Passed by the censor: The Experience of an American Newspaper Man in France

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Title: Passed by the censor: The Experience of an American Newspaper Man in France
Author: Williams, Wythe
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Passed by the censor: The Experience of an American Newspaper Man in France" ***

[Illustration: MYRON T. HERRICK

UNITED STATES AMBASSADOR TO FRANCE

From a hitherto unpublished drawing by Royer]

PASSED BY THE CENSOR

THE EXPERIENCE OF AN
AMERICAN NEWSPAPER MAN IN FRANCE

WYTHE WILLIAMS

PARIS CORRESPONDENT OF THE NEW YORK TIMES,
OFFICIALLY ACCREDITED TO THE FRENCH
ARMIES ON THE WESTERN FRONT

WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
MYRON T. HERRICK
FORMER UNITED STATES AMBASSADOR TO FRANCE

NEW YORK
E.P. DUTTON & COMPANY
681 FIFTH AVENUE

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

_TO VIOLA_

PREFACE

Special correspondents in great numbers have come from America into the
European "zone of military activity," and in almost equal numbers have
they gone out, to write their impressions, their descriptions, their
histories, their romances and songs.

Other correspondents who are not "special," but who by the grace of
the military authorities have been permitted to enter the forbidden
territory, and by the favor of the censor have been allowed to tell
what they saw there, have entered it again and again at regular
intervals.

These are the "regular" correspondents, who lived in Europe before war
was declared, and who during many idle hours speculated on what they
would do with that great arm of their vocation--the cable--when the
expected hour of conflict arrived.

Few of their plans worked out, and new ones were formed on the
minute--on the second. For the Germans did not cut the cable, as some
of the correspondents, in moments of despair, almost hoped they would
do, and the great American public clamored insistently for the "news"
with its breakfast.

It is a journalist's methods in covering the biggest, the hardest
"story" that newspapers were ever compelled to handle, that this book
attempts to describe.

Wythe Williams.

Paris, October, 1915.

AN ENDORSEMENT

By Georges Clemenceau

Former Premier of France.

"In the crowded picture which this American journalist has presented we
recognize our men as they are. And he pronounces such judgment as to
arouse our pride in our friends, our brothers and our children. Such
a people are the French of to-day. They must also be the French of
to-morrow. Through them France sees herself regenerate.

"Of our army, Mr. Wythe Williams says:

"'It seems to me to be invincible from the standpoints of power,
intelligence and humanity.'

"Is there not in that something like a judgment pronounced upon
France before the people of the world? Where I am particularly
surprised, I admit, is that the eye of a foreigner should have been so
penetrating, and that our friendly guest should have coupled the idea
of an 'invincible' army with the supreme ethical consideration of its
'humanity.'

"Mr. Wythe Williams is right to proclaim this, even though it is
something of a stroke of genius for a non-Frenchman to have discovered
it."--(From an editorial in _L'Homme Enchainé_.)

LETTER TO THE AUTHOR FROM SENATOR LAFAYETTE YOUNG

_My Dear Williams_:

I am glad to know that you are going to write about the war in book
form. In doing this you are discharging a plain duty. You have been
in the war from the start. You have studied the soldier in the
trench, and out. You have witnessed every phase of battle. The war
is in your system. You are full of it. Therefore, you can write
concerning it with inspiration and fervor.

I remember our long marches in and near the trenches in Northern
France in April and May, last. I know how deeply you are interested;
therefore, I know how well you will write.

A thousand historians will write books concerning the present great
conflict, but the real historians will be the honest, independent
observers such as you have been.

Newspaper reports will be the basis of every battle's history.

Take the battle of the Marne, for instance. Who knows so well
concerning it as men like yourself, who were in Paris or near it
during the seven days' conflict?

The passing years may bring dignified historians who will compose
sentences which shall sound well, but none of them will be so full of
real history as your volume if you write your own experiences.

I never knew a man freer from prejudice, and at the same time fuller
of enthusiasm than yourself. I want you to write your book with the
same free hand you write for the _New York Times_. Forget for the
time that you are writing a book.

I am pleased to know that you have been with the army several times
since I parted company with you. This, with your experience as an
ambulance driver, when the first hostilities were on, has certainly
made you a military writer worth while.

I count you to be one of the three best and most truthful American
correspondents who have been in the war from the start.

I am hoping the time will come when these wars shall end, when bright
men like yourself shall return to the work of journalism in America.

With greatest affection, I subscribe myself,

Lafayette Young.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

PAGE

Introduction by Myron T. Herrick xiii

PART ONE

THE HECTIC WEEK

CHAPTER PAGE

I The Day 1

II The Night 9

III Herrick 19

IV Les Américains 31

V War 39

PART TWO

THE GREATEST STORY

VI The Actuality 49

VII The Field of Glory 55

PART THREE

THE ARM OF MILITARY AUTHORITY

VIII The Field of Battle 73

(A) Sentries in the Dark

(B) The Wounded Who Could Walk

IX "Detained" by the Colonel 94

X The Cherche Midi 110

XI Under the Croix Rouge 120

(A) Trevelyan

(B) The Rue Jeanne d'Arc

PART FOUR

WAR-CORRESPONDING DE LUXE

XII Out with Captain Blank 145

XIII Joffre 157

XIV The Man of the Marne and the Yser 172

XV The Battle of the Labyrinth 184

XVI "With the Honors of War" 193

XVII Sister Julie, Chevalier of the Legion of Honor 209

XVIII The Silent Cannon 226

XIX D'Artagnan and the Soul of France 230

PART FIVE

THREE CHAPTERS IN CONCLUSION

XX A Rearpost of War 245

XXI Myths 256

XXII When Chenal Sings the "Marseillaise" 264

AN INTRODUCTION

By Myron T. Herrick,

Former United States Ambassador to France.

The rigid censorship placed on journalism upon the declaration of
war in Europe brought the representatives of the American press into
close relationship with the Embassy. The news which they brought to
the Embassy and such news as they received there, required unusual
discretion, frankness and confidence on the part of all concerned in
order that the American public should receive accurate information,
while avoiding the commission of any improprieties against the
countries involved in the great conflict.

In this supreme test the American newspaper representatives appreciated
that they were something more than mere purveyors of news; they
arose to the full comprehension of their responsibility, and were of
invaluable assistance to the Embassy, and through it to the nation.

While there has been no opportunity to read the advance sheets of
this book, my confidence in the character and ability of the author,
begotten in those days when real merit, and demerit as well, were
revealed, makes it a pleasure to write this foreword, and to commend
this volume unseen.

(Signed)

[Illustration]

Cleveland, Ohio, October 19th, 1915.

A FOREWORD

At the outbreak of the European war, the author, who was then stationed
in Paris as the correspondent of the _New York Times_, was refused,
with all other correspondents, any credentials permitting him to
enter the fighting area. He entered it later, immediately after the
battle of the Marne, with what were in Paris considered sufficient
credentials. But he was arrested, returned to Paris as a prisoner of
war and lodged in the Cherche Midi prison, the famous military prison,
where Dreyfus was confined. He was released upon the intervention
of Ambassador Herrick, but still baffled in getting to the front as
a war correspondent, he volunteered for service in the Red Cross as
an orderly on a motor ambulance. A few of the descriptions in the
following pages are written from notes made during the two months he
remained in that service.

At the beginning of 1915, the author was officially accredited as a
correspondent attached to the French army, and at the beginning of
February sent to his paper the longest cable despatch permitted to
pass the censor since the beginning of the war, and the first authentic
detailed description of the French forces after the battle of the Marne.

The following spring, at the height of the first great French offensive
north of Arras, the famous ground, every yard of which is stained with
both French and German blood, the author was selected by the French
Ministry of War as the only neutral correspondent permitted there. The
first description given to America of the battle of the Labyrinth was
the result.

Since then the author has made a number of trips to the front, always
under the escort of an officer of the Great General Headquarters Staff,
and has seen practically the entire line of the French trenches, up
to the moment of the autumn offensive in Champagne. He was the first
American correspondent to foreshadow this offensive in a long cable to
his paper at the end of August, in which he asserted that the attack
would commence "before the leaves are red," that being the only wording
of the facts permitted by the censor, but which exactly timed the date
of the action. A few of the following chapters have been rewritten
from the author's article published in the _New York Times_, to which
acknowledgment is made for permission to use such material. The author
however wishes alone to stand sponsor for the sentiments and opinions
expressed throughout the volume.

PART ONE

THE HECTIC WEEK

PASSED BY THE CENSOR

CHAPTER I

THE DAY

A member of the Garde Republicaine, whose duty was to keep order in
the court, was creating great disorder by climbing over the shoulders
of the mob in the press section. He ousted friends of the white-faced
prisoner in the dock, to make room for a fat reporter from _Petit
Parisien_, who ordinarily did finance but was now relieving a confrère
at the lunch hour. The case in court was that of the famous affaire
Caillaux and all the world was reading bulletins concerning its
progress as fast as special editions could supply them.

I was sitting in the last of the over-crowded rows allotted to the
press, but filled with whoever got there first. I was one of the few
Americans permitted to cover this important "story" first hand, instead
of having to write my nightly cables from reports in the evening
papers.

As the _Petit Parisien_ man wheezed and jostled his way to a seat on
the bench just in front of me, I caught some words he flung to a friend
in passing. Maitre Labori was proclaiming the innocence of the prisoner
with all the fervor for which he is celebrated, and I was wondering how
soon an adjournment would let us escape from the stifling heat of the
room. It was the latter part of July, 1914; and true to French custom
all of the windows were shut tight.

The words of the fat reporter pricked my flagging attention, "There is
a panic on the Bourse."

The words caused a buzz of comment all around me. One English
journalist, monocled and superior, even stopped his writing, and the
financial reporter, his fat body half crowded into his seat, paused
midway to add: "The Austrian note to Serbia that has got them all
scared."

Another French newspaperman some seats away overheard the talk and
joined in loudly. It did not matter how much we talked during the
proceedings of the affaire Caillaux. Everybody talked. Often everybody
talked at the same moment. This journalist prefaced his remarks by a
derisive laugh.

"They are crazy on the Bourse," he said. "You may be sure that nothing
matters now in France but this trial. No panic, or Austrian note, or
Russian note or anything, will rival it as a newspaper story, I am
certain."

The fat reporter again wheezed into speech.

"I do not know very much concerning this affaire Caillaux," he replied,
"but I will bet you money that the verdict will not get a top headline."

"Why?" cried some of us, mocking and incredulous.

"Because of what I've told you. There is a panic on the Bourse."

The presiding judge announced the luncheon adjournment; we trooped
to the basement restaurant of the Palais de Justice. I found myself
sitting at a table with the superior Englishman. We discussed the
qualities of French cuisine for a moment; then he said:

"It will be jolly annoying if this Bourse business develops into war,
you know."

This was the first mention that I remember of the word "war" in
connection with the events that followed so fast for the next few
weeks, that now as I look back upon them, they do not seem real at all.
One week to the day following this luncheon, I remember saying to a
fellow newspaper correspondent, "Is it a week, or is it a year, since
we had Peace in the world?" But at the first mention of the word--the
first premonition of the nearness of the tragedy that was descending
upon Europe--I remember signaling somewhat abstractedly to a waiter,
and giving him an order for food.

Every one of the Americans who covered that session of the Caillaux
trial had lived in Europe for years; and the majority were to remain as
onlookers of the great war that had been so long predicted. But on this
day none of us realized, and none of us knew; and that was the greater
part of all our troubles.

I remember a conversation only a few weeks before all this happened,
with Mr. Charles R. Miller, the editor of the _New York Times_, who was
passing through Paris on his return to New York from Carlsbad. He asked
me when I intended going home, and I replied to him as I had to many
others:

"Not until they pull off this war over here. I have been in the
newspaper game ever since I left college, but I have never been lucky
enough to cover a war. So I do not propose to miss this one."

Then came the invariable question:

"When do you think it will come?"

I had my reply ready. All of us had made it many times.

"Oh, perhaps in a few years. Perhaps it will not be so very long."

The next remark of at least half the persons with whom I discussed
the question was, "Pooh, pooh, there'll never be a European war." Mr.
Miller only said, "What will you do when it comes?"

Again the reply was pat to hand, but how vague it seems now, in the
light of then fast approaching events! It was:

"There will be warning enough to make our plans for beating the censor,
I am certain."

It is easy enough to look back now and declare that incidents such
as Agadir, the Balkan war and Sarejebo should have been sufficient
handwriting on the wall. All those affairs were exactly that, but we
simply could not grasp the idea, that actual Armageddon could come
without at least months of announcement--time enough for all of us to
make our plans. In this I do not think we should be blamed, for we
followed so exactly the fatuous beliefs of even foreign ministries.
That the great moment should come in a week never entered our
imaginations.

We filed back to the court room on that afternoon of the Caillaux
trial and fought for the last time the twice daily battle for our
seats. I sat beside the superior Englishman. We listened idly to famous
politicians and famous doctors and famous lawyers garbling as best
they could the dead question of the murder of Gaston Calmette, and the
more burning though irrelevant one as to whether Joseph Caillaux was a
traitor.

My companion and I discovered that our arrangements for a summer
vacation included the same tiny Brittany hamlet by the sea. We passed
a portion of the afternoon making mutual plans for the coming month,
and at the adjournment drove away from the ancient building on the
banks of the Seine in the same fiacre, both trying to align the chief
features of the day's sitting, and planning the writing of our night's
despatches.

After an hour at my desk that evening, I remember turning to Mr. Walter
Duranty, my chief assistant, and saying, "It is about two thousand
words to-night. With all the direct testimony that the Associated Press
is sending, it ought to lead the paper to-morrow morning. Mark it
'rush.'"

"But about this panic on the Bourse story! Don't you think we should
send a special on that?" Mr. Duranty asked.

"Why?" I questioned.

"Because there is an Austrian brokerage firm that has been selling like
mad--started all the trouble; it is the identical firm that two years
ago--" His voice broke off suddenly. "Listen!" he then shouted. We made
a rush to the front windows looking upon the Boulevard des Italiens
near the Opera.

The street was seething, which signified exactly nothing, for the
Caillaux case had kept the boulevards stirred up for days.

"They are yelling, 'Down with Caillaux!'" I said, as we tore open the
window sashes.

"No--it's something else."

We leaned far out. Under the lights moved thousands of heads. Hundreds
were reading the latest editions, but in the middle of the road a mob
was surging, and we heard a monotonous cry. It was a cry heard that
night in Paris for the first time in forty-four years.

The mob was shouting, "To Berlin!"

I slammed shut the window. "Cut that Caillaux cable to a thousand
words," I yelled, as I seized my hat, ran down the stairs, and plunged
into the crowd, snatching the latest editions as I ran.

The Austro-Serb and Russian news had become worse within a few hours,
and there were already rumors of Franco-German frontier incidents. I
hurried along the boulevards, calling at the offices of the _Matin_ and
the _London Daily Mail_, but could get no inside information; nothing
but official announcements which would be cabled by the news agencies,
and did not interest me, the correspondent of a paper receiving all
agency matter.

Later I returned to my office, cabled a story that pictured the scene
in the boulevards and gave some details concerning the Austrian
brokerage firm that had precipitated the trouble on the Bourse by
its selling orders. My paper alone carried the next morning the
significant information that this same Austrian house, with high Vienna
connections, had made an enormous fortune just two years before, when
it had accurate and precise information concerning the hour that the
conflict in the Balkans would begin.

This story was a "beat"--probably it was the first "beat" of the
European war, but it was almost lost in the mass of heavy despatches
that on that night began crowding the cables from every capital in
Europe. The next morning probably every newspaper in the world led its
columns with the subject of war. Even in Paris the affaire Caillaux was
relegated to the second page.

CHAPTER II

THE NIGHT

A "beat" or a "scoop," otherwise known as exclusive news, is a
great matter to a newspaper man. To "put over a beat" gives soul
satisfaction, but to be beaten causes poignant feeling of another sort.

There have been some great beats and a multitude of little ones, but up
to the beginning of the European war, the greatest beat that was ever
put over came from a Paris correspondent.

This was the occasion when Henri de Blowitz, the famous representative
of the _London Times_, gave the full text of the treaty of Berlin
before the hour when it was actually signed. That was a real beat,
not to be classified with the majority of beats of later years, which
were often scandalous, more often paltry, and which often caused us to
wonder whether they were worth the cable tolls.

In ante-bellum discussions, the Paris correspondents often opined that
the coming conflict would open a more important field. At least we
would no longer chronicle the silly ways of fashion and the crazy ways
of society. The turf, the mannequin, the Rue de la Paix, and those
who drank tea at the Pré Catalan would give way to real and stirring
matters. We all schemed to put over a real beat as soon as the war
drums began to roll and the new Paris was revealed. The old Paris, in
the minds of American editors, had only been an important place for
unimportant things.

Looking back now at the beginnings of Armageddon, and at the particular
corner in which I performed a minor rôle, I can say generally that all
our schemes went wrong and that there were no "beats" of the slightest
importance secured by anybody. Remember, I am only speaking of Paris
and France. There were a few great beats elsewhere. There was the
famous "scrap of paper" interview given to the Associated Press. There
were some exclusive interviews secured in both Germany and England.
But France, the real theater of action, where beats were expected, was
quite the equal of Japan in her sudden tight sealing of every crevice
from which news either big or little might leak.

France had learned several lessons from the year 1870, but this one she
learned almost too well. So far as the neutral opinion of the world
was concerned, it was scarcely known that France had an army. Later,
but much later, and then very gradually, some real stories were passed
by the censor--but even then very few of them were beats.

But during the hectic week when France went to war the censorship was
almost overlooked and there were a few precious hours during which
the correspondents and their methods of communication were free. The
first sign of the censor was the shutting off of the telephone between
Paris and London. It had been my custom to talk with our London office
nightly in order that the news of the two capitals might be checked,
and that we might not duplicate stories.

The second night following the events of the foregoing chapter I talked
to our London bureau for the last time. All that day my mind had been
busy with one idea: "If war is declared, how can we beat the censor?"

The first answer that probably occurred to every correspondent was:
"Code." Alas, events moved too quickly. A secret code was a matter
that might have been arranged had we been given our expected months of
notice, but there was no time now.

I gave the call for our London office, however, with this idea still
uppermost in mind. I waited a quarter of an hour to be put through.
Then I heard the voice of my colleague. It sounded harassed. I shall
never forget his first remark after the communication was established.
I could almost see him pass a hand over a fevered brow; I could almost
hear the sigh that I am sure accompanied the words which were:

"My gracious, I never expected to live to see such days as these!"

It was quite natural that he should have said just that, but somehow
there did not seem any fitting reply. Also it seemed rather hopeless to
talk about codes. So I said:

"I am told that we will not be allowed to telephone after to-night."

He replied: "That's a fact. I guess this is good-by for a while." He
paused--then as an afterthought, added: "I think you would better just
send everything you can from Paris without paying any heed to whether
London does or not."

Inasmuch as a moment had arrived when there was only one possible way
to do many things, I quite agreed with him.

The conversation lagged.

"Well, good-by," I shouted.

"Good-by," he replied, "and good luck."

That was the end of the telephone as an adjunct to transatlantic
journalism. I have never spoken with our London office from that night.

After hanging up the receiver I had an idea.

It did not and does not now seem a particularly brilliant one; but,
again, it was the only possible thing to do. I turned to Mr. Duranty
and said:

"We will have a little race with the censor. We will crowd everything
possible on the cable before he gets on the job."

All the late editions were on my desk. I clipped and pasted everything
of interest on cable forms and sent them to the Bourse. Mr. Duranty
took them himself, "just to see if there were any signs of the censor,"
as he expressed it. Then I began to write, interrupted continually by
my dozen extra assistants. I had hired every freelance newspaper man
I could find--and I had also a number of volunteers, young American
visitors, too interested in events to be in a hurry to get out of the
city.

The night was warm and the windows all open. The boulevards were dense
with shouting people. There was no mistaking the cries on this night.
"À Berlin--À Berlin," echoed above the roar of the traffic and the
mob. Cuirassiers frequently rode through the streets but the crowd
immediately surged in behind them.

At ten o'clock the concierge mounted to protest against the street door
being open. She was afraid. She was alone in the _loge_. I told her
that the business of the office required the doors kept unlocked. She
went away and in a few moments came back with the proprietor of the
building, whom she had called by telephone. He insisted on closing the
street door. I told him this was a violation of my lease. In view of
the circumstances he persisted in his demand. I wheeled my chair about
and said to him:

"This office remains open--all night if I desire. It is a newspaper
office and we cannot close. If you interfere with me I guarantee that I
will keep a man there, but if necessary that man will be a soldier."

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"I mean that I will apply to the American Embassy for the protection of
my rights as an American citizen."

He went away and that difficulty ended.

I turned back to my work. I wrote thousands of words that night; when
not writing I was dictating, and piecing together the reports of my
assistants.

Mr. Duranty returned from the Bourse. His clothes were awry and he was
trembling with excitement. He had diverged, in his return trip, to the
Gare du Nord, to get a story of the stormy scenes there--thousands,
chiefly Americans, fighting for places in the trains for England. He
had been arrested, he explained. Oh, yes, he had been surrounded by a
mob at the Gare, who spotted him as a foreigner, and the police had
rescued him. He explained his identity and was released.

At the end of the story he suddenly leaped across the room to the
window. I leaped at the same moment and so did the stenographer. Across
the boulevard was a store that dealt in objects of art. The proprietor
was a German. During the day he had boarded the place with stout
planks. As we reached the window the sound of splitting and tearing
planks sounded above even the cries and roars of the angry people. One
look and Duranty was out of the office and in the street.

I sat in the window and watched the mob do its work. The torn planks
were used as battering rams through the plate glass, through the
expensive statuary and costly vases. In five minutes the place was
a ruin. Then the cuirassiers came and drove the crowd away. Duranty
returned with the details of the story. I asked him what the police
had said to the crowd.

"A man came out holding a marble Adonis by the arm," he replied. "A cop
said to him, 'Be good now--be good!' and the chap replied, 'Well, if I
can't smash it, you smash it!'--So the cop took it and leaped upon it
with both feet."

"Write it," I said; "also the Gare du Nord story."

It was midnight and the uproar was greater than ever. Processions
blocks long wended through the middle of the streets singing the
"Marseillaise," the "Carmagnole" and other fire-eating songs of the
Revolution. Through it all I worked, and steadily sent messenger after
messenger to the Bourse with the latest news from the various scenes of
action. No signs yet of the censor.

About one o'clock the crowd concentrated just below my window. The
cries grew fiercer and louder, with a more terrible note. I went to
the window. The faces of the mob were turned to an upper window of the
building next door. Some rash voice had shouted from that window a cry
that no man might shout that night in Paris with safety. He had cried:
"Hurrah for Germany!"

I crawled out on my window ledge and watched. The crowd filled the
street completely. They watched that upper window, they yelled their
rage and they battered against a great grilled iron door that baffled
their efforts. The police tried to disperse them, but as soon as the
street was partly cleared they surged back again. They hung about that
door, their faces turned up, the hate showing in their eyes, their
mouths open, bellowing forth their rage. They waited as patiently as
wolves that have surrounded a quarry that must come out to meet them
soon. But the waiting was so long that I crawled back from my window
ledge into the office.

I finished a despatch that I had compiled from various documents given
out to the morning papers by the Foreign Ministry, and of which I had
secured a copy. They were an undisputable proof that Germany meant
war on France, for they noted a dozen incidents proving that German
mobilization had been under way for days. The dawn was breaking as I
pushed my chair from the desk.

I told the stenographer and other assistants to go home and get some
sleep--not to report again until late afternoon. Duranty, who, like
myself, kept no hours but worked always while there was work to do,
sauntered into the private room. He had counted the words of copy that
had been filed that night--nearly twenty thousand.

The yelling of the mob below had given way to low rumbling. We had
ceased to think about it. We lighted our pipes and yawned.

"Shall we cut it out for a few hours?" Duranty asked.

"Think so," I replied. "We will hunt a cab and go home until noon."

I stifled another yawn and relighted my pipe.

A scream came from the sidewalk--my pipe dropped to the floor and we
were out on the window ledge.

A man was struggling in the middle of the street. He was the man who
had so rashly shouted "Vive l'Allemagne" from the window.

He fell and passed out of sight under a mass of bodies. The crowd
opened once. The man struggled to his knees. His face was covered with
blood. Again we lost sight of him. Then cuirassiers charged down the
street. One of them lifted a broken body across his saddle. That story
never reached New York. The censor was on the job.

CHAPTER III

HERRICK

On the morning of September 3, 1914, an "official statement," so
called, was inserted by the American Ambassador, Myron T. Herrick, in
the Paris edition of the _New York Herald_. This announcement read:

"The American Ambassador advises, as he has done before, that all
Americans who can go, leave Paris, for obvious reasons."

The French Government was then most anxious to get every foreigner
possible out of Paris. A siege was imminent and the food question
might become very grave. Preparations were made for taking out the
British residents. Mr. Herrick arranged with General Galliéni, then the
Military Governor, for trains to transport a thousand of them a day,
the British Government furnishing the money.

I now have Mr. Herrick's permission to state for the first time,
that the American Embassy was then in receipt of a telegram from Mr.
Gerard, our Ambassador in Berlin, in which he said in substance that
the German General Staff "advises you and all Americans to leave Paris
at once by Rouen and Havre."

For a considerable length of time there was practically no doubt that
there would be a siege, and very many believed it would be followed by
a German entry into Paris. What happened at Louvain seemed reasonably
likely to be repeated at the Louvre; in fact, it was well known to the
Government that the German plan was to blow up Paris section by section
until the French were forced to capitulate.

When the ministry changed and Delcassé and Millerand came into power,
there was a change also in policy, and it was determined that the city
should be defended.

On the morning of September second, the President of the Republic
summoned Mr. Herrick to the Elysée, to thank him for remaining in
Paris. He added that "We propose to defend the city at the outer gates,
at the inner gates, and by the valor of our troops, and there will be
no surrender."

Under these circumstances the advice to Americans was inserted in
the _Herald_. I called on Mr. Herrick immediately after the notice
was written. He said to me: "What explanation can be made if no
such warning is given, and if there is a siege, with many killed and
wounded, in face of the situation as it is to-day, and of the warning
telegram I have received from Berlin?"

The question has since been asked, sometimes critically, as to why
this warning was given, since after all the Germans did not enter
Paris. I have therefore given these heretofore unpublished facts at
the beginning of this chapter, in order that it shall be known just
how faithfully our ex-ambassador guarded his trust to the American
people, to give an insight into the character of the man who was easily
the most remarkable figure in Paris at the beginning of the war, who
was not only the rock upon which the thousands of Americans leaned so
heavily, but was also an outstanding favorite of the Paris public.

On one of the nights just preceding mobilization, when the boulevards
were at the zenith of their frenzy, I looked out my office window and
saw an open carriage, with footmen wearing ambassadorial livery and
cockades, driving slowly along the Boulevard des Capucines. Voices
snarled in the crowd. Certain ambassadors were not popular in Paris
in those days; so just who might this ambassador be, at that moment
straining his eyes to read a paper under the electric arc lights?

He looked up as he heard the hoots directed at himself--then smiled and
shouted something at the crowd.

"Ah, l'Ambassadeur Americain!" they passed the word. Then rose cries
of "Vive l'Amérique!--Vive Herrick!" Men jumped on the carriage steps
and Mr. Herrick shook their hands. Banter was exchanged on all sides,
and cheers followed him down the boulevard. The Paris public felt then
what they came to know later, that he liked them almost as much as "his
Americans." They knew, when the French Government went to Bordeaux,
that the American Embassy remained--that the eye of the great neutral
republic would see what happened should the Germans enter their city.

The later significant comment made by Mr. Herrick, when a German taube
dropped bombs on a spot he had just passed, that "A dead ambassador
might be more useful than a live one," has been written in the
history of France. And when the war is over I believe that the names
of Franklin, Jefferson and Herrick will constitute a triumvirate of
American ambassadors to France, that all French school children of the
future will be taught to remember and respect.

I passed much time at the Embassy during the first weeks of war, for
it was a real center of news for an American newspaper. And I remember
quite distinctly a statement that I made at home during one of the
rare moments when I was able to reach it and which I repeated many
times afterwards. It was a simple "Thank God that Myron T. Herrick is
the American Ambassador." To the mild inquiry "why?" I could only say:
"Because he is such an honest-to-God sort of man."

Mr. Herrick was undoubtedly shrewd in his friendships for newspapermen
and he was clever in his use of them. But he always knew that we
understood his cleverness and he always saw to it that we got value
received in the way of "copy" for the praise that was often bestowed
upon him as the result of it.

Mr. Herrick often said to us, in a manner quite casual, things that he
had thought over carefully before our arrival. He knew just how those
cables would look in the newspaper columns, and what the effect would
be upon the reader, long before he handed out the subject matter. But
if I ever argued to myself that I was receiving a rather _intime_
portrait of a clever and an astute diplomat, I could always honestly
say, especially during the eventful days I am attempting to describe,
that he was one man in Paris whose poise was undisturbed by the rapid
succession of giant shocks, and that all the things which he did and
said were to his everlasting credit and honor.

The American correspondents were sometimes referred to as "journalistic
attachés" of the Embassy. We went there regularly, and it was ordered
that our cards be taken to "His Excellency" the moment that we arrived.

He sometimes revealed to us "inside information" which, had we been
able to print it, would have been, to say the least, sensational. On
one occasion when he did not extract the suspicion of a promise that
I preserve secrecy, Mr. Herrick told me a story which, if published
to-day, would cause one of the biggest sensations of the war. But it is
a story that can be printed only when the war is over, and perhaps not
then, unless Mr. Herrick himself then gives permission.

