
2IO "A Student in Arms" 
 
 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 
 aggre:5sively 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 learn- 
 ing. 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. 
 
211 
 
 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 evolu- 
 tions, 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 inter- 
 est 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 subiect 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 ^is side, the battle would be won. 
 
 For a few davs 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 
 
212 "A Student in Arms" 
 
 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 them- 
 selves together and determined to do their best. Their 
 best surprised themselves. His patience was inexhaust- 
 ible. 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 re- 
 solved 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 try- 
 ing, 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 
 
"A Student in Anns" 213 
 
 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. 
 
 Ill— "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 annate nobility which marked 
 him out as above us. He was not democratic. He was 
 rather the justification for aristocracy. We all knew in- 
 stinctively that he was our superior — a man of finer 
 
214 "^ Student in Arms" 
 
 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 inspec- 
 tion of feet. That is the routine. But with him it was 
 no mere routine. He came into our rooms, and if any- 
 one 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 im- 
 portant, 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 amaz- 
 ingly unself-conscious. For that reason we knew that 
 he would be absolutely fearless. He would be so keen 
 
''A Student in Arms'* 215 
 
 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. When- 
 ever 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 regi- 
 ment. 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 regi- 
 ments. 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 
 
2i6 '*A Student in Arms" 
 
 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. 
 
"THE RED HORIZON"— STORIES OF 
 THE LONDON IRISH 
 
 The Man With the Rosary 
 
 Told by Patrick MacGill, Rifleman Number 3008y 
 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 Avi^ay." 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 boy- 
 hood, 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. 
 
 * I— THE SOLDIER TELLS HIS TALE 
 
 Sometimes when our spell in the trenches comes to 
 
 * All numerals relate to stories herein told — not to chapters 
 from original sources. 
 
 217 
 
2i8 ''The Red Horizon'' 
 
 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 Fve 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 mat- 
 ter 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. 
 
 "Fve 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! 
 
"The Red Horizon" 219 
 
 Then I was a draughts manager at a bank, and shut the 
 ventilators ; after that I was an electric mechanic ; I 
 switched the Hghts 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 sand-bags 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 me- 
 teoric life. The fi^ring-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 
 
220 *'The Red Horizon" 
 
 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 dis- 
 tinguish 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 trick- 
 ling 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 crunch- 
 ing 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 swish- 
 ing our waterproofs about our bodies; the darkness was 
 
''The Red Horizon" 221 
 
 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, spit- 
 ting 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, 
 
222 "The Red Horizon'' 
 
 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 High- 
 land 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 Highland- 
 ers had met their death, killed in action. 
 
 Ill— "THE DEAD MAN UNDER MY FEET" 
 
 Next morning as I was looking through a periscope at 
 the enemy's trenches, and wondering what was happen- 
 ing behind their sand-bag 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 min- 
 utes 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 on- 
 looker, but changed my position on the banquette. 
 
 "He must have been dead a long time," said the 
 
*'The Red Horizon'* 223 
 
 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 Corry- 
 meela to morning l^Iass, 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." 
 
224 ''The Red Horizon'' 
 
 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 Noc- 
 turnal Adventure" ; "Everyday Life at the Front" ; "The 
 Women of France" — his genius is immortalizing every 
 human phase of the War.) 
 
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 battle-fields to record for history the 
 world-revolutionizing events as they were taking place. As the 
 inltimate 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 Poincare 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— V^ITH THE 
 PRESIDENT'S PERMIT" 
 
 My road to Verdun ran through the Elysee 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 
 
 225 
 
226 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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 wan- 
 dering 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 French- 
 men who gave time and effort to make my pilgrimage a 
 success I was at last able to see M. Poincare. 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 kind- 
 ness, 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 
 
My Trip to Verdun 227 
 
 forward around the Lorraine city. Without further de- 
 lay, discussion, it was promised that I should go to Ver- 
 dun 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 be- 
 yond the Harlem, at home, was a thing that seemed al- 
 most 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 w^e had passed out through 
 the Vincennes gate we met at Courtacon the first of the 
 ruined villages that for two hundred miles line the road- 
 ways that lead from the capital to Lorraine and Cham- 
 pagne. 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 Ve- 
 suvius of Krupp. 
 
 n~THE GRAVES BY THE ROADSIDE 
 
 Coincidentally there appear along the roadside, in the 
 
228 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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 ham- 
 let 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, sur- 
 rounded 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, be- 
 yond Nancy, there are graves and more graves, now scat- 
 tered, 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 ad- 
 vancing 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 
 
My Trip to Verdun 229 
 
 region where every hillside — so it will seem to the trav- 
 eler — 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 vil- 
 lages 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, Sezanne, La-Fere Champe- 
 noise, Vitry-le-Frangois, the region where Franchet d'Es- 
 perey and Foch fought, where the ''Miracle of the Marne" 
 was performed. Mile after mile the country-side 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. 
 
 Ill— ''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 culti- 
 vated, 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 
 
230 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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-Frangois 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 wound- 
 ing — and along the hills where there are still graves there 
 begin to appear Red Cross tents and signs, and ambu- 
 lances 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 country-side is a place of arms. Every 
 branch of French service is about you — Tunisians, Tur- 
 cos, 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 prod- 
 uct 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 
 
My Trip to Verdun 231 
 
 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 re- 
 cruits . . . the boys that are waiting for the call, listen- 
 ing 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 en- 
 tered 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 com- 
 manded 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 
 
232 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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 im- 
 pression 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 auto- 
 mobiles, not upon separate trucks, but upon some vast 
 and intricate system of belts and benches that were stead- 
 ily, swiftly, surely carrying all this vast material, car- 
 rying men and munitions and supplies, everything human 
 and inanimate, to that vast grinding mill which was be- 
 yond 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 fin- 
 ished product, the fruits of the day's grinding, or a frac- 
 tion thereof. And about the whole thing there was a 
 sense of the mechanical rather than the human, some- 
 thing 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. 
 