Since leaving Paris, however, he has "released for publication" some
things that could not for various reasons be printed at that time. For
instance, when the French Government moved to Bordeaux, the American
banks in Paris were inclined to follow them and in fact did send
considerable amounts of money there. Mr. Herrick told them that he
wished them to remain; that their services were necessary to carry
on the relief work for the German and Austrian refugees, and other
charities of which he was in charge. He told them they might use the
Embassy cellar for their money, that there was a row of vaults across
the cellar and under the sidewalk. At one time, when the German peril
was most extreme those vaults contained more than three million dollars
in gold, which was guarded night and day by six marines from the U.S.S.
_Tennessee_.

Also, in order to avoid panic, we could not print at that time, that
the Embassy expected any day a rush of refugees; Mrs. Herrick had
stocked the Embassy cellars with provisions for a thousand persons
for several weeks. Mrs. Herrick, too, proved herself an excellent
executive, for not only did she take this entire burden of preparing
for the Americans, should the Germans enter Paris, but at the same
time she organized a hospital at the American Art Club and vigorously
assisted French as well as American charities.

I feel now that a sufficient period has passed for the publication in
more detail of some of the memorable interviews that took place in
the private room of the Embassy. At the time some of them were printed
in the form of short cable-grams, but more often lost in the rush of
events.

I shall never forget a talk that took place just two days before the
declaration of war.

Mr. Herrick was sitting at his big, flat-topped desk smoking a
cigarette and looking out of the open window. He waved his hand toward
the cigarette box as he greeted me and pointed at a chair. He continued
looking out of the window, but I knew that he saw nothing. There were
no preliminaries; only one subject interested every mind in Paris.

"What do you know?" I asked.

"It's bad," he replied.

"Any fresh developments?"

"None you don't already know--but come again to-night and I'll tell you
anything I learn."

"What will you do with the Americans--the town is full of them? What
about them if it comes?" I next asked. We always referred to the war as
just "it."

"Take care of 'em," he announced briefly--then a pause; and he laughed.
"Don't know yet that they'll need it--let's hope it won't come."

"But you expect it?"

He looked me directly in the face as he slowly answered:

"Yes--it's only a question of days--or hours."

We both drew long breaths.

"And--" I began; but he went on talking slowly and heavily.

"It's what the Orient has waited for--waited for all these
centuries--the breaking down of Occidental civilization--" He drew
himself up with a jerk. "But that's too much like pessimism. Have
a cigarette. I've got to keep smiling, you know. That's part of an
ambassador's job."

And he did keep smiling. There were few moments during all those days
when there was not a smile upon his face and an honest welcome in his
manner. But once I saw him angry.

He was furiously angry at certain information I had brought to the
Embassy. It was the first day after the military order that all
foreigners residing in Paris should register at their local police
commissariats within twenty-four hours. The city was no longer a city
officially. It was an intrenched camp. Only military law prevailed.
The penalty for not obeying orders was severe, and for the thousands
of Americans to obey the order in question was manifestly impossible.
I myself had no police permit--not even a passport. I had no time to
go near a police station. My wife telephoned that at our commissariat
the line of waiting foreigners was about eight hundred. She flatly
declined to take her turn--permit or no permit. I suggested that she go
home; but later I heard disquieting rumors, that there had been several
arrests of foreigners unable to show a _permis de séjour_. I did not
blame the police, for the city was full of spies; but I could see no
good reason why the Americans should suffer and I went full speed to
the Embassy to put the facts before the Ambassador.

His face changed color. His hands gripped the sides of his chair.

"Say that over again," he said quietly.

I repeated. Suddenly both his hands left the arms of his chair, and
doubled into fists, crushed down upon his desk.

"By God," he shouted, half rising, his jaw thrust forward. "By God,
they won't arrest any of _my_ people."

He pushed a button on the desk, at the same time calling the name of
one of the Embassy secretaries. Rapidly and explosively outlining the
situation, the Ambassador finished with the order:

"Now you get to the Foreign Office quick; and let them know that if
one American is arrested for not having his papers, until this rush at
the commissariat is over, it means trouble--that they'll answer to me
for it."

I believe this incident more correctly illustrates the character of
the ex-ambassador than anything one could say or write about him.
When he came first to France, with a reputation as a successful Ohio
politician, no one knew whether he was a real diplomat or not. I do
not believe Mr. Herrick knew himself; but I do not believe that either
then or later he ever thought much about it. He had sufficient _savoir
faire_ to make him greatly admired and respected by the French people,
and his record proves whether or not he was a good diplomat. But there
were moments, such as the one I have described, when he did not stop to
consider whether or not an ambassador was supposed to be a diplomat.

I can picture other ambassadors I have known going over in their
minds the rules of diplomacy and then delicately, oh, how delicately,
approaching the subject. Herrick sometimes rode roughshod over all
rules of diplomacy. He did it successfully, too--for there were no
Americans arrested in France for not having their _permis de séjour_.

I have seen multi-millionaires standing in line at the Embassy, waiting
their turn to get temporary passports; and I have seen powerful
politicians and trust magnates waiting in the hall outside that famous
private room, while Mr. Herrick talked to a little school teacher from
Nebraska who had arrived earlier in the morning and secured a position
ahead of them in the line.

I have seen him walk through the salons of his residence, which he
kept open night and day to hundreds of Americans who felt safer just
to be there, smiling, shaking hands and telling stories, although I
knew he had not slept for twenty-four hours. And I have waked him up
at midnight to tell him details concerning American refugees and their
suffering which only he could alleviate and which he did alleviate
without sleeping again until the work was done.

I witnessed many things in company with Mr. Herrick behind the scenes
of the mighty drama as it was unfolding; most of them I am sure it
would not be good "diplomacy" on my part to repeat. But all of them
combined to make more fervent my thanks to the Almighty that in those
days Myron T. Herrick was the American Ambassador to France.

CHAPTER IV

LES AMÉRICAINS

My first and most poignant recollection of the thousands of Americans
caught in France at the outbreak of war is in connection with a cable
containing some five thousand of their names, which was killed by the
censor on the ground that it was code. I worked hard on that cable,
too. I compiled it in the hope that it would relieve the anxiety of
friends and relatives at home. But the censor, after pondering over the
Smiths, Jones, Adamses and Wilsons in the list, believed that I had
evolved a scheme to outwit the authorities and that important war news
would be published if it were allowed to pass.

I have lived long enough in France to know when not to argue. In this
case I was meekly and respectfully silent. The censor said it was
code--therefore it must be code. He even refused to pass a private
message to my editors, who had asked for all the names of Americans
that I could get, in which I said that I had tried to meet their
wishes but had failed. This, too, the censor thought had a hidden
meaning.

The story of the Americans alone would have been almost the biggest
that a newspaper man ever had to handle, had it not been for the fact
that after all they were only incidental to a far bigger matter.
Naturally they did not consider that they could be of lesser importance
than anything. Also, the New York editors thought them almost, if not
quite, as important as the declaration of war. Unfortunately newspaper
correspondents, even Americans, located in the capital of a belligerent
power, had officially to think with the authorities, and let the story
of the Americans take what place it could find in the jumble of greater
and lesser news. True, their story was covered--after a fashion--and
the world knew what a real sort of a man the American Ambassador was in
the way he protected his people. But most of the tragedy and nearly all
of the comedy--much of it was comedy--was lost in the roll of drums.

In those days Europe was for Europeans. As I recall the Americans now,
it seems to me that no nation finding herself in such a position as
France, could have treated so patiently, so unselfishly, so kindly, as
she, the strangers within her gates. As for the strangers, alas, many
of them felt distinctly aggrieved that war should come to spoil their
summer holidays and bitterly resented their predicament. They ignored
the fact that France was fighting for her life.

Their predicament, after all, was not so serious. After all, no
American died; no American was wounded; no American even starved.
Their troubles were really only inconveniences; but none of them would
believe that Uhlans would not probably ride down the Champs Elysées the
following morning, shouting "hands up" to the population.

I visited one afternoon the office of the White Star Line, jammed as
usual with white-faced, anxious-voiced Americans seeking passage home.
The veteran Paris manager of the line was behind the counter. He was
speaking to a frightened woman in tones sufficiently clear to be heard
by everybody.

"I speak from personal experience, madam," he told the woman. "I
know that there will be plenty of room for everybody just as soon as
mobilization is over. In two weeks the situation will be much easier."

"How do you know?" was the question. "What is your experience?"

His answer should have brought assurance, had assurance been at all
possible.

"I was here in eighteen-seventy," he replied.

The prediction was nearly right. It took longer than two weeks to clear
the ways; but when the battle of the Marne began, almost the last batch
of tourists were at Havre, awaiting their boat.

The American newspaper correspondents who remained were looked upon
as fools. The tourists could not understand our point of view that
perhaps, after all, Paris instead of Belgium would produce the biggest
story of the war.

I was on one amusing occasion the "horrible example" of the man who
would not leave town, in a little sidewalk drama whose stellar rôle was
played by one of the best known American actors. On one of the first
evenings after mobilization I decided to go to our consulate, then in
the Avenue de l'Opera, in order to learn the number of people applying
for aid and learn if possible the approximate number of American
tourists in Paris.

It was late. When I reached the consulate it was closed, but a large
crowd remained waiting on the sidewalk. I learned from the concierge
that the staff had departed for the night. As I turned to go I met
William H. Crane, the comedian, entering the building. I told him the
place was shut, and we stood in the doorway talking.

The benevolent face and gray hair of Mr. Crane marked him with the
crowd, and they immediately decided that if he was not the Consul
General himself, he was at least a person of highest importance in
the affairs of our Government. A group of school teachers timidly
approached. I spoke to him quickly in French.

"You can act off the stage, can't you?"

He muttered something about getting away quickly, but I seized his coat
lapel, saying: "Look here, there are many persons in this line and they
have picked you out to be the big chief. The consulate is closed and
if you don't play your part they will stand here all night. They are
desperate."

Crane hesitated--then walked down the line, hearing each tale of woe
and giving advice. He remained an hour, until the last question was
asked and the last tourist satisfied. But he insisted that I remain
with him. He told them all that I was so unfortunate as to live in
Paris, that I had a house and family there, and that I had no possible
chance to get out. And so, he argued, how much better off were they
than "this miserable person," for they would surely get away in few
days or weeks at the latest. As they did.

My last recollection of _les Américains_ with which the word poignant
might be used, was the morning before the battle of the Marne. It
appeared certain to all of us who remained that the entry of the
Germans could be only a question of hours. I, however, was fairly happy
that day, for at four o'clock that morning my family had left the
city for safety. The American Ambassador had told me confidentially
something I already knew--that Paris was no longer a safe place for
women and children. I had set forth my own belief for days, but my
wife had remained. However, she was a great believer in the American
Ambassador. So when I gave her the "confidential information"--and I
set it forth strong--she consented to go to England.

I walked the streets that morning feeling a load off my mind. I had
been up all night, getting my little family off and inasmuch as the day
was too important for sleep, I took a refreshing bath and then strolled
along the empty Boulevard des Capucines. I had found a shady nook on a
sidewalk _terrasse_ when some one touched me on the arm. I turned and
looked into the terrified faces of an American friend and his wife.
"What are you doing here?" they inquired anxiously.

"Why, I live here," I replied. "Won't you sit down and have something?"

"Oh, no," the man answered. "We are on our way to the train; we were in
the country when the trouble began. It was awful. They arrested us as
spies. We only got here this morning. We have seats in the last train
for Marseilles and will sail from there."

"Yes," I said, somewhat uninterestedly I fear, "but you have lots of
time--sit down."

My friend grasped my shoulder. "Man, are you crazy?" he cried. "You
look as if you were going to play tennis. You come along with us to
America."

"Can't do it," I replied. "I've got to stay."

They stared at me silently. The woman took my hand.

"Good-by," she whispered.

The man took my hand in both of his. "Good-by," he quavered. "I'll tell
them in New York that I saw you."

"Do," I replied.

I was not at all courageous in remaining in Paris. I did not remain
because I so desired. I remained because, as a newspaper man appointed
to cover the news of Paris, I could not run away. Then, also, the
biggest news that perhaps Paris would ever know seemed so near. I
bought a number of American flags that day and hung them outside my
windows.

I felt more fortunate than my fellow Americans who had gone away.

CHAPTER V

WAR

A night spent sending despatches--a yelling, singing mob beneath
the windows making it almost impossible for messengers to cross to
the cable office;--a dawn passed in riding from one ministry to
another, wherever any portion of the war councils might still be in
session;--and a forenoon spent in a Turkish bath, brought me near to
the fateful hour on Saturday, August 1st, when France went to war.

I went to the bath establishment for sleep; but insistently I heard
the voices of the night before--the yells, the cheers and the
"Marseillaise." They were just as audible in that Moorish room, with
dim lights and a trickling marble fountain. There was no such thing as
sleep.

I went to my office and found a sum of gold awaiting me. I was glad to
get that gold. I had sent an urgent letter in order to get it, in which
I used such phrases as "difficulty of getting cash," "moratoriums,
etc." My debtor wrote back, "What is a moratorium?" but he sent the
cash. It saved the situation for me during the next month, while the
financial stringency lasted. I went over to my bank, The Equitable
Trust Company, to deposit it. Mr. Laurence Slade, the manager, was in
the hall.

"Is it safe to leave this with you," I asked, "or must I go clinking
around town with it hung in a leather belt festooned about my person?"

"Leave it," he suggested.

"But the moratorium?" I inquired.

"Won't take advantage of it with any of our customers and we will keep
open unless a shell blows the place up."

I thrust it into his hands, thankful that I had always used an American
banking institution in Paris. All French banks took advantage of the
moratorium the moment it was declared.

On the boulevards the crowds were thinner than the days before. I stood
watching them idly. Every one seemed to realize that the declaration of
war was hanging just over our heads. There was less excitement, less
feeling of all kind. I said to myself, "Well, it's coming, the greatest
story in all the world and there isn't a line to be written." It was
just too big to be written then--and except the official bulletins of
marching events I know of nothing that was sent to any newspaper on
that day either remarkable from the standpoint of writing or facts.

After idling along the boulevard for a few moments, I decided to go to
my usual hunting ground for news--the Embassy. I hailed a taxi, and
just as I opened the door on one side to enter, a bearded Frenchman
opened the door opposite. I stated that the taxi was mine, and he
declared emphatically that it belonged to him. The chauffeur evidently
saw us both at the same instant and could not make up his mind as to
our respective rights. A crowd began to gather, as the Frenchman,
recognizing that I was a foreigner, began haranguing the chauffeur.

"What do you mean?" he cried. "Do you propose to let foreigners have
taxis in times like this? Taxis are scarce."

The crowd began to mutter "foreigner." In a minute they would have
declared that I was a German. But I had an inspiration.

"I want to go to the American Embassy," I told the Frenchman. "If you
are going that direction why not come with me? We can share the cab."

I have always maintained that a Frenchman, no matter how excited he
is--and when he is excited he is often almost impossible--will always
listen to reason if you can get his attention. My proposition was so
entirely unusual that immediately he listened, then smiled and stepped
into the cab, motioning me to do the same.

"_L'Ambassade Americaine_," he bellowed to the chauffeur, and as we
drove away he was accepting a cigar from my case.

He explained both his excitement and his hurry. When the mobilization
call came it would be necessary for him to join his regiment on the
first day. I wanted to tell the chauffeur to drive to his home first,
but he would not allow this, and when we arrived at the Embassy it was
actually with difficulty that I forced upon him the payment for the
taxi up to that point.

I was soon in the famous private room of conference and confidence. The
Ambassador, as usual, was sitting with his face to the open window, and
smoking a cigarette.

I placed my hat and stick upon the desk and seated myself in silence.
We remained quiet for quite a full minute. Finally Mr. Herrick said,
with a short laugh:

"Well, there does not seem anything more to talk about, does there?"

"No," I replied, "we seem to be at that point. There isn't anything
even to write about."

A door behind us opened quietly, and Mr. Robert Woods Bliss, the first
secretary of the Embassy, entered. He walked to the desk. Neither the
Ambassador nor I turned. Mr. Bliss stood silent for a moment, then said
quietly:

"It's come."

"Ah," breathed Mr. Herrick.

"Yes," replied Mr. Bliss, "the Foreign Office has just telephoned. The
news will be on the streets in a minute."

It was the biggest moment, perhaps, the world will ever know. It was so
big that it stunned us all.

I rose and took my hat and stick.

"Well," I ejaculated somewhat uncertainly.

"Well," said the Ambassador in much the same manner.

Then we shook hands; and like a person in a trance I walked out of the
room and down to the street.

The isolated Rue de Chaillot was quite deserted; I walked down to the
Place de l'Alma to find a cab. There the scene was different. Cabs by
the dozen whirled along, but none heeded my signals. A human wave was
rolling over the city. Fiacres, street cars, taxis filled with men and
baggage were sweeping along. Almost every vehicle was headed for one
or another of the railway stations. Already the extra editions had
notified the populace of the state of affairs and mobilization was
under way.

Finally an empty fiacre came along and I signaled the driver, jumping
aboard at the same moment. Just as an hour earlier when I signaled a
cab, a Frenchman stepped in at the opposite side. Only, this time, the
Frenchman wasted no words concerning his rights to the carriage.

He bowed. "I go to the Place de l'Opera," he said pleasantly.

I bowed. "I go to exactly the same spot," I replied tactfully.

We sat down and he directed the driver. We remained silent as we drove
down the Cours la Reine until we came opposite the Esplanade of the
Invalides. The sun was setting behind the golden dome over the tomb of
Napoleon. Then my companion spoke:

"I will take the subway at the Opera station and go to my home. It will
be the last time. I join my regiment to-morrow."

I looked at him for a moment, then asked curiously: "How do you feel
about it? Tell me--are you glad--and are you confident?"

He looked me straight in the eye. "I am glad," he answered. "We are all
glad--glad that the waiting and the disappointments, the humiliations
of forty-four years, are over."

"And will you win--you think?"

"I do not know, but we will fight well--that is all I can say, and this
time we are not fighting alone."

We arrived at the Opera. He jumped to the sidewalk and put out his
hand. "Good-by," he said, smiling. "May we meet again." I wrung his
hand and watched him dive down the stairs to the subway station.

I remained at the office as the afternoon slipped into evening and
evening into night, writing my despatches on the actual outbreak of
war. As I sat by the window, I suddenly realized that instead of the
dazzling illumination of the boulevards I was gazing into the darkness.
I investigated this phenomenon and I wrote another despatch upon the
new aspect of the city of Paris on the first night of the war. It was
a cable describing the death of the old "Ville Lumière" and the birth
of the new French spirit. For not only were the boulevards dark, but
the voices of the city were hushed. It began to rain--a gentle, warm,
summer rain; the gendarmes put on their rubber capes and hoods and
melted into the shadows.

I went out to take my despatches to the cable office. The streets were
quiet as death. A forlorn fiacre ambled dismally out of a gloomy side
street, the bell on the horse's neck giving forth a hollow-sounding
tinkle. I climbed in. The driver turned immediately off the boulevard
into a back street, when suddenly the decrepit horse fell to his
haunches in the slippery road. At once I felt, for I could scarcely
see, four silent figures surrounding us. The night before I would have
scented danger; but now I had a different feeling entirely. The four
shadowy figures remained silent, at attention, as the driver hauled the
kicking and plunging horse to his feet.

"He thinks of the war," said the driver.

A quiet chuckle came from the quartet, and I could now distinguish that
they were gendarmes.

"You travel late," one of them said, addressing me.

"_La presse_," I replied briefly.

"_Bien_!" was the reply. We drove down the dark street, I astonished
at this city that had found itself; this nation that had got quietly
and determinately to business, at the very signal of conflict, to the
amazement of the entire world.

PART TWO

THE GREATEST STORY

[Illustration: WYTHE WILLIAMS OF THE "NEW YORK TIMES"]

CHAPTER VI

THE ACTUALITY

On the sidewalk _terrasse_ of a little café a few doors from the
American Embassy I was one of a quartet of newspaper men on one of the
final afternoons of August, 1914.

War news, thanks to the censor, had lapsed in volume and intensity; but
the troubles of refugee Americans still made our cables bulky, and we
continued to pass much time at the Embassy or in its vicinity.

A man wabbled wearily down the street on a bicycle. I recognized him
as a "special correspondent" who had called on me ten days before,
asking advice as to where he should apply for credentials permitting
him to describe battles. He later disappeared into the then vague
territory known as the "zone of military activity," without any papers
authorizing the trip.

He leaned his bicycle against a tree and joined us. He had little to
say as to where he had been, but told us that he had been a prisoner
of the British army for several days. He mentioned a town near the
Belgian frontier where, as he described the situation, "the entire army
came piling in before he had a chance to pile out."

I do not know what made me suspect that Mr. Special Correspondent
was then the possessor of big news, for he gave not the slightest
suggestion of the direction in which the British army was traveling.
But I suspected him. In a few minutes he left us to call on the
Ambassador. Later, when I saw him ride away from the Embassy on his
bicycle, I sent in my card.

Mr. Herrick was as bland as usual, but there was a worried look on his
face. I wasted no time.

"Mr. ---- called on you this afternoon," I said, naming the special
correspondent. "He told you some real news."

"Yes, that is so," the Ambassador replied. "How did you guess it?"

I explained that I only had a suspicion, and the Ambassador continued:

"He cannot cable it, you need not worry. He will not attempt it. He has
gone now to write an account for the mail. He told me so that I could
make some plans."

"Some plans?" I interrupted. "The news is bad then."

Mr. Herrick eyed me keenly for a moment--then he leaned over his
desk and spoke in a whisper. He kept the confidences of the "special
correspondent," but he gave me information that supplemented it, which
he had from his own sources. He told me no names--no details--but he
gave me the news appearing in the official communiqués three full days
later;--that the British had been forced back at Mons--the French
defeated at Charleroi, and that the entire Allied line was retreating.
I did not learn where the line was. But as I left the Embassy I
realized that France was invaded; I realized that the greatest story in
the world was at hand. The fear was upon me, although I failed to grasp
it entirely, that this was a story which in its entirety would never be
written for a newspaper.

Mr. Special Correspondent passed two days in the seclusion of his hotel
writing a splendid chapter for which he received high praise, but he
was unable to get it printed until several weeks after the entire story
had gone into history. Other correspondents were able to write half and
quarter chapters which in a few instances received publication while
the story was in progress.

I sat at my desk that night pondering on how to cable some inkling of
my information to America. I confess that I almost wished the cable
was cut and the loose ends lost on the bottom of the Atlantic.

I studied the map of Europe facing me on the wall. Sending a courier to
England was as useless as cabling direct, for the English censor was
equally severe as the French. A code message was under censorial ban. A
courier aboard the Sud-express might have filed the news from Spain or
Portugal but the mobilization plans of General Joffre had arranged that
there would be no Sud-express for some time.

There were undoubtedly other correspondents who knew as much concerning
the state of affairs as I. Many British correspondents, without
credentials, were dodging about the armies, getting into captivity and
out again. Several American correspondents were in Belgium following
the Germans as best they could. But none of them was at the end of a
cable. Had they been they would have been quite as helpless as I. For
had I been able that night to use the cable as I desired, I would have
beaten the press of the world by three full days with the story of the
danger that threatened Paris.

The next night, although I was completely ignorant whether the news was
then known in America, I tried to beat the censor at his own game. I
succeeded to the extent of having my despatch passed, but unfortunately
it was not understood in the home office of my newspaper. This was my
scheme:

During the day rumors of disaster began to spread; but the Paris
papers printed nothing of the truth, and officially the Allied armies
continued to hold the Belgian frontier. That night refugees from French
cities began entering Paris at the Gare du Nord.

I began an innocent despatch that seemed hardly worth the cable
tolls. It ambled along, with cumbrous sentences and involved grammar,
describing American war charities. Then without what in cable parlance
is known as a "full stop," which indicates a complete break in the
sense of the reading matter, I inserted the words "refugees crowding
gare du nord to-night from points south of Lille," and continued the
despatch with more material of the sort with which it began.

I went home hoping for the best and wondering if I had made myself
sufficiently clear to arouse the suspicion of the copy reader on the
other side of the ocean who handled my copy. If I had I knew that those
eleven words would be printed in the largest display type the following
morning.

Two weeks later, when the next batch of newspapers reached Paris, I
read those words with interest. They were all there, but carefully
buried in the story of war charities exactly where I had placed them.

CHAPTER VII

THE FIELD OF GLORY

The battle of the Marne was fought by the Allies in the direct interest
of the city of Paris. The result was the city's salvation. At the time,
only a small percentage of the inhabitants knew anything about it. But
as all the world knows now, the battlefield of the Marne was the first
field of glory for the Allied armies in the great European war. When
the war is over, the sight-seeing motors will reach it in two hours,
probably starting from the corner of the Avenue de l'Opera and the Rue
de la Paix--a street that by now might have a different name had it not
been for the thousands who died only a few miles away.

On one of the first days of September, 1914, the few journalists
who remained in Paris gathered at the Café Napolitain early in the
afternoon, instead of at the _apéritif_ hour. The Café Napolitain,
around the corner from the sight-seeing motor stand, is the rendezvous
for journalists, and always has been. At the _apéritif_ hour--just
before dinner--you may see all the best-known figures in the French
journalistic world, also the correspondents of the London and New York
press, seated on its sidewalk _terrasse_.

I sat on the _terrasse_ on that never to be forgotten afternoon of
September. We were mostly Englishmen and Americans. The majority of
our French confrères were serving in their regiments. Some of them,
with whom we had argued only five weeks before concerning the trial of
Madame Caillaux, were now lying on the fields of Charleroi and Mons.
Some of the Englishmen had decided, because of the rumored orders of
the Kaiser concerning the fate of captured British journalists, that
Bordeaux was a better center for news than Paris, and had followed the
Government to their new capital, on the anniversary of Sedan. Several
of the Americans had also left town, but in order to better follow the
movements of the Allied armies. Owing to the vigorous unemotionalism of
General Joffre, none of them was any nearer the "field of operations"
than we who sat on the Café _terrasse_.

I doubt if ever a world capital presented such a scene, or ever will
again, as Paris on that afternoon. The day itself was perfect--glorious
summer, not hot--just pleasantly warm. The sun hung over the city
casting straight shadows of the full leaves, down on the tree lined
sidewalk. But there was not an automobile, nor carriage, scarcely even
a person in the boulevards. The city was completely still. It had seen
in the three days previous probably the greatest exodus in the history
of the world. The ordinary population had shrunk over a million.
The last of the American tourists left that morning for Havre. The
railroad communications to the north were in the hands of the German
army. There were no telegraph communications. Even the telephone was
rigidly restricted. The censor made the sending of cables almost an
impossibility. We were in a city detached--apart from the rest of the
world.

That morning, at the headquarters of the military government, we were
advised to get out quickly--on that same day in fact--or take our own
chances by remaining. Possibly all the bridges and roads leading out of
the city might be blown up before next morning. Uhlans had been seen in
the forest of Montmorency, only ten miles away. It seemed that Paris,
which has supplied so much drama to the world's history, was about to
add another chapter, and the odds were that it would be a final one.

So, as I have said, I sat with my fellow journalists on the _terrasse_
of the Café Napolitain that fateful afternoon--and waited. That is
why we were there--to wait. Several times we thought our waiting was
rewarded, and we strained our ears. For we were waiting to hear the
guns--the guns of the German attack. Through that entire afternoon, not
one of us, singly or in partnership, would have offered ten cents for
the city of Paris. We felt in our souls that it was doomed. It was an
afternoon to have lived--even though nothing happened.

Toward nightfall we learned that the German forces had suddenly
diverted their march to the southeast. We sat on our _terrasse_ and
wondered. That night every auto-taxi in the city was conveying a
portion of General Maunoury's army out of the north gates, to fall on
the enemy's right flank. The next morning, bright and early, those of
us who were astir, heard very faintly--so faintly we could scarcely
believe, but we heard nevertheless, the opening guns of the battle of
the Marne.

I know only one journalist who actually saw the battle of the Marne.
I know several who said they saw it, but I did not believe them, and
I know better than to believe them now. Of course there are French
journalists who took a military part in the battle, but they have not
yet had opportunity to chronicle their impressions--those of them who
live. This one journalist saw the battle as a prisoner with his own
army; he was lugged along with them clear to the Aisne.

The week following the German retreat to the Aisne, I was permitted
to visit the field of glory. It was only after skilful maneuvres and
great difficulties that I secured a military pass. And then my pass was
canceled after I had been out of Paris only three days--and I was sent
back under a military escort. But I saw the battlefield before the hand
of the restorer reached it.

The trees still lay where they fell, cut down by shells. Broken cannon
and aeroplanes were in the ditches and in the fields. Unused German
ammunition and food supplies were strewn about, showing where the enemy
had been forced to a hasty retreat. Sentries guarded every cross roads.
The dead, numbering thousands, lay unburied and dotted the plain as far
as the eye could see. It was still the field of glory. It was still wet
with blood.

We who took that trip were thrilled by all the silent evidence of the
mighty struggle that had taken place there only a few days--only a few
hours before. It was easy for us to picture the mammoth combat, the
battle of the millions, across that wonderful, beautifully undulating
plain. The war was terrible--true. But it was glorious. The men who
died there were heroes. Our emotions were almost too much for us. And
in the very near distance the artillery still thundered both night and
day.

On the third of February, 1915, five months from the time I sat on the
_terrasse_ of the Café Napolitain waiting to hear the guns, I travel
for a second time over the battlefield of the Marne.

This time I do not have a military pass. It is no longer necessary. The
valley of the Marne is no longer in the zone of operations. I go out
openly in an automobile. There are no sentries to block the way. The
road is perfectly safe; so safe that I take my wife with me to show
her some of the devastations of war. She is probably the first of the
visitors to pass across that famous battlefield, perhaps soon to be
overrun by thousands.

Our car climbs the steep hill beyond Meaux, which is the extreme edge
of the battlefield, about ten in the morning; and during the day
circuits about half the area of the fighting, a distance of about
seventy-five miles--or a hundred miles.

The "Field of Five Thousand Dead" is what the majority of the tourists
will probably call the battlefield of the Marne, because of the tragic
toll of life taken on that one particular rolling bit of meadow.

We stop at this field in the morning soon after leaving Meaux. As
we look across it we see none of the signs of conflict that I had
witnessed in September. There are none of the ruined accouterments
of war. No horses lie on their backs, four legs sticking straight in
the air. There are no human forms in huddled and grotesque positions
in the ravines and on the flat. True, every tree bears the mark of
bullets, every wall has been shattered by shells, but these signs are
not overpowering evidences of massive conflict. There is nothing to
make vivid the fearful charge of the Zouaves against the flower of Von
Kluck's army only five months before.

Yes--there is something. As we look more closely we see far away a
cluster of little rude black wood crosses. They are not planted on
mounds, they just stick up straight from the level ground. There are
other little clusters throughout the field. Each cross marks a grave.
Each grave contains from a dozen to fifty bodies. Together the crosses
mark the total of five thousand dead.

An old woman hobbles along the main road. She looks at us curiously
and stops beside the car. I ask if we can go close to the little black
crosses. She replies that we can but that the fields are very muddy.
I ask if any of the graves are marked with the names of the fallen
soldiers. She shakes her head. No, they are the unknown dead. The
regiments that fought across that field are known--that is all. There
are both French and German dead. The relatives of course know that
their men were in those regiments and they may assume, if they have
not received letters from them recently, that they have been buried
there--out on that vast, undulating, wind swept plain under one of the
little black crosses. But, of course, one can never be sure. They might
not be dead at all--only prisoners--or again, they might have died
somewhere else. It is all very confusing and vague--what happens to the
men who no longer send letters home. It is safe to believe they are
just dead--to determine where they died is difficult.

The old woman suggests that we visit the little village graveyard, at
the corner of the field. The Zouave officers are buried there--those
who were recognized as officers. Some English had also been found and
carried there. She is the caretaker of the little graveyard. She will
show it to us. She says that it is much more interesting than the
field. The field is much too muddy.

The world is as still as the death all around us when we enter that
little country graveyard. It has been trampled by a multitude. The five
months that have elapsed and the hard work of the little old woman have
not destroyed the signs of conflict there. But the time has taken the
glory. The low stone wall that surrounds the place has been used as a
barricade by the Zouaves. It is pierced with holes for their rifles. In
many places portions of the wall are missing, showing where the shells
have struck.

In the center of the yard, one of them has opened a grave. It is a
child's grave. I look down into the hole about three feet below the
muddy surface of the yard. I see a weather-beaten headstone. It bears
the child's name. A hundred years, according to date, that stone has
silently borne witness of the few years of life before death, and
then it has been rudely crushed into the earth on a glorious day
in September. The graves of the soldiers who died there that same
glorious day are all fresh mounds. There are only twenty or thirty
mounds, but five hundred dead are buried beneath them. Above the
mounds are freshly painted crosses. On some of them are roughly
printed the names of the fallen officers. On several are wreaths or
artificial flowers--beads in the shape of violets and yellow porcelain
immortelles. In one corner under a little cross is inscribed the name
of an English lieutenant of dragoons--aged twenty. The old caretaker
says that his family may take his body to England when the war is
over--but, of course, he is not buried in a coffin--just put into the
ground on the spot where he was found clutching a fragment of his sword
in his hand.

We drive away to the north. On both sides of the road little clusters
of black crosses are planted in the fields. Several times we pass great
charred patches on the earth. These are the places where the Germans
burned their dead before retreating. There are trenches too--trenches
and the dead. There are old trenches and new--those made in a few hours
while both armies alternately advanced and retreated, and those which
the French engineers have made since for use if the Germans again
advance.

We are a dozen miles from the river Aisne when our chauffeur stops. If
we go nearer we will be in "the zone of operations" where passes are
rigidly required--where if one does not possess a pass one is under
rigid suspicion. We do not take the chance of advancing further.

We are in a devastated village. We have passed through many but this
one seems worse than the others. The church has been demolished and
two-thirds of the houses gutted by shells and fire. The place is almost
deserted by the inhabitants. When we halted our car there was not the
sound of a living thing. Then a few scare-crow children gathered and
examined us curiously. We examine the remnants of the House of God. It
has doubtless been used as a fortress. Bloody uniforms are scattered
among the tumbled stones. Five bodies are rotting underneath the altar.
Our minds have gone morbid by the horror. The chauffeur turns the car
about. An old man comes from the ruins of a shop. He asks if we want
to buy souvenirs. The word "souvenirs" halts us. We wonder how many
thousand will be sold in this village, and in all the villages during
the years following the war. I recall that only a few years ago one
might buy "authentic souvenirs of the battle of Waterloo." The old man
lugs forth a German helmet and the cartridge of a French shell--one
of the famous "seventy-fives." He asks if we are Americans. Then he
places a value of five dollars on the helmet and one dollar for the
cartridge. We think that the thrifty inhabitants of these villages
may yet triumph over the devastation of war if they lay in sufficient
stock of souvenirs. Our chauffeur informs us that we can pick up all we
desire in the fields, and we take to the road again.

We stop the car beside a large open meadow a few miles south. The field
contains the same clusters of crosses. Part of it is plowed ground and
is soggy from the rains. We stumble along it, mud to our shoe tops. We
stop beside the crosses. They do not mark all the graves. I suddenly
feel my feet sink in the mud. I hastily free myself. My wife asks me
what is the matter, and I rush away further into the field. I have
accidentally stepped into a grave--the mud being so soft--and have felt
my boot touch something. As I looked down I saw a couple of inches of
smeared, muddy, gray cloth.

We leave the plowed ground and come into a field of stubble. We stand
silent a moment at the top of a knoll. The short winter day is dying
rapidly. The horizon for the moment seems lost in cold blue vapors. It
seems appropriate to the place--it is like battle smoke.

I stoop over to pick up a shrapnel ball imbedded in the mud. My wife
seizes me by the arm. "Listen," she whispers. The gloom of dusk is
creeping about us. "Did you hear?" she asks. Then we hear. "Boom,
boo-o-m, boom, boo-o-om." It is quite as faint as the opening sounds of
the battle of the Marne to the early risers in Paris. But it is quite
as distinct. We have just heard the guns which are still disputing the
possession of the Aisne.

The chauffeur is signaling to us. The wind sweeps over the desolate
field with a few drops of rain. We make a detour near a haystack. Close
to the base--almost under it, I pick up torn strips of gray uniform.
They are covered with blood. There is also a battered brass belt
buckle, and a bent canteen--evidence of the ghastly and lonely tragedy
enacted there. A few feet away looms through the dark the usual black
wood cross of the field of glory.

The chauffeur has lighted the lamps on the car. We hear the sound
of the engine as we hasten through the mud. We are surfeited with
devastation, with horror, and with the field of glory. We tell him
to hasten toward Meaux where we will take the next train for Paris.
He drives us swiftly into the coming night over the hill that looks
upon the "Field of Five Thousand Dead." There we stop a moment to see
the last struggles of the descending sun tipping the forests on the
horizon with rosy flames.

We return by a different road through another devastated village. It
is not really a village--just a large farmstead--a model farm it was
called before the war. Now the stone walls have crumbled. The buildings
are twisted skeletons of iron bars--all that withstood the appetite of
the flames. Their outlines are vivid black against the sky. They seem
to writhe in the wind.

A man and a woman and little girl stand in the road. The car stops and
we get out. The man is the owner of the ruin. The woman and child are
his wife and daughter. They had fled when the Germans approached. After
the glorious victory they returned to their home. The woman asks us to
enter the broken gateway. At one end of the walled yard was the house.
A broken portion of it remains. The man had boarded up the holes and
the cracks in the walls and the empty window frames. He explains that
the place had been taken and retaken four times before the French were
finally victorious. He tells us of the toll that death had taken in
the yard. The woman tells of bodies found in the house--so many in the
parlor--so many in the bedroom--so many lying on the stairs.

We walked back to the road where the side lamps of the car cast
flickering flames into the night. The chauffeur turns on the electric
head lamps that throw a blinding light fifty feet away. The little girl
dances in front of them and across the road to a mound of mud. She
laughs. Her mother asks her why she is happy. "Oh, the lights," she
calls back. "It's like Christmas--and folks are here." She picks up a
stone and throws it toward the mound of mud. I noticed that the mound
is regular in form--and oblong, about a dozen by six feet in size.
Around it runs a border of flat stones. They are set on the corners and
arranged in angular criss-cross lines such as a child builds with his
toy wooden blocks. We watch the little girl as she kicks one of the
stones loose. Her mother calls to her and she hastily puts it back in
position. A tall tree casts a shadow across the center of the mound.
Through the top of the tree the rising wind begins to sob, and the rain
drops blow into our faces. The mother again calls to the child, who
comes back across the road stubbing her toes into the mud.

The chauffeur starts the engine and turns the front of the car so that
the headlights are direct on the mound, with its border of stones
arranged like toy blocks. The shadow of the tall tree points in
another direction. Where it had been--where I could not see before--I
now see a black wooden cross. "How many under that?" I asked the man
casually. "Eighteen or twenty-two," he answers, "I forget. We found
them here in the road."

We jump into the car and leave the field of glory in the dark.

PART THREE

THE ARM OF MILITARY AUTHORITY

[Illustration: RÉPUBLIQUE FRANÇAISE

MINISTERE DE LA GUERRE

PERMIS

DE CORRESPONDANT DE PRESSE

AUX ARMÉES

JOURNAL

_New York Times_

CORRESPONDANT

_Wythe Williams_

Ce permis doit être retourné au Bureau de la Presse du Ministère des
Affaires Étrangères à la fin de chaque tournée.

THE AUTHOR'S PASS]

CHAPTER VIII

THE FIELD OF BATTLE

"To see the damage done by the Germans in unfortified villages."

This was the quest that first passed me into the zone of military
operations, that first landed me on the field of battle, and gave me my
first experience under fire.

Ambassador Herrick had procured a pass for me and two other Paris
correspondents; it covered also an automobile and chauffeur, and was
signed by General Galliéni, the Military Governor and Commander of the
Army of Paris. Mr. Herrick explained that he had requested it, because
we had not attempted to leave the city without credentials--as had many
correspondents--"by the back door," as he said. He considered that it
was time for some of us to go out openly "by the front door," in order
to later tell the truth to America.

We took the pass thankfully. It was good for a week and would take us
"anywhere on the field of battle." We have always been thankful that
this pass was handed to us by Ambassador Herrick in his private room at
the American Embassy, and that it was requested of General Galliéni by
the Ambassador himself--that it was his idea and not ours. For later
it developed that a pass from General Galliéni was not sufficient to
take us "anywhere on the field of battle"--the pass itself disappeared
and we came back to Paris as prisoners of war. We were told that we
were arrested because we were "at the front without credentials." Our
defense was clear, because, we argued, when an ambassador asks for
something, a record of that request exists. Ambassador Herrick made a
similar declaration, and we were not only released but "expressions of
regret" for our "detention" were tendered us.

We rented a car and a French chauffeur. We wore rough clothes and heavy
overcoats, we took extra socks, collars, soap, shaving utensils and
candles. As food we took sardines, salmon, cocoa, biscuits, coffee,
sausage, bread, bottles of wine and water. We also bought an alcohol
lamp, aluminum plates, collapsible drinking cups and jack-knives. At
four o'clock that afternoon we started.

In retrospect I divide the ensuing days into two parts, and in the
latter part I believe that the high water mark of my existence was
reached--at least the high tide from the standpoint of new sensations,
excitement, and genuine thrills. To digress for an instant, I have
somewhere read the account of a person, a well-known novelist, who
visited the French trenches months after the period I shall describe;
when he got away from his censor and was safe back in America, he
reported that no correspondents have really seen anything in this
war--and that many of their stories are fakes. Some correspondents,
including this one, have not seen much. Some stories have been
fakes, including the one which he told. I wish it were permissible
to enumerate some of the fakes in detail--but I wish for the sake of
this person that he had been along in either the second or the first
portions of that trip;--when, just a few miles outside Paris, we first
heard the Sentries in the Dark--when, the next morning we met the first
batch of Wounded Who Could Walk--and later, when we ate luncheon to an
orchestra of bursting shells, a luncheon ordered quietly--to be eaten
quietly, during a Lull in the Bombardment.

(A) Sentries in the Dark

The car whizzed down the straight country road. We were trying to
make night quarters thirty kilometers away. The dusk was already upon
us--and the rain. Every night for a week the rain had come at dusk.
We were well behind the battle lines, but the Germans had held that
countryside only a few days before. Many of them still lurked in the
dense woods. At dusk they were apt to shoot at passing motors. If
they killed the occupants, they secured clothes and credentials and
attempted cutting through to their own lines. The night before, a
French general had been killed on the road we were passing. Therefore
it was not well to be abroad at dusk, too far northward on the
battlefield of the Aisne. But we had cast a tire and lost considerable
time. It was necessary to go forward or strike back toward Paris.
To remain in the open held an additional risk of being stopped by a
British patrol--we were near their lines--and the British were not
so polite as the French about requisitioning big touring cars. Our
credentials were French.

So we dipped into the night down a long road that ran between solid
shadows of towering trees, behind which ran the continuous hedge of
the French countryside, making an ideal hiding place for enemies. The
rain increased and so did the cold. Our French driver struggled into an
ulster and we crouched low in the body of the limousine, watching the
whirling road revealed by our powerful headlights fifty yards in front
of the car.

Suddenly came a sharp cry. The chauffeur crashed on the brakes and the
car slid to a standstill. I knew that cry from many a novel I had read,
but I had never actually heard it before. It was the famous "Qui vive"
or "Who goes there?" of the French army. We sat waiting. We saw no one.
The rain poured down.

The cry was repeated. A soldier stepped into the road and stood in the
light of our lamps about thirty feet away. His rifle was half thrown
across his arm and half aimed towards us. He was a tall, handsome chap
wearing a long coat buttoned back at the bottom away from his muddy
boots. His cap was jammed carelessly over one eye. He bent forward and
peered at us under our lights, which half blinded him. Then we saw two
dusky shadows at either side of the car. We caught the steel flash of
bayonets turned toward us.

The chauffeur saw them too, for he cried out nervously, "Non, non!" The
soldier in the road ignored him. In the dramatic language of France
his "_Avancez--donnez le mot de la nuit_" sounded far more impressive
than the English equivalent about advancing to give the countersign. He
spoke the words simply, a little monotonously, with an air of having
done it many times during his period of watch. Then he bent lower and
peered more intently under the lights, brushing one arm across his face
as though the pelting rain also interfered with his business of seeing
in the night.

The chauffeur stated that we carried the signed pass of General
Galliéni. If we had mentioned the Mayor of Chicago we would not
have made less impression. The ghostly sentries at the sides of the
car did not budge. The patrol in the center of the road in the same
almost monotone announced that one of us would descend. One would
be sufficient. The others might keep the shelter of the car. But he
would see these credentials from General X----. If to him they did not
appear in order, our fate was a matter within his discretion. We were
traveling an important highway and his orders were definite. So the
member of our party who carried the important slip of paper descended.

The sentry in the road moved further into the light. As he read the
pass he sheltered it from the rain under the cape of his coat. The
guards at the sides of the car remained as though built in position.
Then the leader handed back the paper and brought his hand to salute.
The others immediately broke their pose; moved into the light and
likewise saluted. The tension relieved, we all felt friendly. As we
started forward I held a newspaper out of the window and three hands
grasped it simultaneously. We had hundreds of newspapers, for some one
had told us how welcome they would be at the front.

At an intersection of roads a couple of miles further on, the rain was
pelting down so fiercely that we did not clearly hear the "qui vive."
The chauffeur desperately called out not to shoot as a file of soldiers
suddenly swung across the road with rifles leveled. On their leader
we then tried an experiment which we afterwards followed religiously.
We handed over a newspaper with our pass. To our surprise he turned
first to the government war communiqué on the first page and read it
through, grunting his satisfaction meanwhile, before he even glanced
at the document which held our fate and on which the rain was making
great inky smears. Then he saluted and we drove on rapidly--everybody
smiling.

The road then led up an incline through a small village that was
filled with soldiers. A patrol halted us as usual and informed us
that there was no hotel within another five miles, and possibly even
that hotel might be closed. At this news our excitable chauffeur
immediately killed his engine and the car started slipping backward
down the incline. Fifty soldiers leaped forward and held it while the
brakes were applied. We distributed a score of newspapers and as many
cigarettes before we could get under way.

We passed no more patrols, but when our lights finally picked out the
first signs of the next village they also brought into bold relief a
pile of masonry completely blocking the road. We stopped. A villager
loomed out of the dark at the side of the car and informed us that
the road was barred because the bridge just beyond had been blown
up and that we could not pass over the pontoon until morning. The
inn, he said, had never been closed nor was its stock of tobacco yet
exhausted. He offered to conduct us, and when the innkeeper--a very
fat innkeeper--looked over our credentials from General Galliéni he
insisted that certain guests should double up, in order to make room
for us in the crowded place. He then called his wife, his daughter, his
father and his father's wife, that they might be permitted the honor
of shaking us by the hand, as he held aloft the candle, the flame of
which flickered down the ancient stone corridor that led to our rooms.

(B) The Wounded Who Could Walk

We were crossing a battlefield four days old. It was remarkable how
much it resembled the ordinary kind of field. The French had conquered
quickly at this point and the dead had been buried. Except for frequent
mounds of earth headed by sticks forming crosses; except for the marks
of shrapnel in the roads and on the trees; except for the absence of
every living thing, this countryside was at peace. The sun was shining.
The frost had brought out flaming tints on the hills. It was glorious
Indian summer.

The road we were motoring wound far away through the battlefield. For
the armies had fought over a front of many miles. We traveled slowly.
As we topped a rise and searched the valley below with our glasses, a
mile away in the cup of the valley we saw a moving mass. It filled the
roadway from hedge to hedge and appeared to be approaching us. We drove
more slowly, stopping several times. The movement of the car made the
glasses quiver and blur. We saw that the moving mass stretched back a
considerable distance--perhaps the length of a city block. We stopped
our engine and waited in the center of the road.

As the mass came nearer it outlined itself into men. We saw that they
were soldiers; but we could not distinguish the uniform. So we waited.
We even got our papers ready to show if necessary. Then we saw that
the soldiers were not of the same regiment--that their uniforms were
conglomerate. We saw the misfits of the French line regiments, the gay
trappings of the Spahis and Chasseurs d'Afrique, the skirt trousers of
the Zouaves, Turcos and Senegalese, the khaki of the English Tommies
and the turbans of the Hindoos. But all these men in the varied
costumes of the army of the Allies wore one common mark--a bandage.
Arm or head or face was wrapped in white cloths, usually stained with
blood. For these on whom we waited were the wounded who could walk.
They were going from the battle trenches to somewhere in the rear.

The front rank glanced wonderingly at the big motor that blocked the
center of the road and moved aside in either direction. Those behind
did likewise, until there was a lane for the car to pass. But we
waited. As the front rank came level with us, a dust-caked British
Tommy, with a bloody bandage over one eye, winked his good one at us
and touched his cap in salute. We took our hats off as the tragic crowd
surrounded us. Tommy sat down on our running board and I handed him a
cigarette.

The cigarette established cordial relations at once. Tommy's lean face
was browned by the sun and streaked with dirt. About the bandage which
encircled his head and crossed his right eye were cakes of dirt and
clots of blood. His hair where his cap was pushed back was sand color
and crinkly. The eye that turned up to me was pale blue and the skin
just about it was white and blue veined.

"Is this Frawnce or is it Belgium?" he asked me. At my answer he
squirmed around on the running board, calling to a companion in khaki
just coming up--his arm in a sling--"'Ee says it's Frawnce." The other
nodded indifferently and saluted us.

I asked the man about the battle, but he only stared. His friend on the
running board turned his eye upward and said, "It's 'ell, that's wot
it is." I replied that my question had to do with the course of the
battle--which side was winning; and he too only stared at that. Then he
arose and plodded on and I gave a cigarette to his companion.

A score of men stood about the front of the car where the chauffeur
was busy handing out apples and pears. My companions were busy on the
opposite side with a dozen French infantrymen, telling the latest news
from Paris and giving out newspapers. I leaned over them, the box of
cigarettes still in my hand. A tall Senegalese standing back from
the group caught sight of the box and called out, "Cigarette, eh!" I
motioned him to my side of the car. He came running weakly, followed at
once by fifty others. I handed out until that box and several others
that I dug from my valise were exhausted. I called several times that
I had no more, but still they crowded about, stretching out their arms
and crying, "Cigarette, eh?" One of my companions warned me that we
might ourselves feel the want of tobacco--that money would not buy it
in the country we were traversing, because it did not exist.

We still had a box of cigars and I had several loose in my pocket.
The black face of a Turco appeared at the car window. One arm was in
a sling and a bandage was wound about his brow. But his eyes shone
brightly at the thought of tobacco, and at the smell of it now arising
on all sides. He was tobacco hungry. He was more than that. He was
tobacco starving. He poked his other arm into the car. I motioned him
to crowd his entire bulk into the window so that the others would not
see. Then I gave him a cigar. He hung over the car frame as I held out
the lighted tip of my own cigar. He puffed a cloud into the interior.
He looked at the cigar fondly and seemed to measure its length. It was
a good cigar. If it had been a miserable cheroot his regard would have
been the same. He took another puff, and drew a complete mouthful into
his lungs. His cheeks bulged and his eyes glinted inwards as though he
looked at the tip of his nose. I wondered how long he could keep that
huge mouthful of smoke within him. Again he held the cigar close to his
eyes and seemed to measure its length. It burned perfectly round and
the ash was white and solid. Finally he poured forth the smoke from
nose and mouth and ejaculated the only English word he knew--"good." I
nodded and asked in French where he had been fighting. He cocked his
head toward the fore part of the car and took another puff. I asked him
where he had been wounded and he replied that he did not know but that
it occurred in the trenches "là bas." I asked him how long he had been
fighting in France--how long since he had left Africa, and he spread
his arm far out to indicate that the time had been long. I asked him
where he was going; he rolled his eyes to the rear of the car and said
he did not know.

I sank back in my seat and he climbed down into the road. Most of the
troop had limped off. To the few still lingering we indicated that our
stock of things to give away was exhausted. They eyed us wistfully,
then passed on.

The chauffeur asked if he should start the car, but some one said,
"No, let's wait until they all pass." The rear guard straggled up;
many were ready to drop with fatigue and pain and loss of blood. I
asked a Britisher how long they had been on the road. He replied "since
sunrise" and plodded stolidly on. It was then noon. Several sank
down for moments under the trees by the roadside. A chasseur stopped
and asked our chauffeur to tighten a thong of his bandage, which was
stained with fresh blood. We asked him where they were going and he
replied vaguely, "To the rear." "And what then?" one of us asked. "Oh!
I hope we will all be fighting again soon," he replied. They were all
like that. They wanted to be fighting again soon. They were not happy.
They were not unhappy. They were indifferent; more or less, made so by
utter fatigue and the pain of their wounds. But they all wanted to be
fighting again soon.

We watched them top the rise of the hill to disappear down the long
road "to the rear." The last straggler, his head bound with white and
red, vanished. They were all privates--all common men of all the world
from Scotland to Hindustan. The majority were coming from and going
they knew not where, and wanting to fight again for they knew not
what--except possibly the men of France, who began to hear about this
war in their cradles.

We cranked up the car.

The sentry just outside the town advised us to right about face and
travel the other direction. But he only advised us. Our credentials
appeared in order and he did not feel that he could issue a command
on the subject. In fact our credentials were very much in order. The
sentry saluted us most respectfully; but his advice was wasted. We
argued to ourselves that if we went to "the front" we must take a few
chances.

So we entered Soissons--one of the most beautiful and historic towns in
Northern France. It has now become even more historic; but its beauty
has changed from the crumbling medieval. It is a ruin--more--a remnant
of the Great War.

We did not notice this so much as we rode down the winding road to
the outskirts. We did notice the unusual fall of autumn foliage. We
commented on the early season; the preceding night had been frosty,
following rain. Then we noticed many branches lying across the road.
Many trees were chipped as with an ax, but the chipped places were
high up--out of reach. We wondered why the trees were chipped so high.
Then we skirted a great hole in the center of the road. A tree further
on was cut off close to the ground. The truth came to us. The fallen
leaves and the chipped places were the work of bullets--a multitude of
bullets. The hole in the road and the fallen tree were the results of
shells.

We saw horses lying in the fields. Their legs stuck rigidly into the
air. Horses were lying along the roadside. Insects were crawling over
them. Fallen trees lined the way into the town.

We turned into the main street and rattled over its cobblestones.
We met no one. Crossing an open square we saw that over half the
trees were down. Up a side street a house had fallen forward from
its foundations and settled in a crumbled heap in the center of the
road. The sun which had been shining brightly went behind a cloud. We
stopped for a moment. We could hear the wind sighing in the tops of the
remaining trees. Some one asked, "Is this Sunday?" and was answered,
"No. It's Friday. Why?" He replied, "Because it is so still. Did you
ever see a place where people live that is so completely silent?" "It
reminds me of London on Good Friday--everybody gone to church," said
another.

We drove on. A block along the main street a soldier in the French
uniform of the line lounged in a doorway. His long blue overcoat
flapped desolately over his baggy red trousers. His rifle leaned in the
corner. We asked if any hotel remained open. He replied, "I don't know.
Have you a cigarette?" I drew out a box and he ran to the car, seizing
it as a hungry animal snatches food. He settled back into his doorway,
smiling; then said in French argot which translated into American best
reads: "Do you guys know you ain't safe here?" We smiled and waited
explanation. But he merely shrugged his shoulders. We started the car.

More French soldiers lounged in doorways. Once we saw the white and
frightened face of a woman peering at us from a window. She was
entirely incurious. Her gaze was dispassionate. She appeared to have
not the slightest interest either in us or our big car, which surely
was a rare sight in the streets of that town on that day. But the
fright upon her face was stamped.

Several villagers stood at the next corner. They exhibited interest.
We again asked about a hotel and one pointed to a building we had just
passed. We noted that its doors and windows were barred; but we thought
they might open up.

We asked, then, when the firing on the town had ceased. The man
laughed. Anything so normal as a laugh seemed out of place in that
ghastly silence. It grated. But it seemed that after all one might
observe the function of laughing even during war. He informed us that
the German gunners were probably at lunch. We asked the position of
the French batteries, and as he pointed vaguely toward the south
we realized that we were then in an advance position on the firing
line--that the force of soldiers was only an outpost. The same man told
us that the town had been under fire for eight days, that the French
had shifted the position of their heavy guns and that the Germans
were now trying to locate them. We returned to the hotel, stabled our
automobile and ordered luncheon, which the landlord informed us would
be ready in half an hour. So we continued the exploration of the town
on foot.

The chauffeur did not accompany us, for there was a captured German
automobile in the barn that interested him greatly. Under the seat he
found the army papers of the German driver. He advised us not to touch
them. They were dangerous. If found in our possession we might be
arrested as spies. So we dropped them back under the seat, and went out
into the market place.

As is usual in small French cities the market consisted of a large
building entirely open at the ends and fronting on a large square
paved with cobbles. We walked into the building; it was deserted and
our footsteps echoed. In the center was a pile of masonry, beneath a
large hole in the roof torn by a shell. The explosion had cracked the
side walls. In one of the cracks was jammed the top of a meat table,
forcibly caught up from the floor and hurled there. A little further on
a shell had passed through both side walls, leaving clean holes large
enough for a man to stand.

I stood in one of them and saw where the shell had spent its force
on a residence across the square. It had caught the house plumb on a
corner and at the floor of the second story, so that the floor sagged
down into the room below. The room above had been a bedchamber. The
entire side wall was gone, so all that remained of the intimacies of
the room were exposed. The bed with the covers thrown back as though
the occupant quitted it hurriedly had slipped forward until stopped by
a broken bit of the wall. From another jagged piece of masonry that
formed part of the wall the blue skirt of a child flapped desolately
over the sidewalk. We left the market building and stood in the center
of the square looking down the six streets that emptied into it. They
were narrow, winding streets, and we could not see far. But in all we
could see the ruin--the crumbled masonry and walls blackened by fire.

We looked at our watches and hurried toward the hotel. Entering the
street, about half a block distant, we stopped to look down a side
alley. As we looked we heard what seemed to be a shrill whistle,
pitched high and very prolonged. It seemed like the shriek of a
suddenly rising wind; but it was followed by a dull boom and the crash
of falling masonry. We looked behind us and saw clouds of smoke and
dust rising a short distance beyond the market place. We ran toward
the hotel. At the entrance we again heard the high-pitched screaming
whistle, ending in a crash much more acute. "That struck nearer," one
of us observed. But we did not wait to see. As we entered the hall,
the landlord remarked, "_Ça commence encore_."

We filed into the dining room in time to see him carefully place the
soup upon the table.