My Trip to Verdun 233 
 
 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 concentrat- 
 ing 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 sol- 
 diers performed the work of traffic policemen and steadily 
 guided the caravan toward the road marked by a canvas 
 sign lighted v/ithin by a single candle and bearing the one 
 word, "Verdun." All night, too, the rumble of the pass- 
 ing 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. Al- 
 most 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, 
 
234 ^y '^^^P ^0 Verdun 
 
 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 per- 
 fect repair, and soldiers in uniform sat by the side break- 
 ing 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 Cote 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 objec- 
 tive was Souilly, the obscure hill town twenty miles, per- 
 haps, south of the front, from which Sarrail had de- 
 fended Verdun in the Marne days and from which Pe- 
 tain was now defending Verdun against a still more ter- 
 rible attack. 
 
 And in France to-day one speaks only of Verdun and 
 Petain. Soldiers have their day ; Joff re, 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. Up- 
 ward 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 head- 
 quarters of the Army of Verdun, of Petain, the center 
 of the world for the moment. 
 
 Few towns have done less to prepare for greatness than 
 
My Trip to Verdun 235 
 
 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 govern- 
 ing the commune of Souilly, with its scant thousand of 
 people, Petain 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 Petain in the ter- 
 rible 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 as- 
 surance 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 "^en of a different type, men of authorfty. 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 Ver- 
 dun — 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 Petain, 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 ad- 
 miration. 
 
236 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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 Made- 
 lin, 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 prob- 
 lem. I had been warned two days before that the bom- 
 bardment was raging and that it was quite possible that 
 it would be unsafe to go further. But the news was re- 
 assuring; Verdun was tranquil. "And Retain?" 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 com- 
 mander-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 Re- 
 tain would see us, would see the stray American cor- 
 respondent. 
 
 Since I saw Retain m 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 
 
My Trip to Verdun 237 
 
 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 lum- 
 bered 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 noth- 
 ing; 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 
 tali, broad-shouldered man, with every appearance of 
 physical strength, a clear blue eye, looking straight for- 
 ward and beyond. 
 
 My French companion, M. Le Roux, spoke with Pe- 
 tain. He had just come from Joffre and he told an in- 
 teresting circumstance. Petain listened. He said now 
 and then "y^s" 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, si- 
 lent 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, 
 
238 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 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 ac- 
 tually in touch with it is a destruction of illusion: this 
 thing is a thing of mechanism rather than of brilliance; 
 perhaps Petain has led a regiment, a brigade, or a di- 
 vision 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 
 elan ; 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 
 Areola. 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 Petain was the matter of per- 
 haps 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 
 
My Trip to Verdun 239 
 
 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 sol- 
 dier 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 Petain in some curious way has fixed in my mind 
 the impression of the new Frenchm.an, 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 impres- 
 sion 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 Petain is the 
 man ; they will certainly tell you that they hope that the 
 
240 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 man has been found in Petain. 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 Eng- 
 land. 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 Kitch- 
 ener is concerned, gone with so much that England 
 trusted and believed two years ago, but I find myself 
 thinking now of Petain 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 some- 
 thing Petain 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 Petain 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 de- 
 struction 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, Petain is of the new, not the old, but no 
 less patently he was the master of it. 
 
My Trip to Verdun 241 
 
 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, trench- 
 like valley marching from east to west and carrying the 
 Paris- Verdun-Metz railroad, no longer available for traf- 
 fic. And as we coasted down the hill we heard the 
 guns . . . not steadily, but only from time to time, a dis- 
 tant 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 sound- 
 ing 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 stead- 
 ily they streamed by ; the mud of the trenches covered 
 their tunics ; here and there a man had lost his steel hel- 
 met 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 car- 
 ried their guns at all angles, they wore their uniforms in 
 the strangest of disorders ; they seemed almost like min- 
 ers coming from the depths of the earth rather than sol- 
 diers 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 to- 
 ward the fire, toward the trenches, that were marching 
 
242 My Trip to Verdun 
 
 to the sound of the guns, and as one saw them the ar- 
 tillery 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 be- 
 fore. 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 other- 
 wise. 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 ter- 
 
My Trip to Verdun 243 
 
 rors for you, was intelligible to the utmost to each of 
 them. 
 
 And yet with the weariness there was a certain resig- 
 nation, a certain patience, a certain sense of compre- 
 hending 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 destruc- 
 tion 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. . . . In- 
 stinctively 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 th''^ 
 regularity with which the blood flows through the huma 
 arteries in this tide, and it was the blood of France. 
 
244 ^y T^^^P ^0 Verdun 
 
 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 an- 
 
 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 . . . 
 
 ".is we entered a shell burst just behind us and the roar 
 
 ^"rowned out all else in its sudden and paralyzing crash. 
 
 ^"^ had fallen, so we learned a little later, just where we 
 
 ^*^ad been watching the passing troops ; it had fallen among 
 
 ^^iiem and killed. But an hour or two later, when we 
 
My Trip to Verdun 245 
 
 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 be- 
 lieve 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 be- 
 lief 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 hy 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 Ameri- 
 can 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, 191 7. 
 Cheering thousands, moved to tears, welcomed Gen- 
 eral 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 ac- 
 claimed 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. Persh- 
 
 246 
 
Under the Stars and Stripes 247 
 
 ing was welcomed at the dock by Gen. Pelletier, repre- 
 senting the French Government and General Headquar- 
 ters ; 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 Amer- 
 ican 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 Persh- 
 ing. 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 signa- 
 tures which he had already obtained in it from Marshal 
 Jofifre 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 — or- 
 derlies and attaches to the American General's entourage 
 — swarmed off the vessel and mixed joyously with the 
 crowd at the railway station. There were British Tom- 
 mies there to welcome their new brothers in arms — and 
 French poilus as well. Hundreds of handshakings — and 
 embraces — marked the meeting of these representatives 
 
248 Under the Stars and Stripes 
 
 of three great armies, now pledged to a common pur- 
 pose. 
 
 Boulogne harbor was alive early in the morning await- 
 ing 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 bril- 
 liant, 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 repre- 
 sentative 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 Ambassa- 
 
Under the Stars and Stripes 249 
 
 dor Sharp and a score of other dignitaries greeted the 
 American commander and his officers at the Gare du 
 Nord. 
 
 "The Hving 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 Cril- 
 lon, where Gen. Pershing made his headquarters. From 
 the moment the automobile, in which he rode with Min- 
 ister of War Painleve and Gen. Peltier, designated as his 
 honorary aide, moved slowly into the boulevard outside 
 the railway station, until he arrived at his hotel, the cheer- 
 ing 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, Mar- 
 shal Jofifre, 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 Ban- 
 ner.'* Gen. Pershing shook hands in the most cordial 
 fashion with M. Viviani and Marshal Joffre and re- 
 marked, with a smile : 
 
 "It does not seem long since we saw you in Washing- 
 ton." 
 
 Then he was escorted to the Painleve automobile. 
 Ahead of it was that occupied by M. Viviani and Ambas- 
 sador Sharp, and behind one bearing Marshal JofJre and 
 Rene Besnard who had accompanied Gen. Pershing from 
 Boulogne. 
 
250 Under the Stars and Stripes 
 
 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 yester- 
 day 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 ap- 
 peared. 
 
 When the General appeared on the Place de la Con- 
 corde this morning he was wildly cheered by thousands 
 who lined the streets. He was escorted to the Palace of 
 the Elysee with military honors and was presented to 
 President Poincare, after which he was entertained at 
 breakfast. Other guests were Premier Ribot, Gen. Pain- 
 leve, 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 ap- 
 pearance 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 situ- 
 ation, 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." 
 
Under the Stars and Stripes 251 
 
 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 so- 
 ciety of nations." 
 
 The Chamber turned with one accord to where Gen. 
 Pershing stood. He bowed his acknowledgments of the 
 Parliamentary greeting. Following Premier Ribot, For- 
 eign 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 audi- 
 torium 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 Al- 
 sace-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 re- 
 ceived at the Hotel des Invalides by Gen. Niox, the com- 
 mander, and Gen. Malterre. As the American party en- 
 tered 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 sirvice." 
 
 Gen, Niox conducted the A.merican commander within^ 
 
252 Under the Stars and Stripes 
 
 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 pre- 
 served. 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. 
 
 HI— STORY OF ARRIVAL OF FIRST AMER- 
 ICAN TROOPS IN FRANCE 
 
 Paris, July i, 1917. 
 
 Paris was overwhelmed with joy this morning at the 
 first published announcements that all of the first con- 
 tingent 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 
 ^rms and open hearts. Last month nearly all the British 
 
Under the Stars and Stripes 253 
 
 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 sur- 
 prise came at the way the French officers and poilus fra- 
 ternize with their new allies. The appearance of Ameri- 
 can naval officers in white duck summer uniforms in the 
 smart Paris restaurants causes gasps of astonished de- 
 light. 
 
 The French press has extended an enthusiastic greet- 
 ing to the American troops. The Temps dwells upon 
 their youth, vigor, and military aspect, and the complete- 
 ness 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 ar- 
 rival 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 reason- 
 ably 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 sig- 
 nificance. The material they bring is on the same abund- 
 ant scale as their troops. Those who have been doubt- 
 ful whether the American concourse would come in time 
 have failed to estimate at its just value the tremendous 
 
254 Under the Stars and Stripes 
 
 moral and material American power that German brutal- 
 ity 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 over- 
 flowed 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, ma- 
 chine guns and many appliances for burning suffocating 
 gas. Behind them in the chapel separating the Court of 
 
Under the Stars and Stripes 255 
 
 Honor from Napoleon's tomb were German battle flags, 
 trophies of the Marne and Alsace, beside Prussian ban- 
 ners of 1870. 
 
 In the chapel before the tomb of Napoleon Gen. Persh- 
 ing received American flags and banners from the hands 
 of President Poincare. 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 grena- 
 diers. 
 
 The enthusiasm of the vast crowd reached its highest 
 pitch when Gen. Pershing, escorted by President Poin- 
 care, 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 Ameri- 
 cans 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 
 
256 Under the Stars and Stripes 
 
 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 hy Gordon Gordon-Smithy 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 howl- 
 ing through the night and gnawing at the bodies of the dead 
 along the road. A few of these stories are told here by per- 
 mission 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 Knise- 
 vatz for Rashka, as the German advance menaced its re- 
 treat 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. 
 
 257 
 
258 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 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 Caesar) 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 road- 
 side 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 over- 
 flowing 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 avail- 
 able 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 stationmaster 
 
IVith the Serbian Stoics in Exile 259 
 
 at the inn, who hospitably offered us a bedroom in the 
 railway station. 
 
 When we got there we noticed that he had already be- 
 gun 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 Chichi- 
 vatz 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. 
 
26o With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 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 excite- 
 ment. 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 ar- 
 rive 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 de- 
 serted 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 at- 
 tacking the town, and that infantry fire was clearly audi- 
 ble. 
 
 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 Ger- 
 mans, 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 car- 
 rying a dozen pairs of boots, uniforms, under-clothing, 
 bread, biscuits, etc. 
 
 At midday the provision and munition columns, hav- 
 ing safely cleared the town. General Stephanovitch and 
 his staff, after placing a strong rear guard to delay the 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 261 
 
 German advance as long as possible, left for Raj an, 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 as- 
 surances, they went on loading carts and wagons in fever- 
 ish 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. 
 
 Ill— "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 star- 
 vation. 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. 
 
262 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 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 Ru- 
 manian 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, liq- 
 ueurs 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 ap- 
 proach of the Germans. As they had determined to be 
 taken prisoners, they regarded the advance of the in- 
 vaders 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 sud- 
 den dash for Chichivatz, and perhaps even Salatz, down 
 the line. 
 
 We therefore determined to return at once for Kruse- 
 vatz. 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 inter- 
 vening twenty kilometres. 
 
 When we reached Krusevatz, late in the afternoon, we 
 found the town apparently in high festival. Every- 
 body 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 quan- 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 263 
 
 titles 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 hap- 
 pened. They would simply post up a notice to the in- 
 habitants 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 moun- 
 tains had now begun. With their 300,000 bayonets, in 
 spite of the fact that the Teutons were, as far as phy- 
 sique 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 trans- 
 versely 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 Ser- 
 bian armies through the mountain passes was like fil- 
 tering 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 
 
264 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 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 pass- 
 age 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 dyna- 
 mited. 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 rail- 
 way 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. 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 265 
 
 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 be- 
 longings ranged alongside the road. 
 