CHAPTER IX

"DETAINED" BY THE COLONEL

We had just passed a sentry on the outskirts of a village. He had
brought his rifle to an imposing salute as he read the name upon our
military credentials. One of my companions, smiling fatuously, remarked:

"Well, fellows, this is a real pass. It gets us anywhere."

At that very instant the Colonel leaped on the running board of our
automobile.

He too was smiling, but not fatuously. Although he was French he
was sufficiently an Anglophile to affect a monocle, and this gave a
chilling, glassy effect to his smile.

"Your pass!" he said, stretching out his hand, at the same time
signaling the chauffeur to stop. The pass was given him, one of us
explaining that we had just shown it to a sentry, who had permitted us
to enter the town.

"Ah, quite so," he murmured. He carefully read the pass, screwing his
monocle into his eye. "Ah, _quite_ so. But you will please follow me."
He signaled us to get out of the car and directed the chauffeur to turn
to the side of the road and to remain there. Then he led the way down a
narrow lane. At the door of a small house he told us to wait. He left
the door open and we saw him pass down the hall and into a rear room.
Then came a burst of laughter.

"More '_journalistes Américains_,'" we heard; and then another peal of
merriment. We stood about the doorstep and wondered.

The Colonel reappeared and again directed us to follow. This time he
led the way to a barn a short distance along the road. A cow yard
surrounded the barn, enclosed by a high stone wall. At the gate stood a
soldier with fixed bayonet. On the gate-post was written a single word.

I had been suspecting for several minutes that a hitch had occurred in
our plans for going war-corresponding. My companions had similar ideas,
but we had kept silent. Now, as we stared at this word written on the
wall, I turned to the chap who had spoken so confidently about our pass.

"You were right about the pass," I said. "It gets us anywhere."

For the word written on the wall was "Prison."

The Colonel stopped at the gate of the cow yard, twirled his mustache,
and screwed his monocle. He bowed. We bowed. Then we preceded him
through the gate.

A derisive yell greeted us from a quartet seated on a wooden bench
outside the door of the barn. The quartet arose and came towards us
laughing.

"You know these men?" asked the Colonel.

Oh, yes, we knew them. They too were newspaper men, at least three
of them. Two represented Italian papers, one an Amsterdam journal.
The fourth was an Italian nobleman whose name was frequently in the
social columns because of his dinners at the Ritz and Armenonville.
He explained that he had accompanied the others as their gentleman
chauffeur, driving his own big car. It had been requisitioned for the
army at the same moment they themselves were escorted into the cow yard
three days before. The Colonel stood by during our greetings, still
twirling his mustache. He addressed the quartet.

"Since you know these men," he said, indicating us, "you will please
explain to them where they will sleep and the arrangements for food."

Then he turned to us, at the same time pointing to a corner of the
building nearest the wall gate. He said:

"You are permitted to remain out of doors as much as you like, but
you are not to pass that corner. If you do--well--" a shrug and the
monocled smile, "the soldier at the gate will probably shoot."

The sage of our party became sarcastic.

"I presume that the soldier's gun is loaded," he remarked.

"Oh, yes," the Colonel still smiled. "The gun is always ready--also the
bayonet--it would be regrettable--" again he shrugged his shoulders.

"But why are we prisoners," the sage one demanded, "and where is our
pass? If we cannot go on we will go back to Paris. What right have you
to keep us here?"

The Colonel raised his eyebrows and spread out his hands. His tones
were so polite as to be almost apologetic.

"Right?" he questioned. "My dear fellow, it is simply a question of the
_force majeure_. And besides you are not prisoners."

"Not prisoners?" we shouted in unison. "If we are not prisoners, then
what are we?"

"You are not prisoners," the Colonel insisted. "You are simply
detained. You can neither go forward nor back until I receive further
instructions concerning you. For the moment you are my guests."

He bowed politely and gracefully.

"And the soldier with the rifle? And the dead line at the corner of the
building?"

"Ah, quite so--quite so," murmured the Colonel; then bowed again to us
and went out the gate.

"Consequential little cuss," sputtered one of our trio.

"Better play up to him," advised one of the Italians. "We have been
here three days. Come see where we sleep--"

They led the way to a stone outhouse near one end of the stable. A
soldier with loaded rifle sat in the door. We peered within. Two cow
stalls heaped with filthy straw. One of the stalls was empty; in the
other we could dimly discern some huddled forms.

"We sleep in the empty one," our confrères informed us. "You will sleep
there too."

"And those in the other stall?" I asked.

"Oh, those! They are German spies captured during the day. They take
them out every morning--they don't come back--fresh ones take their
places."

I shuddered. "What becomes of them?" No one answered and the other
Italian said: "Don't talk about such things. We too are prisoners, you
know."

"Oh, no," said some one. "We are not prisoners--we are merely
detained--guests of the Colonel."

That evening the Colonel clattered into the yard on horseback. About
twenty of his men were loafing about. On his appearance there was
a great to-do. They sprang stiffly to attention in lines on either
side of the horse. I learned later that this was the regular evening
ceremony when the Colonel returned from his ride. I had to admit
that he cut a fine figure on a horse. His body was slender and very
straight. His hair slightly grizzled, his face grim, but with always
that glassy, haughty smile. He wore high boots of the finest leather.
His spurs jingled. His uniform was immaculate. His cape swung jauntily
over one shoulder. His sword clanged. His medals were resplendent.
His head was held high as he rigidly returned the salutes. At every
moment I expected to hear the orchestra's opening bars, and the Colonel
proclaim in a fine baritone, "Oh, the Colonel of the regiment am I,"
with the soldier chorus echoing, "the Colonel of the regiment is he."

However, the Colonel dismounted into very real pools of mud and manure.

"_Les correspondants Américains!_" he shouted.

We lined up--hopefully--before him.

"Your automobile," he informed us curtly, "has become the property of
the army. I have directed that your overcoats and other belongings, and
the food you carry with you, be brought to you here. You may eat this
food and also draw your daily ration of the army fare."

This was a concession; and one of the Italians, who had drawn near,
immediately asked for another.

"Now that there are seven of us," he asked "can't we have an audience
with the commanding general of this division?"

The Colonel considered, then said: "If you ask an audience for only one
of your number, you may draw up a petition."

The Italian, having made the suggestion, wrote the petition, we
all signed it and an hour later he was led away between files of
soldiers to see the General. Returning, after only a few minutes, he
said the General had received him courteously but would give him no
satisfaction, saying that he was waiting for instructions concerning us
from General Joffre.

There was nothing to do then but make the best of it.

At six o'clock the Colonel's cook informed us that we could go to the
great open oven in the cow yard and draw our evening rations. It was
lucky that we had our aluminum plates, for there were no others for us.
We filed across the yard with the soldiers and got a mixture of beans
and beef that was decidedly unpalatable even though we flavored it with
our own wine and bread. As we finished it, our chauffeur, a trench
"reformë," appeared in the kitchen. He told us he was not a prisoner
but was "detained" in the town with the car. He asked for a bottle of
our wine, which we gave him, with a cake of chocolate, and a bottle of
our water.

My two friends and myself then discussed our sleeping problem. We had
resolved not to sleep in that outhouse with the Germans. When the
Colonel next came into the yard we tackled him, asking if we might not
have the freedom of the town under parole, in order to find beds.

He said he could not consider it.

"Then," said our spokesman, "rather than sleep in the outhouse may we
stay here in the yard?"

The Colonel stiffened with sudden resentment at our making so many
difficulties. He strode fiercely to a door of the stable and threw it
open, showing piles of straw on the earthen floor.

"There I sleep with my officers," he said with dignified reproach.

"But," we explained, "it is not the hardship to which we object. We do
not wish to be classified and kept in the same place with German spies."

"Ah," said the Colonel. He stared a moment, then smiled. He was human
after all. He could appreciate that point and liked us the better for
making it.

He said we might stay in the yard and then, after stamping about the
room a few minutes, he pointed to a ladder to a loft above his quarters
and said:

"You may use that place if you like. It is not occupied. The others can
sleep there too if they like."

We quickly scaled the ladder and discovered a large, bare room that had
evidently been used as a granary, for there were piles of grain and
some farm implements lying about. A small window, which the Colonel had
evidently overlooked, opened on to the street and also a great door on
the courtyard.

At eight o'clock we stumbled up into our loft, lighted a candle and
fixed up our beds. We had bought some straw for two francs, from
a farmer one of the soldiers found for us. The beds were hard and
uncomfortable. Naturally we slept in all our clothes and with our coats
over us also; but by morning we were chilled through, for the wind
howled through all the cracks, and several panes of glass in the window
were broken. So at least we had fresh air.

All through the previous afternoon we had heard the constant booming of
heavy artillery, which the Colonel said was about twelve miles away,
and was the bombardment of Rheims, which he very openly stated was then
in process of destruction, chiefly by fire. At four in the morning this
cannonade again started, waking us up. We rose and descended to the
yard followed by the sleepy Italian quartet. We found the Colonel, very
wide awake, spick and span. He fixed the Italians with his monocle.

"I understand that one of them is a prince," he said. "Tell me which
one."

We pointed out the nobleman, who was the smallest and the most
dispirited of the lot.

The Colonel grunted:

"A prince, eh? Well, I like his automobile quite well."

That day we got another bench to sit on and a box that we transformed
into a dining table. With some candles we rigged up a lantern. For a
table-cloth we had some old canvas maps. These were furnished by the
Colonel himself. In fact after we once got behind that monocle we
came to like our Colonel immensely. It was plain that he liked "les
Américains" better than the others. Although he could not officially
recognize all that we did, it was understood that we were permitted to
bribe his cook. So we had real coffee for breakfast. We had vegetables
not included in the army menu; and on one great occasion we secured
enough apples and pears to make a magnificent compote in our little
alcohol stove.

We got up the second morning about 6.30, greatly discouraged, although
the Colonel's cook, to whom we had given twenty francs the night
before, brought us coffee. There was no water to be had until the
soldiers had finished at the pump, and we did not have moral courage
enough to shave or wash anyhow; we just stood around the courtyard
in a drizzle of rain, cursing everything and everybody, chiefly our
captors. We argued over and over again that it was ridiculous to arrest
us; if our pass was no longer valid the thing to do was to send us back
to Paris, under guard if necessary.

That morning one of the Italians dropped a letter out of the window of
our loft opening on the street, to a soldier, who said he would post
it in Paris. It was addressed to the "Gaulois" and contained a note
from us to the American Ambassador, which I learned later never saw
its destination. The first news of our whereabouts reached Paris in
a message that our chauffeur sent by hand to the automobile company,
merely saying that the car had been requisitioned; and we did not know
about this until we returned to Paris.

We also drafted a long letter to the Commanding General, asking to send
an enclosed telegram to Ambassador Herrick. The telegram stated that
the three of us were detained at that point, and asked him to notify
our offices in Paris. The Colonel took this letter and said he would
deliver it to the General; but the telegram enclosed never reached
Paris.

At five o'clock the third morning we were awakened by a soldier coming
into the loft and waving a lantern over us as we lay on the floor.
He called out the names of the quartet and told them to follow him.
They did so, and that was the last we saw of them. I confess it gave
us rather an extra chill, even though we were all chilled to the bone
from the weather, to see them led out in that fashion and at that
ghastly hour. It was still very dark. We heard them clatter out into
the courtyard. I peered out of the loft door and dimly saw a file of
soldiers. I heard one of our late companions complaining about the loss
of his hat.

At breakfast our fears were set at rest by the Colonel explaining that
as the quartet had been arrested before us their case had been settled
first, and that they had been taken to Paris. He had found the missing
hat, which he gave to me, and asked anxiously whether I would search
out the owner when I returned to Paris. Inasmuch as this was some
indication that I really might see Paris again, I gladly promised.

The weather cleared and we passed considerable time in the yard. A
small enclosed orchard lay adjoining the courtyard, and one afternoon
the Colonel gave us permission to walk there. We found some wild
flowers and put them in our buttonholes. This touch of elegance called
forth the admiration of the Colonel when we again saw him.

_"C'est comme à Paris_," he said.

We even got up enough courage to shave and scrape the mud off our
clothes and boots, and clean up generally as well as we could. We had
given the cook another twenty francs and he heated some water for us.

At noon the next day the Colonel told us that arrangements had been
made for us to return to Paris at three o'clock and in our own
automobile; inasmuch as his soldiers did not like it, it was to be
turned over to the authorities in Paris. He asked us what had become
of our French chauffeur. We insisted that no one could know less about
this than we; and a detail of soldiers was sent out to rake the town
for him. After the midday meal we noticed that the guard at the gate
had been withdrawn, so we suggested that perhaps we could pass our
"dead line" and look out at the world. As we reached the gate four men
in civilian dress accompanied by a soldier entered. The soldiers in
the cow yard and ourselves burst into a mighty laugh. "More American
correspondents," was the shout that greeted the newcomers.

Two of them were special correspondents for American and English
papers, one was a "famous war correspondent," the fourth was an
amateur journalist whose claim to war corresponding lay in his former
experience as an officer in the New York militia. Also he was the
relative of a wealthy politician.

No credentials were found on the person of any one of the quartet; but
they were making a great fuss about the "injustice" that was being done
them. Our Colonel, to whom they addressed their remarks, became bored.
He left them still talking and came over to us.

"They go to Paris at the same time as you," he announced. "They are
fortunate. I should have liked to entertain them for a few days." He
shrugged his shoulders and grinned sardonically.

He then asked us for our cards. He shook our hands. The monocle dropped
from his eye and he let it dangle on the silken cord.

"I shall call on you in Paris when the war is over," he said, "er-er,
that is--if I am still here." He hastily jammed the monocle back into
its proper position.

The automobiles for the party were now in the yard, and a captain who
was to conduct them told us to take our places. As we drove out our
Colonel was standing beside the gate. He was twirling his mustache. As
we passed, his free hand came to a friendly salute.

CHAPTER X

THE CHERCHE MIDI

In the automobile which brought us back to Paris, we were guarded by
a phenomenon of nature--a taciturn French soldier. His rifle dangled
handily across his knee; he gazed at the passing scenery and was dumb
to all questions. He was even downright mean; for when a tire blew up,
causing half an hour's delay, he would not allow us to stretch our
cramped legs in the road.

He would not even let us talk English among ourselves. Once when some
one was relating a tale of German atrocity he had heard, our guard
scowled blackly at us, lifting his rifle from his knee; and I whispered
hastily: "Quiet, or we may become atrocities ourselves!"

We halted before the headquarters of the Military Governor in the
Boulevard des Invalides; before the war it had been a school for girls.
Although it was late in the evening when we arrived the sidewalk was
crowded, as usual, with civilians. The chauffeur waited while the gates
into the courtyard were opened. The crowd caught sight of the armed
escort and as we moved forward we caught murmurs of "prisoners of war"
and "spies."

We smiled at that--for in a few moments, thought we, this foolishness
would all be over, we would be free again. Our "detention" by the
jolly Colonel was already a memory, listed in among our "interesting
experiences." Speaking in French to pacify our guard, we blithely
planned a belated dinner at a boulevard restaurant. We were ravenous;
we decided upon its menu from hors-d'œuvres to cheese and were settling
the question of wine when some one said:

"We seem to be waiting here a long time. Do you suppose they'd keep us
prisoners until morning?"

Our soldier, who by this time had evidently become a little tired of
his silence, told us curtly that the Captain in charge of the party,
who had preceded us in another car, was conferring as to our fate with
officials inside. We were so surprised at this gratuitous information
that we offered one of our few remaining cigarettes, which was promptly
accepted.

The Captain finally ran down the steps of the building. The other
prisoners, who rode in the car with him, had been given some liberty,
and were walking about the courtyard. He called to them and said
something which seemed to throw them into fits of rage and dismay.

Then he came to our car, and we knew at once that our dinner, like the
Kaiser's, was indefinitely postponed. The Captain did not speak to
us at all. He merely ordered the chauffeur to follow the car ahead,
then retraced his steps. All the other prisoners but one had reseated
themselves.

This one, the amateur journalist who had at one time been an officer
in the American militia and was also the relative of a rich man, was
standing beside the car. The Captain curtly motioned him to enter; he
shook his head vigorously. We could not hear all of the conversation
that followed, but it was brief. Finally the Captain raised his voice:
"So you will not get into the automobile?" "No," replied the American.
"I am an ex-army officer and decline to be treated in such fashion." He
also mentioned his influential relative.

I admit that at the moment my sympathies were somewhat with my fellow
countryman; but even then I could not help feeling how utterly futile
was his objection, on whatever ground it was based. Throughout our
entire period of arrest, we--the two friends with whom I had left
Paris and myself--had followed but one rule. Inasmuch as we had
suddenly found ourselves in a situation where the chief argument was a
rifle and cartridge, we always did exactly as we were ordered. To rebel
against soldiers and officers who were only following the orders of
their superiors seemed mere folly. The fate of the ex-militia man who
declined to enter the automobile proved this point.

The Captain apparently had never heard of his wealthy relative, for
he silently signaled to a soldier standing on the steps. The soldier
placed the point of his bayonet gently against the stomach of the
prisoner, who forthwith backed up the steps of the car and fell across
the knees of his companions, who had been cursing him audibly for
"playing the fool." The Captain seated himself beside his chauffeur and
both cars started out into the night.

We traversed many streets, but I kept peering out of my window and knew
our general direction. In a few minutes we drew up in a side street
leading from the Boulevard Raspail, before a grimy old building. A
soldier with a rifle at salute stood beside its heavy doors. I knew
that building. I had passed it every day during many months, for it was
just a few blocks from my house and on the direct route to my office.
I had glanced at it curiously as I passed. I had read its history.
I wondered if it were as bad on the inside as some of the history
depicted.

The doors opened, and I confess I shuddered as we slipped softly into
the thick blackness of the courtyard. There was not a sound for a
moment, after the chauffeurs cut off the engines. Then a door to the
right opened, throwing out a shaft of light. The Captain descended from
the car ahead. At the same moment the doors closed with a depressing
crash of iron. In that moment my sensations were of an entirely
original character.

We all got out of the cars, the prisoners ahead joining us, and stood
together in an angry group.

"Where are we?" asked some one.

"Don't you know?" the ex-militia man snarled. "They've landed us at
Saint Lazare!"

"Saint Lazare!" cried several in unison.

One of my friends snorted. "Don't be silly. St. Lazare is the prison
for women, not war correspondents."

I roused from my gloomy meditations to break into the conversation.

"I'll tell you where we are if you really care to know," I said. "We're
in the Cherche Midi--the foremost military prison of France. This is
the place where Dreyfus awaited his trial. This is the place of the
historic rats, etc."

I ceased abruptly. Here I was, a bare ten minutes' walk from my
home--and I might as well have been a thousand miles. The clang of
those doors had shut off all the world. How long did they expect to
keep us there? A night? A week? A month? Perhaps until the war was
over? What could we do about it? Nothing. Those doors shut off all
hope. We could get no word to any one if our captors did not desire
it. We would remain there exactly as long as they wished. No matter
what we thought about it--no matter how innocent we were of military
misdemeanor. We were prisoners of war in the Cherche Midi--and I
understood the Dreyfus case better.

Just before we filed into the examination room whence came the shaft of
light, the sage of our party, who had suggested back in the courtyard
that we be good prisoners until the right moment arrived, tapped me on
the shoulder and spoke in my ear:

"Now's the time," he said. "We must kick now or never. I will begin the
rumpus and you follow--and kick hard."

They lined us up in the tiny office where a lieutenant duly inscribed
our names and nefarious profession in the great register. He slammed
the book shut, and began directions to an orderly about conducting us
to our cells--when the sage spoke.

"What about dinner?" he began.

"Too late," said the officer. "It's midnight."

"Not too late to be hungry," was the reply. "We have had nothing to eat
since noon. Do you want it printed that prisoners are starved in the
Cherche Midi?"

The officer reflected. He then consulted with several orderlies and
finally stated that there was no available food in the prison, but that
he would permit us, at our expense, to have dinner served from a hotel
near-by. We agreed to this and the orderlies departed.

This arranged two things which we desired: food--for we were really
famished--and time to plan our campaign for liberty before being
separated into cells. While the orderlies were gone we made an
argumentative onslaught on the Lieutenant in his little cubby-hole
office, separated by a low partition from the big gloomy hall where we
were told to await our dinner.

We told him in detail who we were, how we happened to be there, all
the time insisting on the injustice of our treatment. He replied that
although he could not discuss the merits of our case, it might interest
us to know that his orders were to keep us for eight days in solitary
confinement, not allowing us to even talk with each other, after that
dinner which the orderlies were now spreading on a big table.

Eight days!--and we had already been there a year--or so it seemed.
Eight days! Why it was an eternity. And we would not stand it. The
fight in all of us was finally aroused. They could drag us to cells and
keep us; yes, but dragging would be necessary. We assured him of that.

And then the eagle began to scream. I have often wished when traveling
in Europe that so many American tourists would not so constantly keep
America and Americanism in the foreground of everything they thought
and said and did--but on that night in the Cherche Midi I was as
blatant and noisy and proud an American as ever there was. We waved
the Stars and Stripes and shouted the Declaration of Independence at
the now bewildered officer until he begged us to desist. Earlier in
our conversation we had discussed the mighty effects of journalism
and how it visited its pleasures and its displeasures. Now we quoted
the Constitution of the United States and produced our passports. We
demanded an immediate audience with the American Ambassador.

Our dinner was waiting, and the officer declared finally that if we
would only eat it he would see what he could do for us, to the extent
of telephoning to the Military Governor. We could hear his part of the
telephone conversation as we attacked our food. We never learned with
whom he was talking, but he made it strong. He never had such persons
as ourselves inside his prison and he would be devoutly thankful to be
rid of us. And besides--this was whispered but we caught the drift of
it--they were Americans, these prisoners, and perhaps it might be just
as well to send some word about them to the American Embassy.

There was more that we could not hear, but finally he informed us that
an officer was coming from headquarters to talk with us; that we were
to wait where we were.

I do not know what influence, aside from the telephone conversation,
intervened in our behalf that night. But I am sure that conversation
had little to do with it beyond perhaps securing an immediate rather
than deferred action. Perhaps it was an accident, perhaps a change of
opinion at the Military Governor's headquarters as to the sentence that
had been passed upon us. At any rate, at the moment we were paying for
our dinner and demanding a receipt dated from inside the prison walls
(every one of us kept an eye open to newspaper copy in demanding the
receipt in such fashion) the door was flung open and a high Government
official whom most of us knew personally, entered the room.

His first act was to fling the money from the hands of the hotel
servant back upon the table--snatch the receipts, and tear them in
pieces.

"Gentlemen, the dinners are on me," was his greeting.

A few hours later the military attaché of the American Embassy who had
been roused from his bed, explained that Mr. Herrick would undertake
the personal responsibility for our parole. The gates of the Cherche
Midi opened. The heavy arm of military authority had lightened; but the
free road to the battle front was still closed.

CHAPTER XI

UNDER THE CROIX ROUGE

I never expected to drive a motor ambulance, with badly wounded men,
down the Champs Elysées. But I did. I have done many things since the
war began that I never expected to do;--but somehow that magnificent
Champs Elysées--and ambulances--and groans of wounded seemed a
combination entirely outside my wildest imaginations.

This was a result of the eight days' parole, after my release from the
Cherche Midi; I was forbidden to write anything concerning my trip to
the battle fields.

During those eight days I came to the conclusion that the popularity
of journalism in France had reached its lowest ebb. In the ante-bellum
days newspapermen were rather highly regarded in the French capital.
They occasionally got almost in the savant class, and folks seemed
rather glad to sit near their corners of the cafés and hearken to their
words. I found that now, in popular estimation, they were several
degrees below the ordinary criminal, and in fact not far above the
level of the spy. Also the wording of my parole was galling. I could
not even write private letters to my family, without first obtaining
permission at headquarters of the Military Governor.

We had "run into an important turning movement of troops on that trip
to the front" was the final official reason assigned for our particular
predicament. We were dangerous; we might tell about that turning
movement. Therefore the eight days' parole.

Nevertheless, for eight days my activities for my newspaper were
suspended, and even then the hope of getting to the front seemed more
vague than ever. I thought over every plan that might produce copy, and
finally I called on the Ambassador--which was the usual procedure when
one had an idea of front-going character.

"I am weary of the reputation that has been bestowed upon me," I
told Mr. Herrick. "I am tired of being classified with the thugs and
yeggmen. I am tired of being an outcast on the face of Paris. In other
words, for the moment I desire to uplift myself from the low level of
journalism. I desire to don the brassard of the Red Cross."

"Yes," said the Ambassador, "I don't blame you."

"All right," I rejoined, "but as a journalist they won't have
me--unless you give me a bill of health. If you tell them I am not so
bad as I look nor so black as I am painted, I stand a chance. I confess
frankly that I am actuated by the low motives of my profession. I am
first and last a newspaperman and I believe that a Red Cross ambulance
may get me to the battle front. However, I am willing to do my share of
the work, and if I go into the service with my cards face up and your
guarantee--why--"

"Yes," replied Mr. Herrick. "And that goes, provided you will not use
the cable until you leave the service."

I promised. The Ambassador kept his word. A week later, vaccinated and
injected against disease of every character, clad in khaki, with the
coveted badge of mercy sewed on the left sleeve, I was taken into the
ranks of the Croix Rouge as an ambulance orderly. I remained for two
months--first hauling wounded from great evacuation stations about
Paris to hospitals within the walls. Most of our wounded went to the
American Ambulance, when we broke all speed laws going through the
Champs Elysées, en route to Neuilly. Later I was stationed at Amiens
with the second French army, at that time under the command of General
Castelnau. We slept on the floor in a freight station and we worked in
the black ooze of the railway yards. The battle front was still many
miles away.

One morning when the weather was bleakest (it was now December) and
the black ooze the deepest, and the straw from where I had just risen
was flattest and moldiest, I received word from Paris to get back
quick--that at last the War Office would send correspondents to the
front, and that the Foreign Office was preparing the list of neutrals
who would go.

I resigned my ambulance job and took the next train. But I kept my
brassard with the red cross upon it. I wanted it as a proof of those
hard days and sometimes harder nights, when my profession was blotted
from my mind--and copy didn't matter--I wanted it because it was my
badge when I was an ambulance orderly carrying wounded men, when I
came to feel that I was contributing something after all, although a
neutral, toward the great sacrifice of the country that sheltered me.
I shall keep it always for many things that I saw and heard; but I
cherish it most for my recollection of Trevelyan--the Rue Jeanne d'Arc
and those from a locality called Quesnoy-sur-Somme.

(A) Trevelyan

The orderly on the first bus was sitting at attention, with arms
folded, waiting for orders. It was just dawn, but the interior of his
bus was clean and ready. He always fixed it up at night, when the rest
of us, dog tired, crept into the dank straw, saying we could get up
extra early and do it.

So now we were up "extra early," chauffeurs tinkered with engines,
and orderlies fumigated interiors; and the First Orderly, sitting at
the head of the column, where he heard things, and saw things, got
acquainted with Trevelyan.

The seven American motor ambulances were drawn up with a detachment
of the British Red Cross in a small village near B----, the railhead
where the base hospital was located, way up near the Belgian frontier.
The weather was cold. We had changed the brown paint on our busses to
gray, making them less visible against the snow. Even the hoods and
wheels were gray. All that could be seen at a distance were the two big
red crosses blinking like a pair of eyes on the back canvas flaps. The
American cars were light and fast and could scurry back out of shell
range quicker than big lumbering ambulances--of which there was a
plenty. Therefore we were in demand. The morning that the First Orderly
met Trevelyan our squad commander was in conference with the fat major
of the Royal Army Medical Corps concerning the strenuous business of
the day.

Both the First Orderly and Trevelyan were Somebodys. It was apparent.
It was their caste that attracted them to each other. The First Orderly
was a prominent figure in the Paris American colony; he knew the best
people on both sides of the Atlantic. Now he was an orderly on an
ambulance because he wanted to see some of the war. He wanted to do
something in the war. There were many like him--neutrals in the ranks
of the Croix Rouge.

The detachment of the Royal Army Medical Corps to which Trevelyan
belonged arrived late one night and were billeted in a barn. The
American corps were in the school house, sleeping in straw on the wood
floor. A small evacuation hospital was near where the wounded from the
field hospitals were patched up a little before we took them for a long
ambulance haul.

Trevelyan was only an orderly. The American corps found this "quaint,"
as Trevelyan himself would have said. For the orderly of the medical
corps corresponds to the "ranker" of the army. In this war, at a time
when officers were the crying demand, the gentlemen rankers had almost
disappeared. Among the American volunteers, being the squad commander
was somewhat a matter of choice and of mechanical knowledge of our
cars. We all stood on an equal footing. But Trevelyan was simply
classed as a "Tommy," so far as his medical officers were concerned.

So he showed a disposition to chum with us. He gravitated more
particularly to the First Orderly, who reported to the chauffeur of the
second bus that Trevelyan had a most comprehensive understanding of the
war; that he had also a keen knowledge of medicine and surgery, with
which the First Orderly had himself tinkered.

They discussed the value of the war in several branches of surgery.
The chauffeur of the second bus heard Trevelyan expounding to the
First Orderly on the precious knowledge derived by the great hospital
surgeons in Paris and London from the great numbers of thigh fractures
coming in--how amputations were becoming always fewer--the men walked
again, though one leg might be shorter.

Trevelyan, in his well fitting khaki uniform, seemed from the same
mold as hundreds of clean built Englishmen; lean face, blond hair. His
accent was faultlessly upper class. The letter "g" did not occur as a
terminating consonant in his conversation. The adjectives "rippin'" or
"rotten" conveyed his sentiments one way or the other. His hand clasp
was firm, his eye direct and blue. He was a chap you liked.