 The next difficulty was a means of transport, but an 
 obliging non-commissioned offxer to the Reserve Mu- 
 nition 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 phy- 
 sique. 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 
 
266 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 in extent. Add to this fact, all communication with the 
 outside world was completely cut off, there were no let- 
 ters, telegrams or newspapers, and such vague reports as 
 filtered in were brought by circuitous routes over hun- 
 dreds 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 over- 
 crowded. 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 Mace- 
 donia. 
 
 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, suc- 
 cumbing to cold and hT,inpfer. 
 
 Probably not since the crossing of the Alps by Na- 
 poleon has such a military expedition been undertaken 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 267 
 
 as the traversing of the Albanian Mountains by the head- 
 quarters staff and the remains of the Serbian army. 
 
 The sight presented by Lium Koula on the eve of de- 
 parture 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 snow- 
 storm 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 Bul- 
 garian advance. 
 
 The first mistake was that of transporting the sedan 
 chair of Field Marshal Putnik at the head of the pro- 
 cession. Every time it halted to change bearers, which 
 was every fifteen minutes, the whole two-mile-long pro- 
 cession, 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, cov- 
 ered 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 
 
268 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 the sedan chair of General Putnik still heading the pro- 
 cession. 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 fire- 
 side, instead of in the snow outside. 
 
 Next morning I set out at 6 to get ahead of the main 
 body of the headquarters staflF. The day was magnificent 
 and we slowly climbed foot by foot to the cloud-capped 
 summits of the mountains. Up and up we went, thou- 
 sands 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 peni- 
 tentiary, who had been sent in chains across the moun- 
 tains. 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. 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 269 
 
 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 gen- 
 darme'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 way- 
 side 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 
 
270 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 through the open doors or the thatched roof. The state 
 of the atmosphere may be imagined. 
 
 As my colleague, Paul Dubochet, of the "Petit Paris- 
 ien," and I had pushed on ahead of the headquarters 
 staflf, 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 at- 
 mosphere in an hour generally proved too much for 
 us. 
 
 We were therefore compelled to surrender, and, de- 
 spite the freezing cold and the driving snow, we de- 
 termined 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 im- 
 mense 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 cliflFs. The 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 271 
 
 task of transporting a thousand men and horses under 
 such conditions was almost superhuman. If the Alban- 
 ians 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 anyv/here such beautiful 
 children as those of the Albanians. Not one in a hun- 
 dred 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 hard- 
 est, as fodder for the animals and food for the men 
 was practically unprocurable. Money difficulties also in- 
 creased 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, buy- 
 ing 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 
 
272 With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 
 
 first tiace 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 avia- 
 tion 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 won- 
 derful 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 in- 
 creased by 100,000 Serbian and other refugees. Food 
 was running scarce, and there were practically no ac- 
 commodations. 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, 
 
With the Serbian Stoics in Exile 273 
 
 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 bar- 
 rier 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, there- 
 fore, was beyond human aid, and Serbia had to drink 
 the cup of bitterness to the dregs and witness the foun- 
 dering 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 exist- 
 ence, 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 Mile. 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 humor- 
 ous. They tried to bolt like scared rabbits, but were shot 
 down in bunches before getting to their burrows. Ma- 
 chine guns brought forward. Started vicious rattle on 
 our "hide." Not the least impression was made. Shells 
 
 274 
 
Tales of the Tanks 275 
 
 began to burst. We moved on and overtook some more 
 frightened Huns. Cut their ranks to ribbons with our 
 
 fire. 
 
 They ran Hke 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 surren- 
 dered. 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. 
 
276 Tales of the Tanks 
 
 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 out- 
 side 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 be- 
 tween 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 
 
Tales of the Tanks 277- 
 
 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 sur- 
 prise 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 panicstricken 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 York- 
 shiremen they hoped to surprise. 
 
 Went snorting after the enemy wherever we could find 
 them. Their losses were terrible. Later strong detach- 
 ments 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. Blight- 
 ers 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 m.aking sausages out of pris- 
 
278 Tales of the Tanks 
 
 oners. 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 speel with a tank. 
 
 II_STORY OF THE TANKS THAT STORMED A 
 CASTLE 
 
 Told by Philip Gihbs, 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 inces- 
 sant 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 ad- 
 vance 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 
 
Tales of the Tanks 279 
 
 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 hav- 
 ing 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 gro- 
 tesque creature playing the old game of "Fm king of the 
 castle. Get down, you dirty rascals." 
 
 The "dirty rascals," who were German soldiers, un- 
 shaven 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 Ger- 
 mans 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 counter- 
 attacks. 
 
 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 
 
28o Tales of the Tanks 
 
 swamp aid the tanks sank deep in it with the wet mud 
 halfway up their flanks and sHpped and sHthered back 
 when tby tried to struggle out. Many of the officers 
 and crev had to get out of their steel forts, risking the 
 heavy sidling and machine-gun fire, to dig their way 
 out ; anc in the neighborhood of St. Julien they worked 
 for two hours in the open to debog their tank, while the 
 German; tried to destroy them by direct hits. 
 
 In a iarm somewhere in this neighborhood no fewer 
 than si^ty Germans came out with their hands up in 
 surren(ir as soon as a tank was at close quarters. The 
 story % told that at another place the mere threat of a 
 tank's ipproach was enough to decide a party of eight 
 to give'm. It is certain beyond all doubt that the German 
 infantrj has great fear of the "beasts." 
 
 In^his battle there was not a single case of attack 
 
 upQi a tank by infantry, although we know that they 
 
 h?^e 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 Ger- 
 man 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. 
 
Tales of the Tanks 281 
 
 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 bat- 
 tering 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 pow- 
 ers of a tank before the engine was righted again and 
 went on its way. (Told in New York Times — Copy- 
 right, 1917.) 
 
 Ill— 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 ma- 
 chine! It's only up to a quarter of a ton, and I'm not 
 taking any risks." 
 
282 Talcs of the Tanks 
 
 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 pre- 
 cision 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 ignomini- 
 ously failed to get through the tunnel. A party of grin- 
 ning Tommies had taken 40 minutes to enlarge the 
 entrance for him; the subaltern to whom the observa- 
 tion 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. Some- 
 thing 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 Mas- 
 iodon for instruction. The Mastodon was a new ship. 
 
Tales of the Tanks 283 
 
 Her commander, a cavalry major, was pleased to get a 
 good gunnery man who was also useful as shifting bal- 
 last. 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 re- 
 mained 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 en- 
 thusiast, 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 
 
284 Tales of the Tanks 
 
 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 1 00-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 mo- 
 ment 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 Mas- 
 todon 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 
 
Tales of the Tanks 285 
 
 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 be- 
 tween the Ancre and the Somme involved hard and bitter 
 fighting. Nowhere on the western front have the Prus- 
 sian 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 hun- 
 dred 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 
 
286 Talcs oj ike Tanks 
 
 direction of a hostile trench beyond the town. Its prog- 
 ress was a signal for other Prussian refugees lurking in 
 the shell craters to signal their submission to the advanc- 
 ing 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 ac- 
 commodation. 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 ma- 
 chine 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 gun- 
 ners. It was a fearful and indescribable sight — this 
 futile combat of men with machinery. The "tank" fought 
 stolidly. 
 
Tales of the Tanks 287 
 
 Inside, the crew were filled with joy. Never in their 
 wildest dreams had they conceived the possibility of hay- 
 ing 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 Gueude- 
 court. 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 Mir on D. Arber, Army Service Corps 
 
 Whilst living in Jaflfa, 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. 
 
 1— "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 Jaflfa, in Palestine, where 
 I was then residing, and after volunteering for service 
 with the British Red Cross obtained from him the neces- 
 sary 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 Jaflfa became horrible. The Government 
 
 288 
 
My Escape From the Turks 289 
 
 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 Turk- 
 ish officers. Houses were entered and robbed of bed- 
 ding, mattresses, and pillows for the benefit of Turkish 
 wounded, and private dwellings and public institutions 
 alike — for example, the Anglo-Palestine Bank — were sys- 
 tematically searched and valuables, money, and bank- 
 notes 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 AlHed nations they were herded together and 
 conveyed during the night from Jafifa to Egypt in an 
 Italian steamer. The sights witnessed were most dis- 
 tressing, parents being separated from their children 
 and husbands from their wives. A number of small 
 
290 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 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 ILLTREAT THE 
 
 NUNS" 
 
 In a certain hospital at Jafifa — this I know personally 
 to be true — the French nuns there, who had with unceas- 
 ing 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 
 comm.andants 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 be- 
 gan, gendarmes came to our house and took me away 
 in the presence of my mother and sister. It was a ter- 
 rible 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. Be- 
 cause of the natural outburst of anger and sorrow on 
 
My Escape From the Turks 291 
 
 their part, th'ey 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 pris- 
 oners 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 
 
292 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 we started off again, reaching a place called Ber Sheba, 
 or Beersheba, about sixty miles from Jaffa, by the fol- 
 lowing 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 re- 
 moved 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 sen- 
 tries, stationed at a distance of from twenty to thirty 
 yards from the buildings. Every Friday it was the cus- 
 tom for the soldiers — who were, of course, Mohamme- 
 dans — 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 con- 
 tact 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 accommoda- 
 tion miserable, I must state in fairness that I received 
 
My Escape From the Turks 293 
 
 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 offi- 
 cers, 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 
 f eehng, 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 ar- 
 rive 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 unfor- 
 tunate 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 
 ^his 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 con- 
 fined to my hut again. The food provided now con- 
 sisted 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." 
 
294 ^y Escape From the Turks 
 
 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 Jafifa, 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, there- 
 fore, 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 suffi- 
 ciently 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 enter- 
 prise would have been sheer madness. I decided, after 
 much consideration, that my best plan would be to dis- 
 guise myself as a Bedouin woman. 
 
 Let me explain exactly why I chose to take on a fe- 
 male role — 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 un- 
 der 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 Bern- 
 hardt. I can successfully imitate a woman in walking, 
 
My Escape From the Turks 295 
 
 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. Hav- 
 ing 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 sol- 
 dier 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 knowl- 
 edge 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 
 
296 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 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 in- 
 tended 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. Some- 
 times 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 atten- 
 tion, 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 tor- 
 tured me, are quite indescribable. I worked like a fiend : 
 
My Escape From the Turks 297 
 
 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 depar- 
 ture 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 diffi- 
 culties 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 sub- 
 jected 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 
 
298 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 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 se- 
 cured 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-col- 
 ored stufif 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 drop- 
 pers, 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 
 
My Escape From the Turks 299 
 
 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, com- 
 pletely destroys the hair for the time being. This depila- 
 tory 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, assur- 
 ing 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 JACICALS 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 
 
300 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 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 remain- 
 ing, but my good luck seemed destined to continue, for 
 I met with hospitality from some of the soldiers I en- 
 countered, 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 
 
My Escape From the Turks 301 
 
 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 disap- 
 peared. 
 
 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 cither 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 Be- 
 douin 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 plod- 
 ding 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 my- 
 
302 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 self behind a hillock of sand, where from sheer exhaus- 
 tion 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 sus- 
 picion that I was other than I seemed. 
 
 From these people I learned definitely that my jour- 
 ney 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 pil- 
 grimage, 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 in- 
 numerable camp-followers. I trudged on and on through 
 this concourse, quite unchallenged — who would bother 
 about a poor deaf-mute Bedouin woman? — and even- 
 tually 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 
 
My Escape From the Turks 303 
 
 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 indiiferent attitude I could 
 dispel any suspicions I might have aroused. I sat down 
 as they approached me, and v/hen 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.) T«hey 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, con- 
 ducted 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 wear>% 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 pun- 
 ish me savagely for my abortive escape. 
 
 There is a bright lining to the darkest cloud, however, 
 
304 My Escape From the Turks 
 
 and so I discovered. I had not proceeded very far on 
 my return journey when I came across a party of Be- 
 douins 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 sus- 
 pect 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 acquain- 
 tance at the place where he lived. He was amazed to 
 see me back so soon, and told me that the Turkish au- 
 thorities had been greatly perturbed over my escape, and 
 were still searching for me. It would be unsafe to re- 
 main, 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 m.y 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 
 
My Escape From the Turks 305 
 
 just arrived at the port, and I promptly embarked upon 
 her, despite the strict scrutiny of a German female Cus- 
 toms official. She looked over all the women who board- 
 ed 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 hus- 
 band, to don directly I landed in Egypt. Oh ! the delight 
 of once more resuming a man's attire and a man's ways 
 of Hfe! 
 