At our midday meal, which was served apart for the American contingent,
the First Orderly asked the corps what they thought of Trevelyan. "I've
lived three years in England," said the chauffeur of the second bus,
"and this fellow seems to have far less 'side' than most of his class."

The First Orderly explained that this was because Trevelyan had become
cosmopolitan--traveled a lot, spoke French and Spanish and understood
Italian, whereas most Englishmen scorned to learn any "foreign" tongue.

"Why isn't he in a regiment--he's so superior!" wondered the chauffeur
of the second bus. The First Orderly maintained stoutly that there was
some good reason, perhaps family trouble, why his new friend was just a
common orderly--like himself.

The entire column was then ordered out. They hauled wounded from the
field hospitals to the evacuation camp until nightfall. After dusk they
made several trips almost to the trenches. But there were fewer wounded
than usual. The cold had lessened the infantry attacks, though the
artillery constantly thundered, especially at nightfall.

New orders came in. They were:--Everything ready always for a possible
quick advance into L----, which was then an advance post. An important
redistribution of General French's "contemptible little army" was hoped
for. At coffee next morning our squad commander, after his customary
talk with the fat major, admonished us to have little to say concerning
our affairs--that talk was a useless adjunct to war.

That day again the First Orderly's dinner conversation was of
Trevelyan. Their conversation of that morning had gotten away from
armies and surgeons and embraced art people, which were the First
Orderly's forte. People were his hobby but he knew a lot about art.
This knowledge had developed in the form of landscape gardening at the
country places of his millionaire friends. It appeared that he and
Trevelyan had known the same families in different parts of the world.

"He knows the G's," he proclaimed, naming a prominent New York family.
"He's been to their villa at Lennox. He spoke of the way the grounds
are laid out, before he knew I had been there. Talked about the box
perspective for the Venus fountain, that I suggested myself."

The corps "joshed" the First Orderly on that: asked him whether
Trevelyan had yet confided the reason for his position in the ranks.
The First Orderly was indifferent. He waved a knife loaded with
potatoes--a knife is the chief army eating utensil. "He may be anything
from an Honorable to a Duke," he said, "but I don't like to ask, for
you know how Englishmen are about those things. I have found, though,
that he did the Vatican and Medici collections only a year ago with
some friends of mine, and I'm going to sound them about him sometime."

There were sharp engagements that afternoon and the corps was kept
busy. At nightfall, the booming of the artillery was louder--nearer,
especially on the left, where the French heavy artillery had come up
the day before to support the British line. The ambulance corps was
ordered to prepare for night work. They snatched plates of soup and
beans, and sat on the busses, waiting.

At eight o'clock a shell screamed over the line of cars, then another,
and two more. "They've got the range on us," the fat Major said.
"We'll have to clear out." Eighteen shells passed overhead before the
equipment and the few remaining wounded got away and struck the road to
the main base at B----.

The American squad was billeted that night in the freight
station--dropping asleep as they sank into the straw on the floor. At
midnight an English colonel's orderly entered and called the squad
commander. They went out together; then the squad commander returned
for the Orderly of the first bus. The chauffeur of the second bus waked
when they returned after several hours, and heard them through the
gloom groping their way to nests in the straw. They said nothing.

It was explained in the morning at coffee. "Trevelyan" had been shot at
sunrise. He was a German spy.

(B) The Rue Jeanne d'Arc

We were sitting in a café at the _apéritif_ hour--an hour that survives
the war. We were stationed in a city of good size in Northern France, a
city famous for its cathedral and its cheese. Just now it was a haven
for refugees, and an evacuation center for wounded. The Germans had
been there, as the patronne of the café Lion d'Or narrated at length
to every one who would listen; but now the battle lines were some
distance away. If the wind came from the right direction when the noise
of the city was hushed by military order at nightfall, the haunting
boom-boo-o-m of heavy artillery could be faintly heard. No one who has
heard that sound ever forgets it. Dynamite blasting sounds just about
the same, but in the sound of artillery, when one knows that it is
artillery, there seems the knell of doom.

The café was crowded at the _apéritif_ hour. The fat face of the
patronne was wreathed in smiles. Any one is mistaken who imagines that
all Northern France is lost from human view in a dense rolling cloud
of battle smoke. At any rate, in the Café d'Or one looked upon life
unchanged. True, there were some new clients in the place of old ones.
There were a half dozen soldiers in khaki, and we of the American
ambulance column, dressed in the same cloth. In a corner sat a young
lieutenant in the gorgeous blue of the Chasseurs d'Afrique, drinking
vermouth with a grizzled captain of artillery. Other French uniforms
dotted the place. The "honest bourgeois" were all there--the chief
supports of the establishment in peace or war. They missed the evening
_apéritif_ during the twelve days of German occupation, but now all
were in their accustomed places. For the places of oldtimers are sacred
at the Lion d'Or.

Madame la patronne acted in place of her husband, who was now safely
serving in the cooking department of the army, some kilometers from the
firing line. Madame sat contentedly at the caisse superintending the
activities of two youthful, inexperienced garçons. The old waiters,
Jean and André, vanished into the "zone of military activity" on the
first day of the war. After several post cards, Jean had not been heard
from. André was killed at the battle of the Marne.

We had heard the garrulous tale of the German occupation many times. It
was thrillingly revealed, both at the Restaurant de Commerce and the
Hotel de Soleil. At the Lion d'Or it was Madame's absorbing theme, when
she was not haranguing the new waiters or counting change. Madame had
remained throughout the trouble. "But yes, to be sure." She was not the
woman to flee and leave the Lion d'Or to the invaders. Her ample form
was firmly ensconced behind the caisse when the first of the Uhlans
entered. They were officers, and--wonder of wonders--they spoke French.
The new waiters were hiding in the cellar, so Madame clambered from
her chair with dignity, and placed glasses and drink before them. And
then--would wonders never cease?--these Germans had actually paid--even
overpaid, _ma foi_--for one of them flung a golden half louis on the
counter, and stalked from the place refusing change. Of course at the
Hotel de Ville, the invaders behaved differently. There the Mayor was
called upon for one million francs--war indemnity. But that was a
matter for the city and not for the individual. Madame still had that
golden half louis and would show it if we cared to see. Gold was scarce
and exceedingly precious. The sight of it was good.

Now the Germans were gone--forced out, grace à Dieu, so the good
citizens no longer lived in the cellars. They were again in their
places at the Lion d'Or, sipping vermouth and offering gratitude to the
military régime that had the decency to allow cafés open until eight
o'clock. Outside the night was cold and a fine drizzle beat against
the windows. Several newcomers shivered and remarked that it must be
terrible in the trenches. But the electric lights, the clinking glasses
on the marble tables, the rattling coins, soon brought them into the
general line of speculation on how long it would take to drive the
Germans from France.

For a hundred years the cafés have been the Forum of France. The
Lion d'Or had for that entire period been the scene of fierce verbal
encounters between members of more political and religious faiths than
exist in any other nation of the world. Every Frenchman, no matter how
humble in position or purse has decided opinions about something. But
now the voices in the Lion d'Or arose only in appellations concerning
_les Boches_. There was unanimity of opinion on the absorbing subject
of the war.

The members of the American ambulance column sat at a table near the
door. Our khaki always brought looks of friendly interest. Almost every
one took us to be English, and even those who learned the truth were
equally pleased. We finished the _apéritif_ and consulted about dinner.
We were off duty--we might either return for the army mess or buy our
own meal at the restaurant. We paid the garçon and decided upon the
restaurant a few doors away. Several of the men were struggling into
their rubber coats. I told them that I would follow shortly. I had
just caught a sentence from across the room that thrilled me. It held
a note of mystery--or tragedy. It brought life out of the commonplace
normality of _apéritif_ hour at the Lion d'Or.

The speakers were two Frenchmen of middle age--fat and bearded.
They were dressed in ordinary black, but wore it with a ceremonial
rather than conventional manner. The atmosphere of the city did not
seem upon them. They might rather be the butcher and the grocer of a
small town. One of the pair had sat alone for some time before the
second arrived. I had noticed him. He seemed to have no acquaintances
in the place--which was unusual. He drank two cognacs in rapid
succession--which was still more unusual. One drink always satisfies a
Frenchman at _apéritif_ hour--and it is very seldom cognac.

When the second man entered the other started from his seat and held
out both hands eagerly. "So you got out safe!" were the words I heard;
but our crowd was hurrying toward the door, and I lost the actual
greeting. I ordered another vermouth and waited.

The two men were seated opposite each other. The first man nervously
motioned to the waiter and the newcomer gave his order. It was plain
that they were both excited, but the table adjoining was unoccupied,
so they attracted no attention. The noisy waiter, banging bottles on
the table, drowned out the next few sentences. Then I heard the second
man: "So I got out first, but you managed to get here yesterday--a day
in advance."

The other replied: "I was lucky enough to get a horse. They were
shelling the market place when I left."

The second man gulped his drink and plucked nervously at the other's
sleeve. "My wife is at the hotel," he almost mumbled the words, "I
must tell her--you said the market place. But how about the Rue Jeanne
d'Arc?--her sister lived there. She remained."

"How about the Rue Jeanne d'Arc?" the other repeated. He clucked his
tongue sympathetically. "That was all destroyed in the morning."

The second man drew a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped the sweat
from his forehead.

They were climbing out of the cattle cars into the mud of the freight
yards. They numbered about fifty,--the old, the halt, the blind and
the children. We were whizzing past on a motor ambulance with two
desperately wounded men inside, headed for a hospital a half mile away.
The Medical Major said that unless we hurried the men would probably
be dead when we arrived. So we could not lessen speed as those from
Quesnoy-sur-Somme descended painfully from the cattle cars. Instead,
we sounded the siren for them to get out of our way. The mud from our
wheels splattered them. But it was not mud--not regular mud. It was
black unhealthy ooze, generated after a month of rain in the aged
layers of train soot. It was full of fever germs. Typhoid was on the
rampage.

As we passed the sentinels at the gates of the yards we were forced to
halt in a jam of ammunition and food wagons. To the army that survives
is given the first thought. The wounded in the ambulance could wait. We
took right of way only over civilians--including refugees.

We asked a sentinel concerning those descending from the cattle cars,
"_là bas_." He said they came from a place called Quesnoy-sur-Somme.
It was not a city he told us, nor a town--not even a village.
Just a straggling hamlet along the river bank--a place called
Quesnoy-sur-Somme.

The past tense was the correct usage of the verb. The place _was_ that;
but now--now it is just a black path of desolation beside a lifeless
river. The artillery had thundered across the banks for a month. The
fish floated backs down on the water.

When the ammunition and food wagons gave us room enough, we again raced
through the streets and delivered our wounded at the hospital--alive.
Then we returned to the freight yards for more. Several ambulance
columns had worked through the night from the field hospitals to the
freight yards. There the men were sorted and the less desperate cases
entrained.

We plowed our way carefully through the ooze of the yards, for ahead
of us walked those from Quesnoy-sur-Somme on their way to the _gare_.
They walked slowly--painfully, except the children, who danced beside
our running board and laughed at the funny red crosses painted on the
canvas sides of the ambulance. It was raining--as usual. The sky was
the coldest gray in the universe, and the earth and dingy buildings,
darker in tone, were still more dismal. But one tiny child had a fat
slab of bread covered thickly with red jam. She raised her sticky pink
face to ours and laughed gloriously. She waved her pudgy fist holding
the bread and jam, and shouted, "Vive la France!"

We were now just crawling through the mire. The refugees surrounded
us on all sides. The mother seized the waving little arm, and dragged
the child away. The woman did not look at us. She just plodded along,
eyes fixed on the mud that closed over her shoes at every step. She
was bareheaded and the rain glistened in great drops upon her hair.
The child hung back. The mother merely tightened her grip, doggedly
patient. She was past either curiosity or reproof.

Our car ran so slowly that accidentally we killed the engine. I got out
to crank her up and meantime the forlorn mass surged by. Two soldiers
herded them over the slippery tracks to a shed beside the gare where
straggled some rough benches. We lined our car up behind the other
ambulances. Then we went to look at the refugees.

They had dropped onto the benches, except the children. The littlest
ones tugged fretfully at their mothers' skirts. The others ran
gleefully about, fascinated by the novelty of things. It was a holiday.
Several Red Cross women were feeding the crowd, passing about with big
hampers of bread and pots of coffee. Each person received also a tin of
dried meat; and a cheese was served to every four. We helped carry the
hampers.

Most of the refugees did not even look at us; they did not raise their
eyes from the mud. They reached out their hands and took what we gave
them. Then they held the food in their laps, listless; or staring out
across the yards into the wet dusk.

One or two of them talked. They had been hustled out at sunrise.
The French army thought they had occupied that dangerous place long
enough. There was no longer hope for any living thing remaining. So
they came away--bringing nothing with them, herded along the line by
soldiers. Where they were going they did not know. It did not matter
where. "_C'est la guerre!_ It is terrible--yes." They shrugged their
shoulders. It is war!

One old man, nearly blind and very lame, sat forlornly at one end of
the line. He pulled at an empty pipe. We gave him some tobacco--some
fresh English tobacco. He knew that it was not French when he rolled
it in his hand. So we explained the brand. We explained patiently, for
he was very deaf. He was delighted. He had heard of English tobacco,
but had never had any. He stuffed the pipe eagerly and lit it. He
leaned back against the cold stone wall and puffed in ecstasy. Ah! this
English tobacco _was_ good. He was fortunate.

We glanced back along the line. As we looked several of the women
shrank against the wall. One covered her eyes. Two French ambulances
passed, carrying a wounded Zouave on a stretcher. A yard engine went
shrieking across their path and the ambulanciers halted. The huddled
figure under the blankets groaned horribly. Then the procession
proceeded to our first ambulance. The men were on the seat, ready for
the race against time to the hospital.

After a few minutes the soldiers who had herded the refugees into the
shed came again to herd them out--back to the cattle cars. I asked one
of the soldiers where they were going. He waved his hand vaguely toward
the south. "_Là bas_," he muttered. He didn't know exactly. They were
going somewhere--that was all. There was no place for them here. This
station was for wounded. And would they ever return? He shrugged his
shoulders.

I looked at the forlorn procession sloshing across the yards. The rain
beat harder. It was almost dark; the yard lamps threw dismal, sickish
gleams across the tracks. The old man with the tobacco brought up the
rear, helped along by an old woman hobbling on a stick.

We heard the voice of the Medical Major bawling for "les ambulances
Américaines." We looked behind into the gloom of the gare; a procession
emerged--stretchers with huddled forms under blankets. As far down
the yards as we could see--just on the edge of the night, those from
Quesnoy-sur-Somme were climbing slowly into the cattle cars.

PART FOUR

WAR-CORRESPONDING DE LUXE

CHAPTER XII

OUT WITH CAPTAIN BLANK

"Grand Quartier Général!" The sentry barring the road jerked his
rifle instantly to rigid salute. The speaker sat beside the chauffeur
of a big limousine. He wore a wonderful new horizon-blue captain's
uniform, but on his left arm was the colored silken brassard of the
Great General headquarters staff. It meant that the wearer was the
direct agent of Père Joffre, and though sentries dotted our route the
chauffeur never once brought the car to a full halt.

Two other neutral correspondents were in the car with me. The tonneau
was comfortably heated and electrically lighted. Our baggage was
carried in other cars behind us, in charge of orderlies. Still other
cars carried an armed escort, in case of sudden attack on the lines.

For at last we were going forth officially to the front. No sentry
could stop us. No officer could "detain" us--there was no fear of
prison at our journey's end. It had been decided by Père Joffre
himself; and "Himself" had appointed the Captain, whose orders were
to remain with us even after our return to Paris, where he would wait
to place the magic visé of the État Major upon our despatches, thus
preventing any delays at the regular Bureau de Censure.

Comfortable rooms had been reserved in hotels of little villages behind
the trenches. Far in advance meals had been commanded to be ready at
the hours of our arrival. Every detail of each day's program had been
carefully arranged. And in case we did become accidentally separated
from our Captain, each of us carried a pass issued by the Ministry of
War bearing our photographs and in dramatic language fully accrediting
us as correspondents to the armies of the Republic.

So we lighted our cigars and lolled at our ease, feeling our own
importance just a bit as each sentry saluted respectfully the Captain's
silken brassard.

In the company of Captain Blank I have secured the greatest part of
the cable copy that the war has furnished me, but on that first ride
through the snow fields of Northern France, I little realized that on
my return to Paris I would send America the most important cable that I
had ever filed in my life: for it was the first detailed description
of the French army permitted for publication after the battle of the
Marne. Many times during that trip we asked each other what "news"
there was in all that we saw that was worth cabling, when a five-cent
postage stamp would carry it by letter. It was all interesting, some of
it decidedly exciting; but not once did we witness a general engagement
of the army. There was no storming of forts, no charges of the cavalry,
no capitulation of troops. It was just the deadly winter waiting in the
trenches, with the sentries who never slept at the port-holes and the
artillery incessantly pounding away at the rear. I decided that there
was nothing worth cabling in the story.

When I returned to Paris, and a steam-heated apartment, the reaction
on my physical forces was so great that I went to bed for several days
with the grippe. As I impatiently fumed to get to work on the story of
my trip, it suddenly dawned upon me that it was a cable story after
all. Why, it was one of the biggest cable stories possible--it was the
story of the French army. I had just been permitted a real view of it,
the first accorded any correspondent in so comprehensive a manner. I
had followed a great section of the fighting line, had been in the
trenches under fire, and had received scientific, detailed information
regarding this least known of European forces.

True, we correspondents knew what a powerful machine it was. We knew
it was getting stronger every day. But America did not, and Germany
meanwhile was granting interviews, taking correspondents to the
trenches and up in balloons and aeroplanes in their campaign for
neutral sympathy. Now France, or rather General Joffre--for his was the
first and last word on the subject of war correspondents--had decided
to combat the German advertising. Captain Blank was still waiting in
Paris for my copy--cable copy marked "rush"--which I dictated in bed.

"This army has nothing to hide," said one of the greatest generals to
me, during the trip. "You see what you like, go where you desire and if
you cannot get there, ask."

While our party did all the spectacular stunts the Germans had offered
the correspondents in such profusion, such as visiting the trenches,
where once a German shell burst thirty feet from us, splattering us
with mud, where also snipers sent rifle balls hissing only a few feet
away, our greatest treats were the scientific daily discourses given
by Captain Blank, touching the entire history of the first campaign,
explaining each event leading up to the present position of the two
armies. He gave the exact location of every French and Allied army
corps on the entire front.

On the opposite side of the line he demonstrated the efficiency of the
French secret service by giving full details of the position and name
of every German regiment, even to the date of its arrival.

Our Captain explained the second great German blunder after their
failure to occupy Paris. This was their mistake in not at once swinging
a line across Northern France, cutting off Calais and Boulogne, where
they could have leveled a pistol at England's head. He explained that
the superior French cavalry dictated that the line should instead run
straight north through the edge of Belgium to the sea. And he refuted
by many military arguments the theory that cavalry became obsolete with
the advent of aeroplanes.

Cavalry formerly was used to screen the infantry advance and also for
shock purposes in the charges. Now that the lines are established, it
is mostly used with the infantry in the trenches; but in the great race
after the Marne to turn the western flanks it was the cavalry's ability
to outstrip the infantry that kept the Germans from possession of all
Northern France. In other words, the French chausseurs, more brilliant
than the Uhlans, kept that northern line straight until the infantry
corps had time to take up position.

Once, on passing from the second line to a point less than a hundred
yards from the German rifles, I came face to face with a general of
division. He was sauntering along for his morning's stroll, which he
chose to take in the trenches with his men rather than on the safer
roads at the rear. He smoked a cigarette and seemed careless of danger.
He continually patted his soldiers on the back as he passed and called
them "his little braves."

I could not help wondering then and since whether the German general
opposite was setting his men the same splendid example. I inquired
the French general's name; he was General Fayolle, conceded by all
the armies to be one of the greatest artillery experts in the world.
Comradeship between officers and men always is general in the French
army, but I never before realized fully the officers' willingness to
accept the same fate as their men.

In Paris the popular appellation for a German is "boche." Not once at
the front did I hear this word used by officers or men. They deplore
it, just as they deplore many things that happen in Paris. Every
officer I talked to declared the Germans were a brave, strong enemy;
they waste no time calling them names.

"They are wonderful, but we will beat them," was the way one officer
summed up the general feeling.

Another illustration of the French officer at the front: the city
of Vermelles, of 10,000 inhabitants, was captured from the Germans
after thirty-four days' fighting. It was taken literally from house
to house, the French engineers sapping and mining the Germans out of
every stronghold, destroying every single house, incidentally forever
upsetting my own one-time idea that the French are a frivolous people.
So determined were they to retake this town that they fought in the
streets with artillery at a distance of twenty-one feet, probably the
shortest range artillery duel in the history of the world.

The Germans before the final evacuation buried hundreds of their own
dead. Every yard in the city was filled with little crosses--the ground
was so trampled that the mounds of graves were crushed down level with
the ground--and on the crosses are printed the names, with the number
of the German regiments. At the base of every cross rested either a
crucifix or a statue of the Virgin or a wreath of artificial flowers,
all looted from the French graveyard.

With the German graves were French graves, made afterward. I walked
through this ruined city where, aside from the soldiers, the only sign
of life I saw was a gaunt, prowling cat. With me, past these hundreds
of graves, walked half a dozen French officers. They did not pause to
read inscriptions; they did not comment on the loot and pillage of the
graveyard; they scarcely looked even at the graves, but they constantly
raised their hands to their caps in salute, regardless of whether the
crosses marked a French or a German life destroyed.

Another illustration of French humanity:

We were driving along back of the advance lines. On the road before us
a company of territorial infantry, after eight days in the trenches,
were now marching back to two days of repose at the rear. Plodding
along the same road was a refugee mother and several little children
in a donkey cart; behind the cart, attached by a rope, trundled a baby
buggy with the youngest child inside. The buggy suddenly struck a rut
in the road and overturned, spilling the baby into the mud. Terrible
wails arose; the soldiers stiffened to attention. Then, seeing the
accident, the entire company broke ranks and rescued the infant. They
wiped the dirt from its face and helped the mother to bestow it again
in the cart.

Our motor had halted; and our captain from the Great General
Headquarters, in his gorgeous blue uniform, climbed from the car, and
discussed with the mother the safety of a baby buggy riding behind
a donkey cart; at the same time congratulating the soldier who had
rescued the child.

I took a brief ride at the front in an ante-bellum motorbus,--there
being nothing left in Paris but the trams and subway. Busses have since
been used to carry fresh meat, to transport troops and also ammunition.
We trundled merrily along a little country road, the snow-white fields
on either side in strange contrast to the scenery when last I rode
in that bus, in my daily trips from my home to the _Times_ office in
Paris. The bus was now riddled with bullets, but the soldier conductor
still jingles the bell to the motorman, although he carries a revolver
where he formerly wore the register for fares.

Trench life was one of the surprises of the trip. Every night since the
war began I had heard pitying remarks about "the boys in the trenches,"
especially if the nights were cold. I was, therefore, prepared to find
the men standing in water to the knees, shivering, wretched, sick and
unhappy. I found just the contrary--the trenches were clean, large and
sanitary, although, of course, mud is mud. The bottoms of the trenches
in every instance were corduroy-lined with modern drains, which keep
the feet perfectly dry. In the large dugouts the men, except those
doing sentry duty, sleep comfortably on dry straw. There are special
dugouts for officers and artillery observers.

Although the maps show the lines of fighting to be rather wavy, one
must go to the front really to appreciate the zigzag, snake-like line
that it really is. The particular bit of trenches we visited covered a
front of twelve miles; but so irregular was the line, so intricate and
vast the system of intrenchments, that they measured 200 miles on that
particular twelve-mile fighting front.

Leaving the trenches at the rear of the communication _boyaux_, it
is astonishing how little of the war can be seen. Ten feet after we
left our trenches we could not see even the entrance. We stood in a
beautiful open field having our pictures taken, and a few hundred yards
away our motor waited behind some trees. Suddenly we heard a "zip zip"
over our heads. German snipers were taking shots at us.

With all considerations for the statement that the Germans have the
greatest fighting machine the world has ever seen, the French army to
me seemed invincible from the standpoints of power, intelligence and
humanity. This latter quality, judging from the generals in command to
the men in the trenches, especially impressed me. I did not and I do
not believe that an army with such ideals as the French army can be
beaten.

So I wrote my cable and sent it to Captain Blank. He viséd it, at the
same time sending me a letter which I cherish among my possessions. He
thanked me for the sentiments I had expressed and told me that a copy
of the story would be sent to General Joffre.

A few days later I met the _doyen_ of war correspondents, Frederick
Villiers, in a boulevard café. He was out with me on that trip. But he
began war-corresponding with Archibald Forbes at the battle of Plevna.
This is his seventeenth war. I said to him:

"Mr. Villiers, what did you do with the story of this trip to the
front; you who have been in so many battles; you who have had a camel
shot under you in the desert; you who escaped from Port Arthur; you
who have seen more war than any living man? What do you think of this
latest edition of war?"

He answered: "It is different, very different, in many ways; but this
trip from which we have just returned is the biggest war spectacle that
I've ever had!"

Villiers, too, had seen the French army.

CHAPTER XIII

JOFFRE

"Give the French a leader and they can do anything." Before the war and
since I have heard this thought more than any other expressed in cafés,
homes and political assemblies.

Forty-four years before the present war, almost to a day, France
discovered that her last Napoleon had only the name of his great
ancestor, and none of his genius. During all that time she had prayed
for a new leader--not of the name, for Bonaparte princes may not even
fight for France--but for genius sufficient to restore her former
military prestige among the nations.

General Joffre, at the beginning of the war, had been head of the
army for only three years. He had received his supreme command as
a compromise between political parties. No one knew anything about
him--he had a good military record and was considered "safe." But
at the last grand maneuvers he had given the nation a sudden jar
by unceremoniously and without comment dismissing five gold-laced
generals.

On one of the first days of the war, at four in the morning, I was
walking home--all taxis were mobilized--after a night passed in writing
cable copy for my newspaper concerning the momentous tragedy that faced
the world.

I was accompanied by a journalistic confrère; our route led along the
Quai d'Orsay, past the Foreign Office, where the Cabinet of France had
been sitting all night in war council. It was just daybreak. The sun
was beginning to glint on the waters of the Seine. We walked up the
Boulevard des Invalides and halted, without speaking, but in common
thought, before the tomb of Napoleon Bonaparte. The sun suddenly broke
in splendor over the golden dome.

"It seems like a good omen," I said to my friend.

"Yes--if France had a Napoleon to-day ..." was his reply.

He was a newcomer to Paris.

"Tell me about the Commander-in-Chief," he asked me. "Who is Joffre,
anyway?"

I told him what everybody knew, which was almost nothing.

[Illustration: GENERAL JOFFRE LUNCHING JUST BEHIND THE FIGHTING LINE IN
CHAMPAGNE]

Now let me shift the picture from the tomb of Napoleon on a sunny
morning in August. It is a bleak day on the undulating plains of
Champagne--a few kilometers to the rear of the battle-lines, where
the French had been steadily gaining ground for several weeks. Only
the week before they brilliantly stormed the hills where the Germans
had entrenched after the battle of the Marne, and they captured every
position.

A fine drizzle had been falling since early morning, making the
ground soggy and slippery. Along the roads the crowds of peasants and
inhabitants of near-by villages are sloshing toward the great open
plain. But all the roads are barred by sentries and they are turned
back. No civilian eyes except those of a half dozen newspapermen
may see what is to happen there. Yes, something _is_ to happen
there--something impressive--something soul-stirring--but there are to
be no cheering spectators, no heraldry and no pomp.

It is to be a military pageant, without the crowd. It is a change from
the ante-bellum military show at Longchamps on the fourteenth of July,
when the tricolor waved everywhere, when the President of the Republic
and the generals of the army in brilliant uniforms reviewed the troops
of France, and all the great world was there to see.

This is to be a review of the troops who took the hills back there a
little way, sweeping on and up to victory while a murderous German
fire poured into them, dropping them by thousands. Through that clump
of trees sticking up in the mud, are little crosses marking the graves
of the dead.

Fifteen thousand of the victorious troops will pass in review to-day
before the Commander-in-Chief of the Allied armies. Down across the
field you can hear the distant notes of a bugle. They are taken up
by other buglers at various points. Then across the field comes
a regimental band. The players have been in the charge too--with
rifles instead of musical instruments. This is their first chance to
play in months--and play they do. You hear the martial notes of the
Marseillaise floating across the field, played with a force that must
have been heard in the German lines.

The regiments take up their positions at one side of the field. General
Langle de Carry, commander of the army that did the Champagne fighting,
with only a half dozen officers, take positions at the reviewing stand.
The reviewing stand is a hillock of mud. Both general and officers wear
the long overcoats of the light "horizon blue," the new color of the
French army.

A man emerges from the line of trees behind the group and plows his way
across the mud. He is large and bulky. He plants his feet firmly at
each step--splashing the mud out in all directions. He wears a short
jacket of the "horizon blue" and no overcoat. He wears the old red
trousers of the beginning of the war. His hat, around which you can
see the golden band of oak leaves signifying that he is a general, is
pulled low over his eyes. Drops of rain are on his grizzled mustache. A
leather belt is about his powerful body, but he wears no sword.

Langle de Carry and his officers whirl about quickly at his approach.
Every hand is raised in salute. The bulky man touches the visor of his
hat in response--then plants both his large ungloved fists upon his
hips. His feet are spread slightly apart. He speaks to de Carry in a
low voice. As you have already guessed, this big man is Joffre.

You were told at the beginning of the war that Joffre was a little fat
man--like Napoleon. That is not true. Joffre is a big man. He is even a
tall man, but does not look so because of his bulk. Few men possess, at
his age, such a powerful or so healthy a body. That is why he can cover
so many miles of battle front in his racing auto every day. That is
why he shows not the slightest sign of the wear and tear of war.

No time is lost in conversation. The bugles blew again and the
regiments of heroes began their march past the muddy reviewing stand.
Even in their battle-stained uniforms, every regiment looked "smart."
When they came abreast of Joffre, stolidly and solidly standing a step
in advance of the others, the long line of rifles raised in salute is
as straight as ever that of a German regiment on parade at Potsdam,
despite deep and slippery mud.

After the infantry came the famous "seventy-fives" with the
same machine-like precision that before the war we always
associated with Germans. The review ends with a regiment of heavy
cavalry--cuirassiers--coming at full charge, rising high in their
stirrups, with swords aloft, and breaking into a battle yell when they
passed "Father Joffre," as he is called by his soldiers.

Through it all he stands motionless, feet apart, one hand planted on
his hip, raising the other to the visor of his hat, peering beneath
it straight ahead with unblinking eyes. As the men pass this general
without a sword, with no medals, no gold braid, no overcoat--and in
old red trousers--the rain pelting upon him, the look on their faces
is one of adoration. It matters not to them that there are no cheering
crowds, no crashing hands, no gala atmosphere. The one eye in France
that they care about is upon them.

The long line then forms facing him, and the men to receive decorations
advance. One of them--a private--is to receive the _médaille
militaire_, the greatest war decoration in the world, for it can only
be given to privates, or to generals commanding armies who have already
received the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor. Joffre himself only
won it after the battle of the Marne.

The private now to receive the medal is brought before the
Commander-in-Chief, who pins it upon his breast. Joffre throws both his
great arms about the private's shoulders and kisses him on both cheeks.
The long line of soldiers remains perfectly quiet. But in the eyes of
many of them are tears.

The program is ended. Father Joffre gets into his low, gray automobile
and disappears in a swirl of mud, to some other part of the "zone of
operations."

The army now knows it has the real leader that it waited for so long.
To the general public of France Joffre is still a mystery. But they
are content with their mystery--they have faith in him. That is
the spirit of the new France--a quiet faith and determination that
certainly has deceived the rest of the world, especially Germany. It is
the spirit of a nation that has found itself, and Joffre typifies it.

A few books have appeared giving some information about the
Commander-in-Chief. They deal chiefly with his march to Timbuctoo and
his career in Indo-China. For the rest, Parisians know that before the
war he lived quietly in a little villa in Auteuil, and that next to his
love for his family, the things he regarded as best in all the world
are peace and fishing. Recently it was learned that he commandeered a
barge on one of the rivers near the battle line--and there he sometimes
sits and quietly fishes while thinking out new army plans. His only
other recreation at the front is reading at night before going to bed
from his favorite authors, Balzac, Dumas and Charles Dickens. Joffre
understands English and reads it but will not speak it. "It is that he
has an accent which he likes not," explained one of his officers.

What Parisians cannot understand is how it was that this quiet,
perfectly unemotional man came into being in the Midi--as Southern
France is called. From the Midi, as from Corsica, come the hotheads
and the firebrands. The crowd certainly expected, when this war came,
that the Commander-in-Chief of the army would give Paris a real treat
before going forth to battle--that he would parade the boulevards in
dress uniform at the head of his troops. Alas! Paris has scarcely heard
a band play since the war began.

All the time that Joffre lived in the little villa in Auteuil he was
planning and waiting for the day when he should go forth to battle. He
was a fatalist to the extent that he felt by reason of his appointment
to office three years before that he was the chosen man to administer
"the revenge"--that he would lead the armies of France against Germany.
He never forgot it for an instant. It was Joffre who did everything
that a human being could do before the war, to prepare for _the day_.
It was Joffre who perfected the scheme of mobilization, so that France
was not caught entirely unprepared.

The word "prepare" was always on his lips. His command of language is
forcible, as his "orders of the day" have shown. In one of his early
addresses to the students of the École Polytechnique, his closing
words, uttered with a vigor that simply burned into the students,
were: "May God forgive France if she is not ready."

And so when the war drums indeed began to roll--when a military régime
was declared throughout France, and the politicians entered either into
retirement or uniform--France suddenly learned that she had a regular
czar on the job. The dismissal of five generals at maneuvers was not
a patch on what was about to happen to the gold-laced brigade--after
the battle of Charleroi, for instance. Joffre has retired so many
generals that the public has lost track of the number. Usually he does
it with an utterly disconcerting lack of comment or explanation. Only
occasionally does he assign that General Blank has been dropped from
active service "for reasons of health."

But he is just as quick with promotions. The brilliant de Maud'huy, for
instance, who was only a brigade commander in the battle of the Marne,
now commands an entire army.

I asked a high officer concerning the war councils at the "Grand
Quartier General." His reply was brief. "The war council," he said,
"is Joffre. He just tells everybody what to do--and they do it." That
is Napoleonic enough, isn't it? Not even the President of France may
go to the front without Joffre's permission--and if the Minister of
War entered the zone of operations without a _laisser-passer_ from the
Grand Quartier General he would very likely be arrested. Only Joffre
would call it "detention"--not arrest.

And as for journalists in that forbidden zone of operations--well--has
not enough been written already concerning journalists going to jail?
But even to journalists Joffre is entirely fair--only journalists must
play the game according to Joffre's rules.

I happen to know that Joffre has a thoroughly organized press
clipping bureau at the Ministry of War and every week marked
papers--particularly those of neutral nations--are presented to him.
One of my proud possessions is a letter that I received from an officer
of this bureau stating that one of my cables to the _New York Times_
had been favorably commented on by the Commander-in-Chief.

"Is this man a great military genius?" is still a question often
asked--despite the fact that he has a hold on the army such as no man
has had since Napoleon Bonaparte. The war is not over. The Germans are
still in France. Nevertheless all military observers and critics with
whom I have talked agree on one point. That is that the two weeks'
retreat which culminated in the battle of the Marne showed Joffre to be
a strategist of the very highest order. And any man who could direct
the retreat of an army, especially a French army, for two weeks and
so preserve that army's morale that he could then turn it around to
victory, must have great qualities of genius.

Ever since, Joffre has given ample evidence of his quality as a master
in the art of war, but he has forsaken the code of war known as the
Napoleonic strategy which was in brief: "Go where your enemy does not
expect you to go." Joffre knows perfectly well that in modern war,
over such a vast front, such tactics are impossible; he knows that
ninety-nine times out of one hundred your enemy, through his aeroplanes
and spies, will know where you are going.

Joffre indicated his idea of modern strategy some months after the war
began when he said, "I am nibbling at them." The nibbles have gradually
become mouthfuls.

Joffre thinks all war is too useless for unnecessary sacrifice of men.
He saves them all he can. That is why he would not send reenforcements
when the Germans attacked in front of Soissons, in the presence of the
Kaiser. The Germans were vastly superior in numbers at that point. The
weather was frightful. Joffre figured that the French losses would be
too heavy in a general battle there. He knew too that the swollen river
Aisne would quite as effectively prevent a German advance. And it did.
Joffre did not send reenforcements to Soissons in face of both appeals
and public opinion.

Nothing moves him, when he is convinced that he is right. And a general
of a combination of armies who doggedly does what he wants to do,
whatever any one else thinks about it--who dismisses all opposition
with a very quiet wave of the hand, as Joffre does, undoubtedly
possesses an overpowering personality.

Joffre is the last man on earth to hold his enemy lightly. No man
knows better than he how strong the Germans are. But he will keep up
that steady hammering, first at this point--then at that point--then
simultaneously all along the line, pressing them back one mile here and
two miles there, until the German army is beaten and out of France.
That is what has been going on now, although a large scale map is
necessary to note just how steadily and how gradually the Germans have
been pressed back everywhere by the advancing French wall of steel.

Let us go back a moment to that sunny August dawn of the beginning
of the war. I said to my friend as we stood looking at the tomb of
Napoleon Bonaparte: "I wonder what that man would do if he could come
out of that block of granite and command this army?"

My friend replied:

"I think he would shut himself up in a room and read all night the
history of all wars from his day to now. Then in the morning he would
call in a few generals and hear them talk. After that he would take
lunch with some manufacturers of arms and ammunition. He would take tea
with some boss mathematicians and scientists. He might then go for a
walk alone. By dinner, I believe he would be on to the job of modern
military strategy and ready for work."

Whether General Joseph Joffre is the reincarnation of Napoleon
Bonaparte, I am unable to even discuss. He is the perfect antithesis of
the little Corsican in many ways, and he has tackled a bigger job than
Bonaparte ever dreamed of. But the heart of a nation never beat more
hopefully than that of the new and united France.

"When the war is over--and if Joffre is the conqueror--what will he do
then?"--is another question asked nowadays. I have heard it remarked
that private life with comparative oblivion may not be easy for the
great military hero who now has both a Belgian king and a British field
marshal taking his orders.

And I have already heard comment on what a great show Paris will
have when the war is over--how the Grand Army of France headed by
Father Joffre will march under the Arch of Triumph and down the
Champs-Elysées--while the applauding world looks on.

Perhaps so. I do not know. I have already said that two things Joffre
loves best in all the world, next to his family, are peace and fishing.
I have a private suspicion that once peace is declared, Father Joffre
may turn his back upon Paris and go fishing.

CHAPTER XIV

THE MAN OF THE MARNE AND THE YSER

It was a drippy day--a day when winter overcoats were uncomfortable
but necessary to protect against a wind that swept over the plateau
of Artois. A party of newspapermen were beginning a war-corresponding
de luxe program arranged by the French war office. The Paris-Boulogne
express had been commanded to stop at Amiens, where limousines were
waiting in charge of an officer of the Great General Staff.

I knew Amiens of old. As an ambulance driver at the beginning of the
war, when the unpopularity of correspondents reached the maximum, I had
brought wounded to the Amiens hospitals. So I knew the roads in all
directions.

I pushed the raindrops from the automobile window. We were not going
in the direction of the battle lines but parallel with them, and then
bending into a road toward the rear. I communicated this intelligence
to my companions. One of them, an old-timer, yawned and said:

"Oh, it is usually this way on the first day of a trip. We are probably
on the way to visit some general. It takes a lot of time but we must
act as though we liked it."

"But if the general is a Somebody, it will be worth while, especially
if we can interview," suggested another.

"We cannot," the old-timer said composedly, "and he probably will not
be a Somebody. This is a long battle line. They have a lot of generals.
We are probably calling on only a general of brigade. It is possible
that we will not remember his name. He will tell us that we are
welcome. It is a drawback of modern war corresponding, especially if he
invites us to dinner."

"Why, what would be the matter with that?"

"The dinner will be excellent," was the answer. "The dinner of a
general begins with _hors d'œuvres_ and ends with cordials--two or
three different brands. There will be speeches and there will be no
visit to the trenches--there will be no time."

There was no response and our car sloshed along in the rain.

We stopped before a little red brick cottage set back from the road
in the midst of a grove of pines. A gravel walk led to the steps of a
small square veranda where a sentry stood at salute. We were in the
country. No other houses were near.

A young lieutenant ran down the walk and greeted us.

"I don't know how you will be received inside," was his strange
utterance. "He said he wanted to see you. That is why we sent word to
Amiens. But it doesn't matter whether you are journalists or generals.
He treats all comers the same--that is, just according to how he feels.
He will either talk to you or he will expect you to do all the talking.
I just wanted to tell you in advance to expect anything."

I climbed out of the car, wondering. I followed the young lieutenant
into the building. I stood with the others in a little reception hall
where an orderly took our hats and coats. Facing us was a door. On it
was pinned a white page torn from an ordinary writing pad. Scrawled in
ink, were the words, "_Bureau du Général_."

The party was curiously silent. I felt that this visit to a general
would be different from anything I had experienced before. We all
became a little restless and nervous. I turned toward a table near the
wall. On it was a French translation of Kipling's "Jungle Book." I
picked it up thinking how curious it was to find such a book at the
headquarters of a general. I gasped with surprise as I saw the name of
the general written on the first page.

[Illustration: GENERAL FOCH

"The Man of the Marne and the Yser"]

A buzzer sounded and an orderly bounded in from the veranda, threw open
the door marked with the white writing page, turned to us, saying,
"_Entrez, Messieurs_."

We entered a large room with many windows, all hung with dainty white
lace. Despite the gloomy day the room seemed sunny, for there were at
least a dozen vases filled with yellow flowers. Between two dormer
windows opening upon a garden was stretched a great yellow map, dotted
with lines and stuck all over with tiny tricolored flags. Before this
map and studying it closely, with his back half turned toward us, stood
a little man. A thick stump of unlighted cigar was between his teeth.
His shoulders were thrown back, his hands clutched tightly behind him.
He wore the full uniform of a general, with long cavalry boots and
spurs. At the sound of our entrance, he swung about dramatically, on
one heel. We caught sight of the Grand Cross of the Legion of Honor
blazing on his breast. He wore no other decorations, and I noted the
absence of a sword. The light fell full upon his handsome, but ravaged
and aging face. The memory of all that I had heard about him raced
across my mind in the short time before I felt him seize my hand, saw
his blue eyes boring into mine, heard him asking questions and stating
facts directly to me. For this was the man who sent the famous message
to General Joffre at the critical moment of the battle of the Marne,
that inasmuch as his left was crushed and his right thrown back, he
proposed to attack with his center. This was the man who later stemmed
the German tide at the Yser, and saved Calais and the Channel ports.
This was the man who has ever since commanded the Group of Armies of
the North, Belgian, English and French, driving the enemy inch by inch
through the Labyrinth and out of Artois. This man, the dashing _beau
ideal_ of the French army, the great strategist of the École de Guerre,
the nearest of all Frenchmen to approach the "man on horseback" picture
of the military hero, this man who was talking to me, and frankly
telling me of important things was General Foch.

I found myself answering his questions mechanically. I told him the
name of the paper that I represented, also that this was my third visit
to the battle front in Artois.

"Ah, yes. I know your paper," he said. "I read it. It has been one of
the great forums for the discussion of the war. You have printed both
sides of the question."

"But we are in favor of the Allies!" I interrupted.

"I know that also--that is why you have come a third time to Artois."

The next correspondent in the line was a Spaniard. Foch eyed him for a
moment. "I know you," he said. "I met you in Madrid six years ago." The
correspondent bowed with amazement at the general's memory. He passed
along the line, shaking hands. He stopped before a tall Dutchman, the
representative of a paper in Amsterdam.

"Ho! Ho!--the big representative of a little nation." The Dutchman
was poked in the ribs with the genial index finger of the General's
right hand. "Don't you know that if Germany wins, your country will
be swallowed up? You have developed a great commerce and valuable
industries. Germany will never be your friend. As of old, the big fish
will eat the little one." Then he swung back down the line, in my
direction.

"You have already been twice on my battle front. You have seen a great
difference between the first and second trips. You will see another
great change now. Perhaps you will come here still again--for the last
great offensive,--in Artois."

"What do you mean, _mon general_?" I asked.

The little man was silent for a moment, chewing the end of his cigar
and looking steadily, first at one and then at another of us. I shall
never forget his words. They revealed the cardinal necessity for waging
modern war.

"We have shown," he said slowly, "that we can go through them any time
we like. The great need is shells. The consumption of shells during
the last offensive was fantastic. But still we did not shoot enough."
He stopped, then said still more slowly: "The next time we will shoot
enough."

"And then, _mon general_?" asked the Spaniard. "And then?"

"And then," Foch replied, "and then we shall keep on advancing, and the
Germans will have to go away."

He again swung dramatically on his heel, until his back was turned to
us. "_Au revoir, Messieurs_," he said, and as we filed silently and
somewhat dazedly from the room, he was again standing before the huge
map, chewing the cigar, his shoulders thrust back, and his hands
clasped tightly behind him.

The young lieutenant climbed into our car. He explained that the
general had delegated him to the party. He went with us through the
trenches on succeeding days and said good-by only when we took the
train for Paris. He was a brilliant young officer and before the
war had been a foreign correspondent for _Le Temps_. For that great
newspaper he had "covered" campaigns in Asia and Africa. Now he
explained that he was to be official historian of the campaigns of
General Foch.

"I am the latest comer on his staff," the lieutenant said, "so there
was not much room for me and he has given me a holiday with you. He has
not a large staff, but the house as you see is very little. So I have
the room that a baby occupied before the war." The young man smiled and
looked down at his stalwart frame. "There was only a little cot and a
rocking horse in the room. I sleep on the floor. I shall keep the cot
for the baby."

This conversation took place on the last day of our trip, amidst the
ruins of Arras. The lieutenant talked continually of his general. He
explained how the general had told him in detail, and illustrated by
making a plan with matches, the great movement of troops during the
battle of the Marne that started the German retreat.

"The general broke all his own rules of war," he explained; "all those
rules that he taught so long in the École de Guerre. He moved an entire
division--half of the famous Forty-second Corps, while it was under
fire--he stretched out the remainder of the corps in a thin line across
its place, and moved the division behind his entire army, then flung
them against the Prussian Guard as it was beginning the attack on the
center. The moving of troops already engaged with the enemy had never
been done in any war before."

"But he staked his whole reputation--his military career on it?" I
asked.

The Lieutenant smiled. "Oh, yes," he replied, "but after he gave the
order, he went for a long walk in the country with a member of his
staff, who told me afterwards that not once was the war mentioned, and
they were gone three hours. All that time they talked about Spanish
art and Spanish music. When they returned to headquarters, the general
merely asked if there was any news, knowing well that perhaps he might
hear news which would make his name hated forever. He was told the
tide had turned and we were winning the battle. He merely grunted and
lighted a fresh cigar."

We all remained silent and then a number of desultory questions were
asked about the position of the troops. The lieutenant again explained
with matches. "The general showed it to me with matches, as I have
already shown." He spoke reverently, his voice almost a whisper. "And I
have those matches that the general used."

In Arras there was just one house left where we could take luncheon--a
fine old mansion belonging to a friend of our guide from the Great
General Staff. We brought our food and soldiers served it in a stately
room with a massive beamed ceiling and stags' antlers decorating the
walls. A tapestry concealed one wall. The officer pulled it aside to
show that we sat in only half a room; the other half had been entirely
destroyed by shells. From the cellar an orderly brought some of the
finest burgundy in France. There was a piano in one corner of the room.
When coffee was served, our Captain sat at the instrument and played
snatches of Schubert, Mozart and Beethoven.

The discussion at the table turned to music. At the same moment a
shell burst a few hundred yards down the street.

"Play Wagner," some one asked.

A member of our party who had been in Russia said:

"Do you permit German music? In Russia it is forbidden."

The officer replied:

"How stupid! Things which are beautiful remain beautiful," and he
played an air from "Tristan" as a shell went screaming overhead.

The young lieutenant, handsome and debonair, turned to me:

"This is fine," he said. "Here we are in the last house in Arras where
this scene is possible, and perhaps to-morrow this place will all be
gone--perhaps in ten minutes." He laughed and the piano was silenced by
the explosion of another shell.

We climbed into our automobiles and hurried out of town along a road
in plain sight of the German guns. I thought of what General Foch
had said: "We can go through them any time we desire." I got out my
military map and looked at the German line, slipping gradually from
the plateau of Artois into the plain of Douai--the plain that contains
Lens, Douai and Lille and sweeps away across the frontier of Belgium.
That was the place to which General Foch referred when he said the
Germans "must keep on going away." I turned to an officer beside me in
the car. I said: "When the French guns are sweeping that plain it means
the end of the Germans in Northern France?" He smiled and nodded, while
I offered a silent prayer that on that day I might be permitted by the
military authorities to make my fourth visit to Artois, to see the
decisive victory of French arms that I believe will take place there
under the command of General Foch, and that will help largely to bring
this war to a close.

CHAPTER XV

THE BATTLE OF THE LABYRINTH

This is a story about what, in the minds of the French military
authorities, ranks as the greatest battle in the western theater of
operations, following the battle of the Marne.

So far as I know the battle has never received an official name. The
French _communiqués_ have always vaguely referred to it as "operations
in the sector north of Arras."

I cannot minutely describe the conflict; no one can do that now. I can,
however, tell what I saw there when the Ministry of War authorized
me to accompany a special mission there, to which I was the only
foreigner accredited. I purpose to call this struggle the Battle of the
Labyrinth, for "labyrinth" is the name applied to the vast system of
entrenchments all through that region, and from which the Germans have
been literally blasted almost foot by foot by an extravagant use of
French melinite. This battle was of vital importance because a French
defeat at the Labyrinth would allow the Germans to sweep clear across
Northern France, cutting off all communication with England.

The battle of the Labyrinth really began in October, 1914, when General
de Maud'huy stopped the Prussian Guard before Arras with his motley
array of tired territorials, whom he had gathered together in a mighty
rush northward after the battle of the Marne. These crack Guards
regiments afterward took on the job at Ypres, while the Crown Prince
of Bavaria assumed the vain task of attempting to break de Maud'huy's
resistance and cut a more southward passage to the sea.

All winter de Maud'huy worried him, not seeking to make a big advance,
but contenting himself with the record of never having lost a single
trench. With the return of warm weather, just after the big French
advance in Champagne, this sector was chosen by Joffre as the place in
which to take the heart out of his enemy by the delivery of a mighty
blow.

The Germans probably thought that the French intended to concentrate
in the Vosges, as next door to Champagne; so they carted all their
poison gases there and to Ypres, where their ambition still maintains
ascendency over their good sense. But where the Germans think Joffre
is likely to strike is usually the place furthest from his thoughts.
Activities in the Arras sector were begun under the personal command
and direction of the Commander-in-Chief.

I doubt whether until the war is over it will be possible adequately to
describe the battle, or rather, the series of battles extending along
this particular front of about fifty miles. "Labyrinth" certainly is
the fittest word to call it. I always had a fairly accurate sense of
direction; but, it was impossible for me, standing in many places in
this giant battlefield, to say where were the Germans and where the
French, so confusing was the constant zigzag of the trenches. Sometimes
when I was positive that a furious cannonade coming from a certain
position was German, it turned out to be French. At other times, when I
thought I was safely going in the direction of the French, I was hauled
back by officers who told me I was heading directly into the German
line of fire. I sometimes felt that the German lines were on three
sides, and often I was quite correct. On the other hand, the French
lines often almost completely surround the German positions.

One could not tell from the nearness of the artillery fire whether it
was from friend or foe. Artillery makes three different noises; first,
the sharp report followed by detonations like thunder, when the shell
first leaves the gun; second, the rushing sound of the shell passing
high overhead; third, the shrill whistle, followed by the crash when
it finally explodes. In the Labyrinth the detonations which usually
indicated the French fire might be from the German batteries stationed
close by but unable to get our range, and firing at a section of the
French lines some miles away. I finally determined that when a battery
fired fast it was French; for the German fire became more intermittent
every day.

I shall try to give some idea of what this fighting looks like. Late
one afternoon, coming out of a trench into a green meadow, I suddenly
found myself backed against a mud-bank made of the dirt taken from the
trenches. We were just at the crest of a hill. In khaki clothes I was
of the same color as the mud-bank; so an officer told me I was in a
fairly safe position.

Modern war becomes a somewhat flat affair after the first impressions
have been dulled.

We blotted ourselves against our mud-bank, carefully adjusted our
glasses, turned them toward the valley before us, whence came the
sound of exploding shells, and watched a village dying in the sunset.
It was only about a thousand yards away--I didn't even ask whether
it was in French or German possession. A loud explosion, a roll of
dense black smoke, penetrated at once by the long, horizontal rays
of sun, revealing tumbling roofs and crumbling walls. A few seconds'
intermission; then another explosion; a public school in the main
street sagged suddenly in the center. With no pause came a succession
of explosions, and the building was prone upon the ground--a jagged
pile of broken stones.

We turned our glasses on the other end of the village. A column of
black smoke was rising where the church had caught fire. We watched it
awhile in silence. Ruins were getting very common. I swept the glasses
away from the hamlet altogether and pointed out over the distant fields
to the left.

"Where are the German trenches?" I asked the Major.

"I'll show you--just a moment!" he answered, and at the same time
signaling to a soldier squatting in the entrance to a trench near by,
he ordered the man to convey a message to the telephone station, which
connected with a "seventy-five" battery at our rear. I was on the point
of telling the officer not to bother about it. The words were on my
lips; then I thought: "Oh, never mind! I might as well know where the
trenches are, now that I have asked."

The soldier disappeared. "Watch!" said the officer. We peered intently
across the fields to the left. In less than a minute there were two
sharp explosions behind us, two puffs of smoke out on the horizon
before us, about a mile away.

"That's where they are!" the officer said. "Both shells went right into
them!"

Away to the right of the village, now reduced to ruins, was another
larger village; we squared around on our mud bank to look at that.
This town was more important; it was Neuville-Saint-Vaast, which was
occupied by both French and Germans, the former slowly retaking it,
house by house. We were about half a mile away. We could see little;
for strangely, in this business of house-to-house occupation, most of
the fighting is in the cellars. But I could well imagine what was going
on, for I had already walked through the ruins of Vermelles, another
town now entirely in French possession, but taken in the same fashion
after two months' dogged inch-by-inch advances.

So, when, looking at Neuville-Saint-Vaast, I suddenly heard a
tremendous explosion and saw a great mass of masonry and débris of all
descriptions flying high in the air, I knew just what had happened.
The French--for it is always the French who do it--had burrowed, sapped
and dug themselves laboriously, patiently, slowly, by torturous, narrow
underground routes from one row of houses under the foundations of the
next row of houses. There they had planted mines. The explosion I had
just witnessed was of a mine. Much of the débris I saw flying through
space had been German soldiers a few seconds before.

Before the smoke died away we heard a savage yell. That was the French
cry of victory; then we heard a rapid cracking of rifles. The French
had evidently advanced across the space between the houses to finish
the work of their mine. When one goes to view the work of these mines
afterward all that one sees is a great round, smooth hole in the
ground--sometimes 30 feet deep, often twice that in diameter. Above it
might have been either a château or a stable; unless one has an old
resident for guide it is impossible to know.

It takes many days and nights to prepare these mines. It takes correct
mathematical calculation to place them. It takes morale, judgment,
courage, and intelligence--this fighting from house to house. And yet
the French are called a frivolous people!

A cry from a soldier warned us of a German aeroplane directly
overhead; so we stopped gazing at Neuville-Saint-Vaast. A French
aeroplane soon appeared, and the German one made off rapidly. They
usually do, as most German war planes are too light to carry anything
but rifles and bombs; French machines, while slower, all have
mitrailleuses. A fight between them is unequal, and the inequality is
not easily overcome.

Four French machines were now circling above, and the German batteries
opened fire on them. It was a beautiful sight. There was not a cloud
in the sky, and the sun had not yet gone. We could not hear the shells
explode, but little feathery white clouds suddenly appeared as if some
giant invisible hand had just put them there--high up in the sky.
Another appeared; then another. Several dozen little white clouds were
vividly outlined against the blue before the French machines, all
untouched, turned back to their own lines.

The soldier with us suddenly threw himself face down on the ground; a
second after a German shell tore a hole in the field before us, less
than a hundred yards away. I asked the officer if we had been seen,
and if they were firing at us. He said he did not think so, but we
had perhaps better move. As a matter of fact, they were hunting the
battery that had so accurately shown us their trenches a short time
before.

Instead of returning to the point where we had left our motors by the
trench, we walked across an open field in a direction which I thought
was precisely the wrong one. High above us, continually, was a rushing
sound like giant wings. Occasionally, when a shell struck near us, we
heard the shrill whistling sound, and half a dozen times in the course
of the walk great holes were torn in our field. But artillery does not
cause fear easily; it is rifles that accomplish that. The sharp hissing
of the bullet resembles so much the sound of a spitting cat, seems so
personal--as if it was intended just for you.

Artillery is entirely impersonal; you know that the gunners do not
see you; that they are firing by arithmetic at a certain range; that
their shell is not intended for any one in particular. So you walk on,
among daisies and buttercups. You calculate the distance between you
and the bursting shell. You somehow feel that nothing will harm you.
You are not afraid; and if you are lucky, as we were, you will find
the automobiles waiting for you just over there beyond the brow of the
hill.

CHAPTER XVI

"WITH THE HONORS OF WAR"

It was just dawn when I got off a train at Gerbéviller, the little
"Martyr City" that hides its desolation as it hid its existence in the
foothills of the Vosges.

There was a dense fog. At 6 A.M. fog usually covers the valleys of
the Meurthe and Moselle. From the station I could see only a building
across the road. A gendarme demanded my credentials. I handed him the
_laisser-passer_ from the Quartier Général of the "First French Army,"
which controls all coming and going, all activity in that region.
The gendarme demanded to know the hour when I proposed to leave. I
told him. He said it would be necessary to have the permit "viséd for
departure" at the headquarters of the gendarmerie. He pointed to the
hazy outlines of another building just distinguishable through the fog.

This was proof that the town contained buildings--not just a building.
The place was not entirely destroyed, as I had supposed. I went down
the main street from the station, the fog enveloping me. I had letters
to the town officials, but it was too early in the morning to present
them. I would first get my own impressions of the wreck and ruin.

But I could see nothing on either hand as I stumbled along in the mud.
So I commented to myself that this was not as bad as some places I had
seen. I thought of the substantial station and the buildings across the
road--untouched by war. I compared Gerbéviller with places where there
is not even a station--where not even one house remains as the result
of "the day when the Germans came."