 Arrived in Egypt, and once more in my own proper 
 person, I visited the British military authorities at Alex- 
 andria, who referred me to No. 5 Indian General Hos- 
 pital 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. Prid- 
 more, 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 dis- 
 covery. 
 
TALES OF GERMAN AIR RAIDERS 
 OVER LONDON AND PARIS 
 
 "How We Drop Bombs on the Enemies' Cities'' 
 
 Told hy 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 Ger- 
 man authorities permitted the publication in a Hamburg news- 
 paper 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 2EPPELINED THE HEART OF 
 LONDON" 
 
 Told hy Commander of a German Air Fleet 
 
 Our Zeppelin received orders at 6 o'clock in the eve- 
 ning 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. 
 
 306 
 
Tales of German Air Raiders 307 
 
 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-com- 
 batants 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 low- 
 ered 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 estab- 
 lish 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 
 
308 Tales of German Air Raiders 
 
 we know that there are public buildings or where im- 
 portant 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 Wool- 
 wich 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 dis- 
 cover 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 hun- 
 dred 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 ICO pounds each, and eighty of fifty pounds 
 each. The larger bombs are designed to destroy fortifica- 
 tions 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 play- 
 ing on us. This we knew from our information to be 
 
Tales of German Air Raiders 309 
 
 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 down- 
 ward 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. Never- 
 theless 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 ter- 
 rible 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 para- 
 lyzing 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 
 
3IO Tales of German Air Raiders 
 
 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 mon- 
 strous dome. A few seconds more straight to the west- 
 ward and we knew that we were over the centre of 
 ofificial 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 ho- 
 tels, 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. 
 
Tales of German Air Raiders 3" 
 
 It is exceedingly difficult for a gunner to hit an airship 
 at a height of 8000 feet, or even lower. We enjoyed a 
 feeling of tremendous power and security. Our daring 
 cornnfander ordered our craft to circle lower and lower 
 in te determination to inflict the greatest possible injury 
 
 °"IflasT 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 . . . 
 Bntish monument to their noted Admiral Nelson stand- 
 ingin the centre of Trafalgar Square. 
 
 "Give old Nelson a bomb!" roared our brave com- 
 
 "" Down went a bomb aimed straight at the head of the 
 one-eyed admiral. The fervent wishes of every rnan in 
 our crew went with it. Whether it struck the mark time 
 
 alone will show. .„.oU,r 
 
 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 ascer- 
 tain 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. ,, ^ tu.v 
 
 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 fo^ 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 
 
312 Talcs of German Air Raiders 
 
 myself liable to the death penalty. An attack by a Zep- 
 pelin 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 scout- 
 mg cruisers of the air. Moreover our raiding forces 
 split up in the darkness according to pre-arranged plans, 
 thus causing hopeless confusion among our terrestrial 
 opponents, even if the approaching attack has been re- 
 ported 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 Odyssy, 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 note«= 
 
 on their movements. Ober-Lieutenant K went alon^r 
 
 as observer, and my biplane soon carried us to a heigh't 
 of about 800 metres above the enemy's position, which 
 was sketched and photographed time and again. As ex- 
 pected, we were soon the object of a lively firing and 
 several times I felt a well-known trembling in the' ma- 
 chine— 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 
 
Tales of German Air Raiders 313 
 
 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 after- 
 noon, 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. Incred- 
 ibly 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. 
 
314 Tales of Gcrmun Air Raiders 
 
 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 gather- 
 ing. They could not understand how a German could 
 handle the French invention more skilfully and advan- 
 tageously 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 at- 
 tempted 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 pur- 
 suer 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 
 
Tales of German Air Raiders 315 
 
 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 knowl- 
 edge — 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 ma- 
 chine, 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 per- 
 mission 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 Eociles 
 
 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 excite- 
 ment. Bewilderment and then jubilation beset the ex- 
 iles. An hour later began one of the strangest spectacles 
 in modern history — the exodus from Siberia. It is esti- 
 mated that a hundred thousand political exiles began their 
 race back to Russia. 
 
 Traveling from the most inexcessible mines and set- 
 tlements, 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. 
 
 316 
 
Tales From Siberia 317 
 
 The first large party consisted of one hundred and 
 fifty poHtical 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 return- 
 ing exiles returned the cheers, but they were in a de- 
 plorable 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 un- 
 able 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. Hii victim, Gen- 
 eral FuchloiT, was about to kidnap 400 railroad strikers 
 and send them to Siberia. 
 
 Anuikhin, who introduced himself as "a released jail- 
 bird," 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 politi- 
 cal prisoners, mostly sentenced to life katroga, the sever- 
 
31 8 Tales From Siberia 
 
 est 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 addi- 
 tion 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 communi- 
 cated by means of tappings and other systems of sig- 
 naling. Although we also had means of communication 
 with the outside world, we knew nothing of the revolu- 
 tion until the morning of our release. 
 
 "After our release we learned that the Assistant Gov- 
 ernor, 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 Alex- 
 ander 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 To- 
 bolsk was the sudden demand for blacksmiths. The 
 prison blacksmith, fearing the vengeance of the convicts, 
 fled, and private blacksmiths, in the general orgy of revo- 
 lutionary 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 
 
Tales From Siberia 3^9 
 
 Siberia by various channels, but in all cases the announce- 
 ment 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 findmg them- 
 selves 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, i^i- 
 nally 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 expe- 
 rience of the old regime was a visit by the former Gov- 
 ernor 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-vear-old daughter, who stood before her father and 
 exclaimed, "Kill me first!" The child's action saved the 
 captain's life. 
 
320 Talcs From Siberia 
 
 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 mo- 
 notony 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 condi- 
 tions 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 him- 
 self had several thousand dollars in his pockets. When 
 it became whispered around that he intended to make a 
 
Tales From Siberia 321 
 
 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 mountain- 
 eers armed to the teeth. He decided to open negotiations 
 with one of these to act as his guide. The first one ap- 
 proached 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 arrange- 
 ments v/ere all made and they were to start the next morn- 
 ing 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 
 
322 Tales From Siberia 
 
 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 tribe's 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 con- 
 finement. But the Russian commandant was a pretty 
 good fellow. Besides, with his education and his knowl- 
 
Tales From Siberia 323 
 
 edge 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 pock- 
 ets full of money, and these Russian clothes made escape 
 the second time ridiculously easy. 
 