The road was winding and steep, dipping down to the swift little stream
that twists a turbulent passage through the town. The day was coming
fast but the fog remained white and impenetrable. After a few minutes
I began to see dark shapes on either side of the road. Tall, thin,
irregular shapes, some high, some low, but with outlines all softened,
toned down by the banks of white vapor.

I started across the road to investigate and fell across a pile of
jagged masonry on the sidewalk. Through the fog I could see tumbled
piles of bricks. The shapes still remained--specters that seemed
to move in the light from the valley. An odor that was not of the
freshness of the morning assailed me. I climbed across the walk. No
wall of buildings barred my path, but I mounted higher on the piles
of brick and stones. A heavy black shape was now at my left hand. I
looked up and in the shadow there was no fog. I could see a crumbled
swaying side of a house that was. The odor I noticed was that caused
by fire. Sticking from the wall I could see the charred wood joists
that once supported the floor of the second story. Higher, the lifting
fog permitted me to see the waving boughs of a tree that hung over
the house that was. At my feet, sticking out of a pile of bricks and
stones, were the twisted iron fragments of a child's bed. I climbed out
into the sunshine.

I was standing in the midst of a desolation and a silence that were
profound. There was nothing there that lived, except a few fire-blacked
trees that stuck up here and there in the shelter of broken walls. Now
I understood the meaning of the spectral shapes. They were nothing but
the broken walls of the other houses that were. They were all that
remained of nine-tenths of Gerbéviller.

I wandered along to where the street turned sharply. There the ground
pitched straight to the little river. Half of a house stood there,
unscathed by fire; it was one of those unexplainable freaks that often
occur in great catastrophes. Even the window glass was intact. Smoke
was coming from the chimney. I went to the opposite side and there
stood an old woman looking out toward the river, brooding over the ruin
stretching below her.

"You are lucky," I said. "You still have your home."

She turned a toothless countenance toward me and threw out her hands. I
judged her to be well over seventy. It wasn't her home, she explained.
Her home was "là-bas"--pointing vaguely in the distance. She had lived
there fifty years--now it was burned. Her son's house, he had saved
thirty years to be able to call it his own, was also gone; but then her
son was dead, so what did it matter? Yes, he was shot on the day the
Germans came. He was ill, but they killed him. Oh, yes, she saw him
killed. When the Germans went away she came to his house and built a
fire in the stove. It was very cold.

And why were the houses burned? No; it was not the result of
bombardment. Gerbéviller was not bombarded until after the houses were
burned. They were burned by the Germans systematically. They went
from house to house with their torches and oil and pitch. They did not
explain why they burned the houses, but it was because they were angry.

The old woman paused a moment, and a faint flicker of a smile showed in
the wrinkles about her eyes. I asked her to continue her story.

"You said because they were angry," I prompted. The smile broadened.
Oh, yes, they were angry, she explained. They did not even make the
excuse that the villagers fired upon them. They were just angry through
and through. And it was all because of those seventy-five French
chasseurs who held the bridge.

Some one called to her from the house. She hobbled to the door.
"Any one can tell you about the seventy-five chasseurs," she said,
disappearing within.

I went on down the road and stood upon the bridge over the swift little
river. It was a narrow, tiny bridge only wide enough for one wagon to
pass. Two roads from the town converged there, the one over which I
had passed and another which formed a letter "V" at the junction with
the bridge. Across the river only one road led away from the bridge
and it ran straight up a hill, when it turned suddenly into the broad
national highway to Lunéville, about five miles away.

One house remained standing at the end of the bridge, nearest the town.
Its roof was gone, and its walls bore the marks of hundreds of bullets,
but it was inhabited by a little old man of fifty, who came out to
talk with me. He was the village carpenter. His house was burned, so
he had taken refuge in the little house at the bridge. During the time
the Germans were there he had been a prisoner, but they forgot him the
morning the French army arrived. Everybody was in such a hurry, he
explained.

I asked him about the seventy-five chasseurs at the bridge.

Ah, yes, we were then standing on the site of their barricade. He would
tell me about it, for he had seen it all from his house half way up the
hill.

The chasseurs were first posted across the river on the road to
Lunéville, and when the Germans approached, early in the morning, they
fell back to the bridge, which they had barricaded the night before.
It was the only way into Gerbéviller, so the chasseurs determined to
fight. They had torn up the street and thrown great earthworks across
one end of the bridge. Additional barricades were thrown up on the
two converging streets, part way up the hill, behind which they had
mitrailleuses which could sweep the road at the other end of the bridge.

About a half mile to the south a narrow footbridge crossed the river,
only wide enough for one man. It was a little rustic affair that ran
through the grounds of the Château de Gerbéviller, which faced the
river only a few hundred yards below the main bridge. It was a very
ancient château, built in the twelfth century and restored in the
seventeenth century. It was a royal château of the Bourbons. In it once
lived the great François de Montmorency, Duc de Luxembourg and Marshal
of France. Now it belonged to the Marquise de Lamberty, a cousin of the
King of Spain.

I interrupted, for I wanted to hear about the chasseurs. I gave the
little old man a cigarette. He seized it eagerly--so eagerly that I
also handed him a cigar. He fondled that cigar for a moment and then
placed it in an inside pocket. It was a very cheap and very bad French
cigar, for I was in a part of the country that has never heard of
Havanas, but to the little old man it was something precious. "I will
keep it for Sunday," he said.

I then got him back to the seventy-five chasseurs. It was just eight
o'clock in the morning--a beautiful sunshiny morning--when the German
column appeared around the bend in the road which we could see across
the bridge, and which joined the highway from Lunéville. There were
twelve thousand in that first column. One hundred and fifty thousand
more came later. A band was playing "Deutschland über Alles," and the
men were singing. The closely-packed front ranks of infantry broke into
the goose step as they came in sight of the town. It was a wonderful
sight; the sun glistened on their helmets; they marched as though on
parade right down almost to the opposite end of the bridge.

Then came the command to halt. For a moment there was a complete
silence. The Germans, only a couple of hundred yards from the
barricade, seemed slowly to consider the situation. The Captain of the
chasseurs, from a shelter behind the very little house that was still
standing--and where his men up the two roads could see him--softly
waved his hand.

Crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack-crack! The bullets from
the mitrailleuses whistled across the bridge into the front ranks of
the "Deutschland über Alles" singers, while the men behind the bridge
barricade began a deadly rifle fire.

Have you ever heard a mitrailleuse? It is just like a telegraph
instrument, with its insistent clickety click-click-click, only it is a
hundred times as loud. Indeed I have been told by French officers that
it has sometimes been used as a telegraph instrument, so accurately can
its operator reel out its hundred and sixty shots a minute.

On that morning at the Gerbéviller barricade, however, it went faster
than the telegraph. These men on the converging roads just shifted
their range slightly and poured bullets into the next ranks of infantry
and so on back along the line, until Germans were dropping by the dozen
at the sides of the straight little road. Then the column broke ranks
wildly and fled back into the shelter of the road from Lunéville.

A half hour later a detachment of cavalry suddenly rounded the corner
and charged straight for the barricade. The seventy-five were ready for
them. Some of them got half way across the bridge and then tumbled into
the river. Not one got back around the corner of the road to Lunéville.

There was another half hour of quiet, and then from the Lunéville road
a battery of artillery got into action. Their range was bad, so far as
any achievement against the seventy-five was concerned, so they turned
their attention to the château, which they could easily see from their
position across the river. The first shell struck the majestic tower of
the building and shattered it. The next smashed the roof, the third hit
the chapel--and so continued the bombardment until flames broke out to
complete the destruction.

Of course the Germans could not know that the château was empty, that
its owner was in Paris and both her sons fighting in the French army.
But they had secured the military advantage of demolishing one of the
finest country houses in France, with its priceless tapestries, ancient
marbles and heirlooms of the Bourbons. A howl of German glee was heard
by the seventy-five chasseurs crouching behind their barricades. So
pleased were the invaders with their achievement that next they bravely
swung out a battery into the road leading to the bridge, intending to
shell the barricades. The Captain of chasseurs again waved his hand.
Every man of the battery was killed before the guns were in position.
It took an entire company of infantry--half of them being killed in
the action--to haul those guns back into the Lunéville road, thus to
clear the way for another advance.

From then on until 1 o'clock in the afternoon there were more infantry
attacks, all failing as lamentably as the first. The seventy-five
were holding off the 12,000. At the last attack they let the Germans
advance to the entrance of the bridge. They invited them with taunts
to advance. Then they poured in their deadly fire, and as the Germans
broke and fled they permitted themselves a cheer. Up to this time not
one chasseur was killed. Only four were wounded.

Shortly after 1 o'clock the German artillery wasted a few more shells
on the ruined château and the chasseurs could see a detachment crawling
along the river bank in the direction of the narrow footbridge that
crossed through the château park a half mile below. The Captain of
the chasseurs sent one man with a mitrailleuse to hold the bridge. He
posted himself in the shelter of a large tree at one end. In a few
minutes about fifty Germans appeared. They advanced cautiously on the
bridge. The chasseur let them get half way over before he raked them
with his fire. The water below ran red with blood.

The Germans retreated for help and made another attack an hour later
with the same result. By 4 o'clock, when the lone chasseur's ammunition
was exhausted, it is estimated that he had killed 175 Germans, who made
five desperate rushes to take the position, which would have enabled
them to make a flank attack on the seventy-four still holding the main
bridge. When his ammunition was gone--which occurred at the same time
as the ammunition at the main bridge was exhausted--this chasseur with
the others succeeded in effecting a retreat to a main body of cavalry.
If he still lives--this modern Horatius at the bridge--he remains an
unnamed hero in the ranks of the French army, unhonored except in the
hearts of those few of his countrymen who know.

During the late hours of the afternoon aeroplanes flew over the
chasseurs' position, thus discovering to the Germans how really weak
were the defenses of the town, how few its defenders. Besides the
ammunition was gone. But for eight hours--from eight in the morning
until four in the afternoon--the seventy-five had held the 12,000.

Had that body of 12,000 succeeded earlier the 150,000 Germans that
advanced the next day might have been able to fall on the French right
flank during a critical battle of the war. The total casualties of the
chasseurs were three killed, three captured, and six wounded.

The little old man and I had walked to the entrance of the château park
before he finished his story. It was still too early for breakfast. I
thanked him and told him to return to his work in the little house by
the bridge. I wanted to explore the château at leisure.

I entered the place--what was left of it. Most of the walls were
standing. Walls built in the twelfth century do not break easily, even
with modern artillery. But the modern roof and seventeenth century
inner walls were all demolished. Not a single article of furniture
or decoration remained. But the destruction showed some of the same
freaks--similar to that little house left untouched by fire on the
summit of the hill.

For instance, the Bourbon coat of arms above the grand staircase was
untouched, while the staircase itself was just splintered bits of
marble. On another fragment of the wall there still hung a magnificent
stag's antlers. Strewed about in the corners I saw fragments of vases
that had been priceless. Even the remnants were valuable. In the ruined
music room I found a piece of fresh, clean music (an Alsatian waltz),
lying on the mantelpiece. I went out to the front of the building,
where the great park sweeps down to the edge of the river. An old
gardener in one of the side paths saw me. We immediately established
cordial relations with a cigarette.

He told me how, after the chasseurs retreated beyond the town, the
Germans--reduced over a thousand of their original number by the
activities of the day--swept over the barricades of the bridge and into
the town. Yes, the old woman I had talked with was right about it. They
were very angry. They were ferociously angry at being held eight hours
at that bridge by a force so ridiculously small.

The first civilians they met they killed, and then they began to fire
the houses. One young man, half-witted, came out of one of the houses
near the bridge. They hanged him in the garden behind the house. Then
they called his mother to see. A mob came piling into the château
headed by four officers. All the furniture and valuables that were not
destroyed they piled into a wagon and sent back to Lunéville. Of the
gardener who was telling me the story they demanded the keys of the
wine cellars. No; they did not injure him. They just held him by the
arms while several dozen of the soldiers spat in his face.

While the drunken crew were reeling about the place, one of them
accidentally stumbled upon the secret underground passage leading to
the famous grottoes. These grottoes and the underground connection
of the château were built in the fifteenth century. They are a half
mile away, situated only half above ground, the entrance looking out
on a smooth lawn that extends to the edge of the river. Several giant
trees, the trunks of which are covered with vines, half shelter the
entrance, which is also obscured by climbing ivy. The interior was one
of the treasures of France. The vaulted ceilings were done in wonderful
mosaic; the walls decorated with marbles and rare sea shells. In every
nook were marble pedestals and antique statuary, while the fountain in
the center, supplied from an underground stream, was of porphyry inlaid
with mosaic.

The Germans looked upon it with appreciative eyes. But they were still
very angry. Its destruction was a necessity of war. It could not be
destroyed by artillery because it was half under ground and screened
by the giant trees. But it could be destroyed by picks and axes. A
squad of soldiers was detailed to the job. They did it thoroughly. The
gardener took me there to see. Not a scrap of the mosaic remained.
The fountain was smashed to bits. A headless Venus and a smashed and
battered Adonis were lying prone upon the ground.

The visitors of the château and environs afterward joined their
comrades in firing the town. Night had come. Also across the bridge
waited the 150,000 reenforcements, come from Lunéville. The five
hundred of the two thousand inhabitants who remained were herded to
the upper end of the town near the station. That portion was not to be
destroyed because the German General would make his headquarters there.

The inhabitants were to be given a treat. They were to witness the
entrance of the hundred and fifty thousand--the power and might of
Germany was to be exhibited to them. So while the flames leaped high
from the burning city, reddening the sky for miles, while old men
prayed, while women wept, while little children whimpered, the sound of
martial music was heard down the street near the bridge. The infantry,
packed in close formation, the red light from the fire shining on
their helmets, were doing the goose step up the main street to the
station--the great German army had entered the city of Gerbéviller with
the honors of war.

CHAPTER XVII

SISTER JULIE, CHEVALIER OF THE LEGION OF HONOR

A little round apple dumpling sort of woman in nun's costume was
bobbing a curtsy to me from the doorway. In excited French she begged
me to be seated. For I was "Monsieur l'Américain" who had come to visit
Gerbéviller, the little community nestling in the foothills of the
Vosges, that has suffered quite as much from Germans as any city, even
those in Belgium. It was her "grand pleasure" that I should come to
visit her.

I stared for a moment in amazement. I could scarcely realize that this
plump, bobbing little person was the famous Sister Julie. I had pulled
every wire I could discover among my acquaintances at the Foreign
Office and the Ministry of War to be granted the privilege of making
the trip into that portion of the forbidden "zone of military activity"
where Sister Julie had made her name immortal. I carried a letter
from one of the great officials of the Quai d'Orsay, addressed to the
little nun in terms of reverence that one might use toward his mother.
He signed himself "Yours, with great affection," after craving that
she would grant me audience. And there she was, with the letter still
unopened in her hand, telling me how glad she was to see me.

I confess I expected a different type of woman. I thought a different
type necessary to handle the German invaders in the fashion Sister
Julie handled them at Gerbéviller. I imagined a tall, commanding
woman--like Madame Macherez, Mayor of Soissons--would enter the little
sitting room where I had been waiting that sunny morning.

In that little sitting room the very atmosphere of war is not
permitted. There is too much close at hand, where nine-tenths of the
city lies in ashes as a result of the German visit. So in that room
there is nothing but comfort, peace and good cheer. Potted geraniums
fill the window boxes, pretty chintz curtains cover the glass. Where
bullets had torn furrows in the plaster and drilled holes in the
woodwork the wounds were concealed as far as possible. It was hard
to realize that the deep, rumbling roars that shook the house while
we talked were caused by a Franco-German artillery duel only a few
kilometers away.

[Illustration: SISTER JULIE IN THE DOOR OF HER HOSPITAL]

The little woman drew out chairs from the center table and we seated
ourselves, she talking continuously of how glad she was that one from
"that great America" should want to see her and know about her work.
Ah! her work, there was still so much to do!

She got up and toddled to the window, drawing aside the chintz
curtains. "Poor Gerbéviller!" she sighed as we looked out over the
desolate waste of burned houses. "My poor, poor Gerbéviller!"

Tears stood in her brown eyes and fell upon the wide white collar of
the religious order that she wore. She brushed them aside quickly
and turned to the table, again all smiles and dimples. Yes! dimples,
for although Sister Julie is small, she is undeniably plump. She has
dimples in her cheeks and in her chin--chins I might say. She even has
dimples on the knuckles of her hands, after the fashion of babies.
Her face is round and rosy. Her voice low and mellow. She looks only
about forty of her sixty years--a woman who seems to have taken life
as something that is always good. Evil and Germans seem never to have
entered her door.

Then I remembered what this woman had done; how all France is talking
about her and is proud of her. How the President of the Republic went
to the little, ruined city, accompanied by the Presidents of the Senate
and the Chamber of Deputies, and a great military entourage, just
to hang the jeweled cross of the Legion of Honor about her neck. I
wondered what they thought when she bobbed her curtsy in the doorway.

For it took a war to distinguish this little woman from the crowd.
Outside her order she was unknown before the Germans came to France.
But it did not matter to her. She just went placidly and smilingly on
her way--"doing the Lord's work," as she told me. Then the day arrived
when the Germans came, and this little round apple dumpling woman blew
up. That is just the way it was. I could tell it from the way her
brown eyes flashed when she told the tale to me. She was angry through
and through just from the telling. She just exploded when the Germans
entered her front door. And then her name was written indelibly on the
scroll of fame as one of the great heroines of the war.

The Germans wanted bread, did they?--such was the way the story
began--well, what did they mean by coming to her for it? They burned
the baker's shop, didn't they, on the way through the town? Well,
how did they expect her to furnish them bread? Her bread was for her
people. Yes, she had a good supply of it. But the Germans could find
their own bread.

The German officer pointed a revolver at her head. She reached out her
hand and struck it from his grasp. Then she waved a plump finger under
his nose. Her voice was no longer low and mellow. It was commanding and
austere. How dared he point a revolver at her--a "religieuse," a nun?
He could get right out of her house, too,--and get out quick.

The officer's heavy jaw dropped in astonishment. He backed his way
along the narrow hall, not stopping to pick up his weapon, and kicking
backward the file of soldiers that crowded behind him. At the door
Sister Julie put a detaining hand on his shoulder.

"You are an officer," she said--the man understood French perfectly.
"Well, while your soldiers are setting fire to the town, you just tell
them to keep out of this end of the street. This is my house; it is for
me and the five Sisters with me. Now we have made it a hospital. You
barbarians just keep out of here with your burning."

Barbarians! The officer raised his fist to strike. Something that was
not of heaven made Sister Julie's eyes deadly black. The man lowered
his fist, quailing. "The devil!" he said. Yes, barbarians! She almost
shouted the word at him--and it was quite understood that his men were
not to burn the hospital or the houses adjoining.

The crowd cleared out of the house rapidly and the breadth of Sister
Julie's form filled the doorway. It was night and the burning was
progressing rapidly, the Germans methodically firing every house.
Some soldiers came to the house next to the hospital, and broke open
the door. Sister Julie left her position in the hospital doorway and
advanced upon them.

"Go away from here," she ordered. "Don't you dare set that house afire.
It is next to the hospital. If it burns the hospital will burn, too. So
go away--your officers have said that you are not to burn this end of
the street."

The soldiers gazed at her stupidly. She advanced upon them, waving her
arms. Several, after staring a moment, suddenly made the sign of the
cross, and the entire party disappeared down the street to continue
their destruction elsewhere.

The little nun then left her post at the door. She went to see that
her food supplies were safe. She had a conference with the other
Sisters, and visited the beds of the thirteen wounded that the
house already contained. Six of the wounded were of the band of
seventy-five chasseurs who had held the Gerbéviller bridge against
the Germans--twelve thousand Germans for eight hours--until their
ammunition gave out. The others were civilians who were shot when the
Germans finally entered the town.

After visiting her wounded, Sister Julie went out the back door of
the house accompanied by two of the Sisters. The three carried large
clothes baskets, kitchen knives, and a hatchet. Through the gardens and
behind the burning houses they passed down the hill to the part of the
city near the river, which was already smoldering in ashes. They went
into the ruined barns, where the cows and horses were all burned alive.
I was shown a bleached white bone, a souvenir of one of the cows.

With the hatchet and knives they secured enough bones and flesh from
the dead animals to fill the two great baskets. Then they climbed
painfully up the hill, behind the burning buildings, to the back door
of their home. Water was drawn from their well, and a great fire built
in the old-fashioned chimney in the kitchen. The enormous kettle was
filled with the water, the meat and the bones, and soon the odor from
gallons of soup penetrated the outer door to the street. Again a
German officer headed a delegation into the hall.

"You have food here," he announced to Sister Julie.

"We have," she snapped back. She was very busy. She waved the butcher
knife under his nose. She then told him that the soup was for the
people of Gerbéviller and for her wounded. She expressed no regret that
there would be none left for Germans.

The officer said that the twelve thousand who entered Gerbéviller that
afternoon was the advance column. The main body, with the commissariat,
was coming shortly. Meanwhile, they were hungry. They would take Sister
Julie's supply. They would take it--eh? Take it? They would only do
that over her dead body. Meanwhile, they would leave her kitchen
instantly. They did--the butcher knife making ferocious passes behind
them on their way to the door. Sister Julie was still doing her "work
for the Lord."

She then ordered all the wash tubs filled with water and brought
inside the hall. The fire was coming into the street. Dense smoke
was everywhere. Even the Germans now seemed willing to save that
particular part of Gerbéviller. It was the portion near the railway
station and the telegraph. A substantial building near the _gare_ would
make an excellent headquarters for their General, who was due to arrive
shortly. The civilians (only a few of the 2,000 inhabitants remained)
were all herded into a field just on the outskirts of the town. Sister
Julie, with Sister Hildegarde, sallied forth with their soup, and fed
them. The next day she would see that the Germans allowed them to come
to the hospital for more.

When she returned, a number of soldiers who had discovered a wine
cellar were reeling up the street. They stopped in front of the
hospital, but turned their attention to the house opposite. They would
burn it. It had evidently been forgotten. They broke into the place,
and in a moment flames could be seen through the lower windows.

Sister Julie called to the soldiers. They stared at her from the middle
of the road. She motioned for them to come to her. They came. She told
them to follow her into the hall. There she showed them the wash tubs
full of water. They were to carry those tubs across the street and put
out the fire they had started, and which would endanger the hospital.
This was according to orders given by the officers. After putting out
the fire they were to bring the tubs back and refill them from the well
in the back yard. The work was too heavy for the Sisters.

When these orders were obeyed, Sister Julie carried a little camp
chair to the front steps and began a vigil that lasted all night long
and half the next day. She saw the great German army of a hundred and
fifty thousand march by, the band playing "Deutschland über Alles," the
infantry doing the goose step as they passed the burning houses. Four
times during the night the tubs of water in the hall were emptied and
refilled when the flames crept close to her house.

At dawn next morning four officers approached her where she sat upon
the doorstep. One of them informed her that, inasmuch as she was
concealing French soldiers with arms inside the house, they intended to
make a search.

"You are telling a lie," she informed them calmly, and did not
budge. Two of the officers drew revolvers. Sister Julie sniffed
contemptuously. The first officer again spoke. But his tone altered. It
was less bumptious. He said that, inasmuch as the house had been spared
the flames, at least an investigation was necessary.

Sister Julie arose and started inside. The officers stopped her. Two
of them would lead the way. The other two would follow. The pair, with
drawn revolvers, entered first and tiptoed cautiously down the hall.
Then came the little nun. The second pair drew poniards and brought
up the rear. She directed them to the rooms on the first floor, the
sitting room, dining room and the kitchen, where Sister Hildegarde was
busy over the fire. Then they went upstairs to the beds of the wounded.
The first officer insisted that the covers be drawn back from each
bed to make sure that the occupants were really wounded. Sister Julie
remained silent at the door. As they turned to leave, she said with
sarcasm, but with dignity: "You have seen. You know that I have spoken
the truth. We are six Sisters of Mercy. Our work is to care for the
sick. We will care for your German wounded, as well as our French. You
may bring them here."

That morning the invaders began battle with the French, who had
finished their entrenchments some kilometers on the other side of
the town. At night the Germans accepted Sister Julie's invitation,
and brought two hundred and fifty-eight wounded to her house. They
completely filled the place. They were placed in rows in the sitting
room, the dining room, and the hall. They were even in the kitchen and
in the attic. The weather was fine and they were stretched in rows
in the garden. The few other houses undestroyed by fire were also
turned into hospitals, and for fourteen days Sister Julie and her five
assistants scarcely slept. They just passed the time giving medicine
and food and nursing wounds. By the fourteenth day, the French had made
a considerable advance and were dropping shells into the town, so the
Germans decided to take away their own wounded.

During all this time daily rations were served to the civilian
survivors, on orders secured by Sister Julie at the German
headquarters. The civilians were ill-treated, but they were fed. Sister
Julie gave me concrete instances of outrage. Many were killed for no
reason whatever; some were sent as hostages to Germany. During fourteen
days they were herded in the field. Afterward ten were found dead,
with their hands manacled. Sister Julie told me one instance of an
old woman, a paralytic, seventy-eight years old, who was taken out in
an automobile to show the various wine cellars among the neighboring
farms. The old woman had not been out of her house for years and did
not know the wine cellars. So the Germans killed her. Sister Julie
went out at night and found her body. She and Sister Hildegarde buried
it.

On the morning of the fifteenth day, the battle was fiercer than ever.
The French had taken a hill near the outskirts, and mitrailleuse
bullets frequently whistled through the streets. Several times they
entered the windows of Sister Julie's house and buried themselves in
the walls. But none of the Sisters was hurt.

There was a lull in the fighting for the next few days. The French
were very busy at something--the Germans knew not what. They became
more insolent than ever, and drank of the wine they had stored at the
_gare_. In the ruins of the church they found the grilled iron strong
box, where the priest, who had been sent to Germany as a hostage, had
locked up the golden communion vessels, afterward giving the key to
Sister Julie. The lock was of steel, and very old and strong. They
tried to break it, but failed. They came to Sister Julie for the key,
and she sent them packing. "I lied to them," she said softly. "I told
them I didn't have the key."

Through the grilled iron of the box the soldiers could see the vessels.
They were of fine gold, and very ancient. They were given to the
church in the fifteenth century by René, Duc de Lorraine and King of
Jerusalem. The strong box was riveted to the foundations of the church
with bands of steel and could not be carried away. They shot at the
lock, to break it. But it did not break. Instead the bullets penetrated
the box, a half dozen tearing ragged holes in the vessels. The wine
finally became of greater interest than the gold, and the soldiers went
away. That night Sister Julie went alone into the ruins of the church,
opened the box, and took the vessels out.

She paused in her story, got up from her chair, and unlocked a cabinet
in the wall. From it she brought the vessels wrapped in a white cloth.
I took the great golden goblet in my hands and saw the holes of the
German bullets. Sister Julie sat silent, looking out through the chintz
curtains into the street. Then she smiled.

She was thinking of the eighth morning after the wounded had been taken
away. That was the happiest morning of her life, she told me. At 5
o'clock that morning, just after daybreak, Sister Hildegarde had come
to her bed to tell her that the Germans stationed near the _gare_ in
that part of the town all seemed to be going to the ruined part, near
the river, in the opposite direction from the French. A few minutes
later Sister Julie got up and looked from the window. Then she almost
fell down the stairs in her rush to get out of doors. About fifty yards
up the street was a watering trough. Seated on horseback before that
trough, watering their animals, laughing and smoking cigarettes, were
six French dragoons.

"I cried at the blessed sight of them," she said. "They sat there, so
gay, so debonair, as only Frenchmen know how to sit on horses." Sister
Julie hurried to them. They smiled at her and saluted as she approached.

"But do you know the Germans are here?" she anxiously inquired. "You
may be taken prisoners."

"Oh, no, we won't," they answered in chorus. "There are thirty thousand
more of us just behind--due here in about two minutes. The whole French
army is on the advance."

Then came thirty thousand. After the thirty thousand came more
thousands. All that day the street echoed to the feet of marching
Frenchmen. Their faces were dark and terrible when they saw what the
Germans had done. Most of the day Sister Julie sat on her doorstep
and wept for joy. Since that morning not a German has been seen in
Gerbéviller.

Sister Julie ceased her story and wiped the tears that had been running
in streams down her cheeks. We heard the rattle of a drum outside
the window. It was the signal of the town crier with news for the
population. Sister Julie opened the window and looked out. It was the
announcement of the meeting to be held that afternoon, a meeting that
she had arranged for discussion of plans for rebuilding the town.
Five hundred of the population had returned. There was so much work
to do. The streets must be cleared of the débris. The sagging walls
must be torn down and new buildings erected. It would be done quickly,
immediately almost; aid was forthcoming from many quarters. The new
houses would be better than the old. The streets were to be wide and
straight, not narrow and crooked. Gerbéviller was to arise from her
ashes modern and improved. And only a few miles away the cannon still
roared and thundered.

I asked her about the Cross of the Legion of Honor given her by
President Poincaré. I asked why she did not wear it. A pleased flush
deepened the color in her rosy cheeks. I shall always remember the
grace and dignity of her answer.

"I do not wear it because it was not meant for me alone," she said. "It
was given to the women of France who have done their duty."

"Not the little red ribbon of the order," I persisted. "You should pin
that on your dress."

But Sister Julie shook her head. She is a "religieuse," she explained.
Nuns do not wear decorations. They are doing the work of the Lord.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE SILENT CANNON

On a hill commanding a valley stretching away toward the Rhine is a
dense pine forest. From its edge I looked far across the frontier of
Germany.