 He said it could scarcely be called escaping. He liter- 
 ally 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 rail- 
 road-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 
 entree to army circles in Russia and that she got him a 
 card to a Russian officers' club where he hung around 
 for tv/o 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 condi- 
 tions, 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. 
 
324 Talcs From Siberia 
 
 "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 com- 
 panion hinted that he would find it harder to get through 
 the British blockade than to hoodwink the Russian offi- 
 cials, 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 cafe of Peremysl, drinking 
 cool concoctions from tall glasses. 
 
 (The foregoing stories are : (I) told in the Nezu York 
 Evening World; (H) 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 oflF "Old 
 Head of Winsale" on the Irish coast, was torpedoed by a Ger- 
 man submarine. The Lusitania sailed from New York at noon, 
 May I, 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 sLjrtly 
 after luncheon, the sea was calm, when two torpedoes struck 
 the Lusitania. The scenes of terror which followed are de- 
 scribed 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, COM- 
 MANDER OF THE "LUSITANIA" 
 
 I WAS on the bridge of the Lusitania (at 2:08 Friday 
 afternoon, May 7, 191 5, 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 
 
 325 
 
326 Survivors' Stories of the "Ltisitania" 
 
 impact as the torpedo struck the starboard side of the 
 vessel, and a second torpedo followed almost immedi- 
 ately. This one struck squarely over the boilers. I tried 
 to turn the Liisitania shoreward, hoping to beach her, 
 but her engines were crippled and it was impossible. 
 Until the Liisitania 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, sud- 
 denly a German submarine rose to the surface amid the 
 wreckage, then submerged again. Some persons in life- 
 boats nearby saw the submarine even better than I did. 
 
 (As Captain Turner went about the streets of Queens- 
 town 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 
 
Survivors' Stories of the ''Lusitania" 327 
 
 "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 Hfe 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 
 f ou!- 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 antennae, 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 sub- 
 marine, 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. 
 
328 Survivors' Stories of the "Ltisitania" 
 
 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 Wednes- 
 day 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 accommo- 
 dation if there had been time to get them over. 
 
 The men all waited until no women were in sight be- 
 fore 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!" 
 
 Ill— 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." Be- 
 fore 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 
 
Survivors' Stories of the "Lusitania' 329 
 
 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 com- 
 mission 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 dry dock and some of the under- 
 pinning 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 hap- 
 pened, 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 ofif 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 
 sucie^d right down one of the funnels and shot out again, 
 
330 Survivors' Stories of the *'Lusitania" 
 
 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 ex- 
 plosion. The last person I spoke to before the vessel 
 went down was Mrs. Mason, the young American daugh- 
 ter 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 fea- 
 tures 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 be- 
 lieve, 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 hav- 
 ing been disorganized. The ship was now listing badly 
 to starboard, and, taking a swivel chair which an oper- 
 ator offered to me, I slid down into the water and to a 
 
Survivors' Stories of the ''Lusitania" 331 
 
 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 fun- 
 nels 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 Dy 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 per- 
 sons I spoke to on the ship. About this time all the pas- 
 sengers in the dining saloon had come up on deck. The 
 upper deck was crov/ded, and the passengers were won- 
 dering 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. 
 
332 Survivors' Stories of the "Lusitania" 
 
 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 min- 
 utes, 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. 
 
 STORY OF CHARLES T. JEFFREY, AN AMERI- 
 CAN 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 
 
Survivors' Stories of the *' Liisitania" 333 
 
 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 1 saw women and chil- 
 dren being put into them by sailors. There was no rush- 
 ing 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 navigat- 
 ing 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 v*raves by the head. Then she 
 seemed to be suddenly checked, as though her bow had 
 struck something, but it was only momentary, and in an- 
 other moment she disappeared under the water. I went 
 
334 Survivors' Stories of the "Liisitania" 
 
 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 lace agum, ana tnose 
 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. 
 
Survivors^ Stories of the ''Lusitania" 335 
 
 VI— STORY TOLD BY DR. DANIEL V. MOORE, 
 AN AMERICAN PASSENGER 
 
 After the explosion quiet and order were soon accom- 
 plished 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 strug- 
 gling 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 ex- 
 hausted 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 cov- 
 ered many. Now a young steward, Freeman, by name, 
 had approached me, clinging to a deck chair. I urged 
 
336 Survivors' Stories of the "Lusitania" 
 
 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 suc- 
 ceeded in reaching a raft. 
 
 We were in the water about one hour and a half. At 
 this time I suffered from violent vomiting. Then fol- 
 lowed appalling chills, but by beating myself I restored 
 my energy and was soon handling an oar. Freeman col- 
 lapsed, 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 frac- 
 tured. This I reduced and splinted, and in a short while 
 Frank asked, *Ts 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 life- 
 boats 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, inarticu- 
 late 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 life- 
 boats 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 
 
Survivors' Stories of the ^'Lusitania" 337 
 
 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 th^ 
 
338 Survivors' Stories of the "Lusitania" 
 
 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 cortege, the 
 other eighty-nine already having been placed in the 
 
 cfraves. 
 
 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 be- 
 hind 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 tortege 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 ma- 
 rines followed and then came sailors of the various 
 British ships in harbor. The British officers, numbering 
 
Survivors' Stories of the "Lusitania" 339 
 
 a hundred odd, marched erect but slow. Next in line 
 were captains Miller and Castle, Attaches of the Ameri- 
 can 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 passmg mto 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 previ- 
 ously been placed in three great pits— sixty-five in one, 
 in layers two deep, and twelve each in the other two. Con- 
 ducted 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, fol- 
 lowed, and finally the non-conformist rites were per- 
 formed. 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 flut- 
 tered at half mast. 
 
 Many children and little babies lie in the morgues like 
 so many dolls. The townspeople covered them with flow- 
 ers 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 Ameri- 
 can army "captivated the French imagination." Our boys who 
 have gone across seas to fight with the Allies carried the Ameri- 
 can 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 rela- 
 tions with those of other nations is an intimate and inter- 
 esting 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 Ger- 
 man trenches: 
 
 Fine is no name for the way I feel. The climate in 
 the part of France we have finally settled in is just be- 
 twixt 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 
 
 340 
 
With the American Soldiers 341 
 
 I ought not to knock it. London gave us a royai wel- 
 come, and I now have a few good friends there. A live 
 time also awaits me if I ever go back to Exeter, Alder- 
 shot 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 get- 
 ting on to their curves now and take discounts oflf 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 com- 
 rades. 
 
 Somewhere in France we camped next door to a Chi- 
 nese 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. LTn fortunately, 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 
 
242 With the American Soldiers 
 
 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 op- 
 posite 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 Chi- 
 nese gentlemen, and we did not mingle with them^ so 
 freely. If you want to get them drawing knives just 
 holler, "Buddha no hon!" They are fanatics on religion. 
 About a week ago we visited their camp and they im- 
 mediately 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 get- 
 ting used to them now. The other day a few other fel- 
 lows 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 Ger- 
 mans 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 
 
With the American Soldiers 343 
 
 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 be- 
 came 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 Ba- 
 varians 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. Yester- 
 day 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 Ger- 
 man lines leaving his pursuers far behind. 
 
 Any German prisoners I see I always give them a 
 cheery, 'Wie gehtsf" 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 oc- 
 cupied 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 
 
344 With the American Soldiers 
 
 now is, "Give the Germans hell and take no prisoners." 
 From all stories and indications they have acted like bar- 
 barians and deserve the worst treatment possible. Their 
 fire is becoming weaker and I think their days are num- 
 bered. 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 work- 
 ing. 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 
 
With the American Soldiers 345 
 
 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 pic- 
 ture 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 Ger- 
 mans 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 
 a. other 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 dur- 
 ing 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 
 
346 With the American Soldiers 
 
 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, 1 150 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 :io a car came to poste, saying they could not make 
 Poste 2 — the road was blocked — so the lieutenant tele- 
 phoned and gave me a note to deliver to Poste 2 — that 
 meant get it there. Well, we started out, and such a 
 
With the American Soldiers 347 
 
 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 nevef 
 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 couches 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 — souve- 
 nirs. 
 
 ni— STORY OF AN AMERICAN ENGINEER 
 IN FRANCE 
 
 (Told by (name suppressed), nth Regiment Railway 
 Construction Engineers) 
 
 This member of Company D, nth Regiment Railway 
 Construction Engineers, swings pick and axe and acts as 
 chauffeur on a handcar, but he enjoys it heartily. 
 
34^ With the American Soldiers 
 
 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 v/as 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 
 von 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 Ameri- 
 can 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 Ameri- 
 
With the American Soldiers 349 
 
 can 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 in- 
 teresting 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. Un- 
 fortunately all cameras were confiscated, so nothing do- 
 ing 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 dump- 
 lings were not hard to get, as we have the apples grow- 
 ing 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 
 fellov/s) on a handcar. Believe me, it is hard work pump- 
 ing 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. 
 
350 With the American Soldiers 
 
 There is something doing on our front to-night. From 
 all the banging noise Tommy must be strafing Fritz good 
 and !)lenty. 
 
 We have had several issues of tobacco since we arrived 
 in this part of the world. I do not know where the to- 
 bacco 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 bom- 
 bardment. One can hardly believe the amount of de- 
 struction the Huns are capable of doing when they start 
 out on their career of hate. 
 
 In this town they seem to have centered their ven- 
 geance on a most beautiful church and one of the fine 
 old cemeteries that France is noted for. The church 
 was not entirely demonished, but I think it is beyond re- 
 pair. As for the cemetery, many a poor Frenchman re- 
 turned 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 
 
With the American Soldiers 351 
 
 one can find a more pretentious cross, indicating" an offi- 
 cer. 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. 
 
 1 forgot to tell you that our quarters are the most com- 
 fortable 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 zvith 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 
 
352 WitJi the American Soldiers 
 
 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. Be- 
 sides, 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 fel- 
 lows are jumpy with expectation ; others are always smell- 
 ing 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 shrap- 
 nel 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 cal- 
 lous — 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 
 
With the American Soldiers 353 
 
 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, pol- 
 ished 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 soul- 
 ful 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 every- 
 body. 
 
 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 
 
354 With the American Soldiers 
 
 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 ex- 
 citing 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 
 
With the American Soldiers 355 
 
 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 ex- 
 plosives 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 im- 
 mediately 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 car- 
 rying 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 
 
356 With the American Soldiers 
 
 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 elec- 
 tric 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 mod- 
 ern 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 ha^ 
 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 hanking firm of Montgomery, Clothier & 
 
With the American Soldiers 357 
 
 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, 191 7. 
 Dear : 
 
 Well, old man, I can certainly tell of some real ex- 
 periences now. The latest: Last night we had an air 
 raid, beginning around 9 o'clock, when the Boche came 
 over and dropoed some bombs, trying for some gun po- 
 sitions 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 bar- 
 racks is riddled with holes from the eclat. The hole is 
 about three feet deep and very narrow, the eclat spread- 
 ing in all directions. There were all told eight bombs 
 dropped around us. 
 
^rg With the American Soldiers 
 
 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 pris- 
 oners— 174 officers were taken. We assisted Section 18 
 of the American Ambulance and I worked from 11 
 o'clock Sunday to Wednesday at 7 ?• M., and during 
 that time had only about seven hours sleep, -^ut 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, otten 
 
 times missing some. , . .u *t,o« 
 
 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 speak- 
 ing person said he had no food for three days and of a 
 battalion of 1,000 men only twenty-one were left Ihe 
 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 work- 
 ing as brancardiens 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 securs 
 that we moved up to as soon as the position had ad- 
 vanced, 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 wonder- 
 
With the American Soldiers 359 
 
 f ul ; 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 regi- 
 ment, and we only assisted Section 18, but they are a 
 vv^hite 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 1 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 couches 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 25^ 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 carr>^ him about a hundred feet outside of 
 the zone when another of our section cars came along 
 and iook his assis, who by now was a couche down for a 
 dressing. Our man stopped a carrier and had them 
 
360 With the American Soldiers 
 
 take his blesses 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. Persh- 
 ing and Petain 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, burn- 
 ing 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 sec- 
 tion of the best w'hich has been in this section with the 
 French army two years and has been twice cited in army 
 orders was hit and one couche 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. 
 
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