In a little clearing a French artillery Major came to meet me and my
guide. Then we walked for miles, it seemed, through dense shade over
paths thick with needles, until we came upon an artillery encampment.
From the conversation between my guide--a Captain of the General
Staff--and the artillery Major I learned that we were about to see
something new in cannon.

I am always eager to see something new in cannon. Since my visit to
the great factories at Le Creusot, when I was permitted to cable
carefully censored descriptions of the new giant guns France was
preparing against Germany, I have always been looking for these guns
in operation. So, when I saw that here was no ordinary battery, I
began the molding of phrases to use in cabling my impressions. I did
not realize then that I was to have the most poignant illustration
since the war began of the mighty fundamental differences between the
Teutonic and Latin civilizations.

On a gentle slope, where the tops of pine trees below came up level
with the brow of the hill, there was a great excavation, such as
might have been dug for the foundations of a château. The front part,
facing the valley, was all screened with barricades and covered with
evergreens.

We entered the excavation from the rear, down winding steps lined on
either side with towering trees. These steps were all concrete, as was
also the entire bottom of the excavation. The air was very fresh and
cool as we descended. Up above the breeze gently swayed the trees,
which closed over us so densely, dimming the daylight. I was reminded
of a dairy I knew on an up-State farm in New York. I almost looked for
jars of butter in the dim recess of the cool concrete cellar. I could
almost catch the odor of fresh milk.

But in the center of our cavern was a huge piece of mechanism that I
recognized as the "something new in cannon." Above the great steel
base the long, ugly barrel stretched many yards through an aperture in
front, and was covered over with evergreens. The Major described the
gun in detail--its size, range and weight of its projectiles.

I walked to the front of the aperture to look at the barrel lying
horizontally on the tops of the pine trees growing on the slope below.
The branches had been carefully cut from the higher trees to give a
view over the valley. I got out my field glasses and fixed them on the
horizon many miles away--just how many miles away I am also not allowed
to say. For a long time I studied that horizon just where it melted
into mist. Then the sun's rays brightened it, and I could see more
clearly.

"Looks like a city out there," I said aloud.

"It is," said the artillery Major behind me.

I looked again and could dimly make out what appeared to be the spires
of churches.

"Look a little to the right; you can see a much larger building over
there," the Major said.

I looked, and a huge gray mass loomed out of the mist.

"That's a cathedral," he said.

I put the glasses down and walked around to the open breech of the
giant cannon, the mechanism of which another officer was explaining. He
gave a lever a twist, and the huge barrel slowly moved from right to
left over the tops of the pine trees.

The officer was saying in answer to a question:

"No, we are quiet now. We are just waiting."

"Waiting for what?" I asked.

"Oh, just waiting until everything is ready."

"Then what will you do?"

"Oh, destroy the forts, I hope. This fellow ought to account for
several," and he patted the side of the barrel.

"Will you destroy the city?" I asked.

"What for?" he asked. "What good would that do? If we expect to
occupy a city we do not want it destroyed. Besides,"--he shrugged his
shoulders expressively--"we are not Germans."

I walked up to the gun and stared into the breech. I adjusted my
glasses again and through them looked down the barrel. Out on the
horizon I could see the huge gray mass that the Major said was a
cathedral. The gun was trained directly upon it--this silent gun.

"It could hit that cathedral now," I thought to myself. Then I thought
of the Cathedral of Rheims. Again I stared through the glasses into the
barrel of the gun. The light was better now, and the tops of the spires
were visible above the bulky gray mass.

It was the Cathedral of Metz.

CHAPTER XIX

D'ARTAGNAN AND THE SOUL OF FRANCE

I met d'Artagnan in a forest of Lorraine. Perhaps Athos, Porthos
and Aramis were there too, somewhere in the shadows. I saw only
d'Artagnan and talked with him as long as it takes to tell the story.
I had forgotten how he looked to Dumas père, but I knew him at once
by his bearing and his spirit. His swashbuckling manners are just as
arrogantly gay now in the forest of Lorraine and in the trenches of
the Vosges as they were long ago in old Paris and on the highroad. He
swaggers just as buoyantly with the "poilus" of the Republic as with
the musketeers of the Cardinal.

D'Artagnan is a captain now; when I met him he was attached to the
staff of a General of Brigade. He is always your beau ideal of a man.
He looks just what he is--a fine French soldier.

My first glimpse of him was from the automobile in which I was riding
with an officer from the Great General Staff whose business it was to
conduct press correspondents to the front. D'Artagnan was walking
towards us on the lonely forest road, and signaled with a long
alpenstock for our driver to stop. He wore the regulation blue uniform,
with the three gold stripes of a captain on his sleeve. He had no
sword. I find that swords are no longer the fashion with the "working
officers" at the front. They are in the way.

Our car slid to a stop. D'Artagnan's free hand came to salute. It was
an imposing salute--one that only d'Artagnan could have made. His heels
snapped together with a gallant click of spurs; his arm swept up in a
semi-circle from his body; his rigid fingers touched the visor of his
steel helmet--one of the new battle helmets, very light, strong and
painted horizon blue to match the uniform. The chin strap was of heavy
black leather instead of the brass chain of ante-bellum parade helmets.

D'Artagnan, from the center of the road, roared out his name and
mission. His name, in his present reincarnation, is known throughout
the French army, in fact throughout France. It is known to the Germans
too, but correspondents are not permitted to give the names of their
officers until the war is over. Anyway I immediately recognized him as
d'Artagnan.

His mission, announced with gusto, was to guide us along the lines
held by his brigade. He leaped to our running-board and ordered our
chauffeur to advance.

He was an impressive figure, even clinging to the side of the jolting
car. His body lithe and powerful; his hands lean and strong; his face,
under the visor of the helmet, was d'Artagnan's own. A forehead high
and bronzed. Eyes blue and both merry and ferocious. Cheeks high but
rounded. His hair, only a little of it showing under the helmet, was
black, but just enough grizzled to proclaim him in middle age. His
mustache--it was a mustache of dreams and imagination--his mustache
stuck out inches beyond the cheeks, and was wondrously twisted and
curled.

His medals proved him the survivor of many hard campaigns. Most
officers when at the front wear only the ribbons of their decorations,
if they have any, and leave the medals at home. But not d'Artagnan. He
wore all of his medals, in a blazing row across his chest. And he had
all that were possible for any man in his position to win. First came
the African Colonial medal, then the medal for service in Indo-China.
Next was the Médaille de Maroc. In the center was the Legion of Honor
and then the Croix de Guerre, with four stars affixed, indicating the
number of times during the present war, d'Artagnan has been mentioned
in despatches for courage under fire. Finally came the only foreign
medal--the Russian Cross of St. George--given by the Czar during the
present war to a very few Frenchmen, and only "for great bravery."

As d'Artagnan again stopped the car and we climbed out into the road,
which had narrowed to a forest path, my companion pointed to the medals.

"Our captain is a professional soldier, you see," he said. "He has
fought all his life--didn't just come back when his class was called
for this war."

But I already knew that. How could d'Artagnan be anything but a
soldier--a professional, if you please--but fighting for the love of
it, and the glory?

He tramped along in front of us, the spurs of his high boots jingling,
and twirling the ends of his fierce mustaches. I glimpsed soldiers
through the trees. Some came out to the path and saluted. To all
d'Artagnan returned a salute with the same wonderful joy in it, as
though it were the first salute of the day, or as if he were passing
a general. There was the same swing outward of the arm, the same
rigid formality of bringing his hand to the helmet. The pomposity of
the salute he may have learned from Porthos, but the dignity, the
impressiveness of it, belonged to d'Artagnan.

His soldiers adored him; we could see that as we followed. Their eyes
smiled and approved. And the stamp of great admiration was in their
faces.

"They would go through hell with him," said my companion. "A good many
of them have. He is the favorite of his brigade."

"He ought to be," I replied. "He is d'Artagnan."

"D'Artagnan!" my companion cried. "Why, so he is. I never thought of
it. But he _is_ d'Artagnan--alive and fighting."

He was a little distance ahead of us, among the trees. A sergeant
approached him to make a report. D'Artagnan leaned back grandly on
one leg, his chest forward, his chin tilted up, his hand, as usual,
twisting the mustachios.

"He loves it," I said. "He loves everything about it--this war. When
peace comes his life will lose its savor."

My officer of the Great General Staff nodded; d'Artagnan returned
jauntily, swinging his stick, and in ringing tones told us all that he
had arranged for us to see.

We followed him through a program that has been described many times
by correspondents since the war began--the encampments, the batteries
and the trenches. But never before did a correspondent have such a
guide. It was not my first trip to the front; but d'Artagnan led me
into advanced trenches, closer to the Germans than I had ever been
before. We crawled on hands and knees and spoke in whispers. But I was
fascinated because d'Artagnan, just as Dumas might have shown him,
crawled ahead, waved his hand in quick, impatient gestures for us to
hurry, looked back to laugh and point through a loophole to great rents
in the wire entanglements showing where a recent German attack had
failed.

Only once, at a point where a road separated two trench sections, and
always dangerous because of German snipers, did he order us to pass
around behind in the safety of a boyau or communication trench. _He_
leaped across the barrier with a derisive yell of triumph and a catlike
quickness too astonishing to draw the German fire.

Otherwise he let us take far bigger chances than usually permitted
visitors--and he made us like them. We squinted carelessly through
risky loopholes because d'Artagnan did it first. We talked aloud
because he did, and at times when ordinary guides would have made
us keep silent. He stood up on a trench ledge and looked through a
periscope, then jumped down laughing, holding out the periscope to show
where a bullet had drilled a hole on the side only a few inches above
his head. It was a game of follow the leader, and we followed because
the leader was d'Artagnan.

"They will get him some day--he takes such chances," an officer
remarked.

"They haven't got him yet and he has had more war than any of us,"
another replied.

On our way back, behind the line encampments, we met several soldiers
carrying tureens of soup. D'Artagnan halted them, solemnly lifted the
covers and tasted the contents. Then he passed the spoon to us.

"It is good," he pronounced, and patted the soldiers on the back, as we
hurried on.

He now took us to his own quarters, in a dense grove of pines. His
house was of pine boughs, half above and half underground, with a
bomb-proof cavern at the rear. Its furniture was a deal table and a
bed of straw. We sat around on camp stools and an orderly brought in
tea.

D'Artagnan then changed the subject for a few minutes from war. He had
visited nearly all the world, including America. He turned to me, and
to my surprise spoke in English. It was a very peculiar English, but it
was not funny coming from the lips of d'Artagnan. He told me about his
trip to America--how he did not have much money at the time, so he went
as a lecturer to the French Societies in the big cities of the United
States. It was hard to picture this big, weather-beaten soldier in such
a rôle, until he told me the subject of his lecture. It was "The Soul
of France"--always the Soul of France, a soul chivalrous, grand and
unconquerable, that would forever make the world remember and expect.

In Boston he had tried to speak in English, at the Boston City Club. He
pronounced the letter "i" in city, as in the word "site." He told me
the lecture in English was very funny. Perhaps it was; but the Boston
City Club had not seen their lecturer in the forest of Lorraine. They
did not know that he was d'Artagnan.

After tea he showed us the park made by his soldiers in front of his
"villa," as the semi-underground hut was called. A sign painted on a
tree announced the "Parc des Braves." Little well-groomed paths wound
among the pine needles; rustic seats were built about the trees. A
dozen little beds of mountain flowers made gay stars and crescents that
would not have disgraced the Tuileries. The "Parc des Braves" had even
an aviary, made of wire netting (left over from the barricades) built
about a tree. D'Artagnan proudly pointed out a great owl and a cowering
cuckoo in different compartments of this unique cage.

But the chef d'œuvre of the Parc was the reconstructed tableau of
one of the brigade's heroic episodes. A tiny rustic bridge spanned a
miniature brook; beside the brook was built a mill and beyond was an
old farm-house and orchard. Seven tiny French chasseurs, of wood and
painted blue, were holding the bridge against a horde of wooden Germans
painted gray.

On a great tree shading this story of a glorious hour in the history of
his "little braves," d'Artagnan had fixed a wooden slab, telling its
details in verse.

"Il y avait sept petits chasseurs
Qui ne connaissaient pas la peur."
(There were seven little chasseurs
Who knew no fear.)

That is the way the story began; and each verse began and ended with
the same words. I wish I could have copied it all; but d'Artagnan, the
author, was impatient to move on.

So we left the Parc and followed into the gloom of the forest and up
the steep slope of the mountain. It faced the enemy's trenches. From
the top one could look across the frontier of Germany.

D'Artagnan was silent now, plunging along through the deepening
twilight. Suddenly we emerged on the edge of a clearing still bright
with sunshine: a clearing perhaps several hundred feet square, lying on
the steep hillside almost at an angle of about forty-five degrees.

D'Artagnan stopped, took off his helmet, then walked slowly into the
open. We took off our hats and followed him.

The clearing was a military cemetery--it held the graves of
d'Artagnan's dead. A tall white wooden cross at the top rose almost to
the tops of the pines growing above it. On the cross-piece was written:

"To our comrades of the --th Brigade, killed by the enemy."

At the foot of the great cross, stretched in military alignment over
the clearing were hundreds of graves headed by little crosses. So
abrupt was the slope the dead soldiers stood almost erect--facing
Germany. Narrow graveled walks separated them, and on each cross hung
festoons of flowers kept always fresh by the comrades who remained.

We followed d'Artagnan across the silent place and stood behind him as
he faced, with bared head, the great cross. He made the sign of the
cross upon his breast. There was not a bowed head: we all lifted them
high to read the words written there.

No one spoke; the wind rustled softly in the tops of the pines that
pressed so densely about us. It was dark among the trees, but the
clearing was still mellow with the fading sunlight.

"The sun always comes here first in the morning," d'Artagnan said
softly, "and this is the last place from which it goes."

He swung around with his back to the great cross and flung out his
alpenstock in a gesture that swept the valley before us. His voice rose
harshly:

"Over there is the enemy," he thundered. "Those who rest here look at
them face to face!"

His arm dropped; his voice sank.

"They didn't get over there. But their souls remain here always to
urge us and to point the way which we must go."

He stopped and seemed to listen. The wind had died; even the tree tops
were still. The sun had gone; the dark began to sweep up over the
graves. D'Artagnan leaned upon his alpenstock; his eyes were closed.

We did not stir, nor hardly breathe. D'Artagnan was in communion with
the soul of his beloved France.

PART FIVE

THREE CHAPTERS IN CONCLUSION

CHAPTER XX

A REARPOST OF WAR

After a year or more of war, even a latter-day war correspondent who
gets a personally restricted war office Cook's tour to the front
semi-occasionally, may yearn for peace. This is especially true in
the case of a regular correspondent with the French army, because to
France there come so many senators, statesmen and "molders of neutral
opinion," bearing letters from President, King or Prelate, that the
regular correspondent has hard work to edge in even his legitimate
number of tours.

One morning I awoke early, far from the firing line, safe in my
Paris flat. Before breakfast I read the hotel arrivals listed in the
newspaper. The names of several molders were there. I knew that all
their letters stated definitely what whales they were. I knew that the
tour directors would not be able to resist them and that my seat in the
next front-going limousine would probably be held in another name. So
in the words of the ancient British music-hall classic I decided that
"I didn't like war and all that sort of thing."

Twelve hours later I was standing on an old stone jetty that runs out
to meet the forty-foot tides on the north coast of Brittany. It was
as far away as I could get and still retain an official connection
as correspondent with the French army. The tiny hamlet at the end of
the jetty has an official name. The name does not matter. There is no
railroad, no post office, no telegraph. But the place is known because
it was there that Pierre Loti wrote his great story of the Iceland
Fisherman. There was nothing to disturb the thoughts, nothing to jar
the nerves. All was quiet and peace; of war there was not the slightest
suspicion.

The water at the end of the jetty was thirty feet deep, but so clean
that one could see through it as through air. I watched a crab waddle
along the bottom and disappear under a rock. Then I got out my army
glasses and swept the coast. For miles tremendous headlands stuck out
in the sea, rolling over treacherous rocks. Before me was the Ile de
Bréhat, the ancient home of the pirates, which thrusts an arm far out
into the Atlantic--an arm that holds a lighthouse to tell mariners
returning from Iceland that they are almost home.

Between the island and the mainland the outgoing tide swirled along at
a rate of twelve sea miles per hour. I turned the glasses to the coast
where the tiny Breton stone cottages were tucked behind rocks and hills
that shelter them from storms and the long and terrible winter. Now
they were bowers of color; clusters of roses and geraniums bloomed on
garden walls, tall hollyhocks stood sentinel before the doors.

I dropped the glasses and sighed contentedly. Here I had found peace.

Near the old stone jetty a man was swimming. Suddenly he sat bolt
upright on the water. His legs spread straight before him and his hands
flapped idly at little waves. Occasionally he tugged at a long drooping
walrus mustache, then rubbed the salt spray from his lips. He was a
long angular individual and from my position on the jetty he appeared
to be entirely unclad.

"He is sitting on the top of a rock that is flooded at high tide," some
one near me remarked. As the words were spoken, the bather flopped from
his place and swam toward us. He was puffing heavily when he grasped
the stone side of the jetty and pulled himself up. I then saw that
I was mistaken as to his nudity, for he wore the strangest bathing
costume that I had ever beheld. It consisted of white cotton trunks
about eight inches wide. On one side, embroidered in yellow silk was a
vision of the rising sun; skin tight against the other side was a blue
pansy.

I was fascinated, and watched the man trudge up the winding road
that led from the jetty. A ray of the lowering sun flashed on the
embroidered pansy rapidly drying against his flanks as he disappeared
in the doorway of a cottage. I turned to an old fisherman who was
puttering about a sail boat:

"It looks Japanezy, that bathing suit," I said. The old man puffed at
his pipe: "No; his wife made it," he replied. "He wrote to her that he
had learned to swim so she made it and sent it up to him. He had never
seen the ocean before he came here. He is from the Midi."

"Ah," I replied, "and what did he wear before she sent it?"

The old man shrugged his shoulders. "About here, you know, it doesn't
much matter about bathing suits. There aren't many folks about."

"Who is he?" I asked. "Is he a summer visitor?"

"Summer visitor!" the old man gasped. "Summer visitor--why he hates
this place and everything in it. He only learned to swim because he had
nothing else to do and because he hates it so."

"Hates it!" I ejaculated. "Well, why on earth is he here then?"

"He's here because he's got to be here," the old chap replied. "He's
mobilized here. He's a soldier!"

A cigarette that I had just taken from its case, fell from my nerveless
fingers into the water and swirled out with the tide.

A soldier--a soldier in my retreat. How unspeakably annoying. And in
that bathing suit I never would have suspected him at all.

The old fisherman explained, while I lugubriously leaned over the jetty
and watched that crab puddling about his rock. There were eleven more
of them--soldiers, I mean--they all lived in the little cottage near
the jetty. They were there to guard the cable between the mainland and
the Ile de Bréhat, two miles away. They guarded it the twenty-four
hours of the day--those twelve. Every two hours one of them mounted
guard where the cable comes up from the sea and solemnly guarded it
from German attack.

The old fisherman pointed behind me. I turned and there, even as he had
explained, I saw a man in the blue coat and red pants of the French
territorial army. From the trenches the red pants have gone into the
historic past. Nowadays the red pants are only for the territorials.

This particular cable sentry was also from the Midi, my fisherman
explained. He too disliked the sea. He sat there and stared moodily
into the sun that was just in the act of gloriously descending into the
water. A last ray caught the steel bayonet of the Lebel rifle lying
across his knees.

I left the jetty and walked up the winding road to the village. I went
to the single store to buy tobacco and to hear the talk of the people.
There were no newspapers, I thought, so their talk could not be about
the war. Also there I would avoid the sight of the soldiers, because
the store had liquor on its list of commodities. It is forbidden to
soldiers to enter such places except at certain hours.

A fresh-faced Breton girl served out the tobacco. Cigars at two cents
each were the most expensive tobacco purchase in the shop. I purchased
a dozen and immediately became a celebrity and a millionaire. We
talked. I asked her about the countryside, about the people and about
the wonderful lace coiffures of the peasant women. She told me how
the women of one hamlet wear an entirely different "coif" from those
even of the neighboring farms and that throughout Brittany there are
hundreds of different styles.

Then I asked her about the men folks, the few who work in the fields
and the great majority who go off in the boats to Iceland in the spring
and come back ten months later--those who ever do come back at all.
Then quite naturally we talked about the war. For she explained that to
her people the war was not so terrible as the times of peace. Then it
was impossible to get letters from a fishing schooner off the Iceland
banks--now it was quite easy to get letters from the trenches every
few days. The men suffered far greater losses from the perils of the
northern ocean than since they were all mobilized to fight the Germans.
Some were killed--that was natural enough--but not half so many as the
number who just sailed out and disappeared.

I was beginning to feel that perhaps the war was a benefit to this part
of the world.

An old woman entered the store to buy tobacco. She was bent and
withered and her hand trembled as she drew the few coppers from her
purse. Her voice was high and quavery when she spoke to the girl. She
said that her son had just been wounded near Verdun. His condition was
desperate, but they were bringing him home--to her--to die on the old
Brittany farm, on the hillside overlooking the sea.

"Ah, la guerre," she murmured, "c'est terrible."

She explained that her other boys had been lost on a fishing schooner
five years ago. She had tried to keep this one--had wanted him so much
and tried so hard. But if she could see him again it would be better.
She sighed and tucked purse and tobacco under her apron and clattered
out on her heavy wooden sabots--her head bowed under her years and her
woe. "C'est pour la patrie," she murmured as she passed through the
door.

The next day was a Sunday. On Sunday all Brittany goes to church,
and when one is in Brittany--well, one goes to church too. After the
service I walked through the churchyard, which is also the graveyard
of the village. It was so quiet, so restful and far removed from the
world and the war, that I was content to remain there, for the eleven
soldiers not guarding the cable were disporting themselves on the beach.

I found a wonderful old wall at one end of the graveyard. It was very
old and overgrown with moss and ivy. It was a dozen feet high and
crumbling in places. I did not know then that the wall was one of the
sights of that countryside, but I did know when I saw it that I was
looking upon the record of mighty tragedies. For it was covered over
with little slabs, sometimes almost lost to view under the climbing
vines. On the slabs were written the names of the men of the village
who had gone to sea and never been heard of again. The dates were
all there and the names of the ships. On several were the names of
two or more brothers--on another slab were listed the males of three
generations of one house. There were hundreds of names, the dates going
back nearly a hundred years. Over many slabs with more recent dates
were hung wreaths of flowers.

It is called the wall of the disappeared.

I read all the slabs with keenest interest; this record of toll taken
by an element more resistless even than war. Indeed the battles of the
nations seemed puny against the evidences of inexorable might written
on the wall of the disappeared.

Near the end of the wall a woman was praying. She was all in black,
with the huge Breton widow's cowl drawn over her head, so that she
looked like a witch in Macbeth. Above her head I noticed a freshly
painted slab newly fixed in the wall. I read the inscription over
her shoulder. The date was September, 1915. Instead of the name of a
fishing boat that went to pieces in a gale off Iceland, was recorded
the man's regiment, followed by his name and the words, "disappeared in
the battle of the Marne."

The morning following I awoke early, with the sun and the sea sparkling
at my window. I got into a regulation bathing suit and rushed down
the old stone jetty for a plunge before breakfast. The water was so
fresh--so full of life--the day was so wonderful--that I forgot all
about the twelve soldiers, the old woman whose wounded son was coming
home to die, the soldier of the battle of the Marne whose name was on
the wall of the disappeared.

There was no such thing as war as I dived off the jetty's end, deep
into the cold, clean water. I opened my eyes under the water and could
see the rocks on the bottom, still many feet below.

Suddenly a roar struck my ears and I struck up to the surface. I knew
how sound travels under water; and I knew this sound. It was a dull,
terrifying boom. I rubbed the salt from my eyes and looked across the
straits to the Ile de Bréhat. Crouched under the towering rocks of the
island, and lying low in the water, was an ugly black torpedo destroyer
flying the tricolor. A cruiser flying the Union Jack, her masts just
visible across a far reach of the island, was picking her way slowly
through the channel. The sound was a signal gun.

I floated on the water and looked up at the sky. Up there, perhaps, is
peace, I thought; and then I glanced hastily about for aeroplanes.

As for this village, my thoughts continued, this insignificant village
of L'Arcouëst, par Ploubazlanec, Côtes du Nord, Brittany--that is the
sonorous official address of my tiny hamlet by the sea--why even if
it is not in the "zone of military activity," it has all the elements
that war brings, from the faded uniforms of blue and red to the black
mouths of cannon. It has all the anxiety, all the sorrow, all the hopes
and all the prayers. It has all the zeal and all the despair. All the
horror and all the pomp and empty glory. It may only be a rearpost--way
out where Europe kneels to the Atlantic--and where one can pray for
peace. But war is there, after all.

CHAPTER XXI

MYTHS

The European war zone at the beginning of hostilities was as busy a
fable factory as were San Juan and Santiago during the Spanish-American
conflict when "yellow journalism" was supposed to have reached its
zenith. It was a great pity, for the truth of the European war is
stupendous enough. Newspaper myths and yellow faking have never had
less excuse. In many cases it may take years to properly classify the
facts.

Not all of the myths have been deliberate ones. At the outbreak of the
war rumor followed rumor so swiftly, and was so often attested by the
statements of "eye-witnesses," that inevitably it was transformed _en
route_ from fancy into fact. Sometimes a tense public itself raised
definitely labeled rumors to the rank of official communications. In a
few instances war correspondents have deliberately faked.

The censorship, generally unintelligent, sometimes incredibly stupid,
is responsible for a great many myths. "Beating the censor" was a
gleeful game for some correspondents until it became clear that the
censor always held the winning hand, and that he could even suppress
their activities altogether. The "half truths" of the official
communications have also been responsible for much flavoring of the
real news with fiction.

The similarity in names of the river Sambre and Somme, the one being in
Belgium and the other in France, undoubtedly had much to do with the
wording of the French communiqués when France was first invaded. Day
after day the despatches laconically referred to "the fighting on the
Sambre." Then one Sunday morning, when it was considered impossible
to keep back the truth much longer, a casual communiqué mentioned the
fighting line "on the Somme." The press of the world, which had been
deliberately kept in the dark for days, can scarcely be blamed for
losing its head a trifle and printing scare headlines unprecedented
since news became a commodity.

The greatest of all war fakes, and one that had not the slightest
foundation of truth, is the story of the Russian army rushed from
Archangel to Scotland, thence through England to France to aid at the
battle of the Marne. This story is entirely discredited to-day, but it
died hard, and no wonder, for there never was a story with so many
"eye witnesses," so much "absolute proof" of its authenticity. From
the highlands of Scotland to the hamlets of Brittany peasants were
awakened at night by the tramp of marching feet. Upon investigation the
Cossacks of the Czar were revealed hurrying on their way to the western
battle line. I have never heard where the story originated, but every
correspondent with the Allied forces believed it. A friend living near
a French seaport whose honesty I can not question, wrote to me telling
in detail of the landing of an entire Russian army corps. I talked with
officers of both the English and French armies who swore to a definite
knowledge that Russians were then in France and would soon be fighting
in the front line. To my recollection the story was never denied, and
only the fact that the Russians never did reach that front line where
they were so eagerly awaited, brought the story into the classification
where it belonged.

Another great fake, but different from this one in that it had a slight
foundation of truth, is the story of the French taxicab army under
General Galliéni, that swept out of Paris forty to eighty thousand
strong (accounts differed) and which fell on the flank of the Germans
and saved the city. This story became the most popular of the entire
war, and it is still implicitly believed by thousands of persons. I
saw that taxicab army and am therefore able to state that about ninety
per cent. of the story written about it is fiction. The ten per cent.
fact is that the army of General Manoury was in process of formation
for days before the battle of the Marne. The troops were sent around
and through Paris to occupy a position west of Compiégne. I watched
thousands of them, the Senegalese division, march through Paris on
foot during the latter days of August, 1914. It was the methodical,
though hasty, creation by the General Staff of a new army. At the same
time the General Staff was conducting, under General Joffre, the great
retreat from Charleroi.

At the beginning of the battle of the Marne a few regiments were still
in Paris. The Military Governor, General Galliéni, was instructed to
rush them north by any means available. The northern railways were in
German hands, and the only way was to send them in taxicabs. So many
chauffeurs had been mobilized that Paris had then probably not more
than two thousand taxis. At the tightest squeeze not more than four
soldiers with heavy marching equipment, could have been carried in one
of the small Paris taxicabs. The taxicab army, therefore, may have
numbered four regiments, or eight thousand men, while the real figures
may possibly be less. It was not the army of Paris gallantly rushing
out to save the city. The army of Paris had instructions to remain in
the city and to defend it. The taxicab army was a fine and dramatic
piece of news, expanded to fit the imagination of an excited world.

The fable factory actually began operations before the declaration of
war, when with the sudden shortage of money, tales of starving and
otherwise suffering American tourists were cabled to New York by the
yellow press. But the Paris papers, and the general press, awaited
mobilization orders before becoming graphic without the support of
facts.

On the first day of hostilities several papers printed thrilling
details of the airman Garros having brought down a Zeppelin. Garros was
then waiting for military orders at his Paris apartment and laughed
heartily at the story when I telephoned to him.

Four times during the first month of the war I read of the death of the
airman Vedrines. Six months later I met him on one of my trips to the
front. The death of Max Linder, the comedian, was also dramatically
related by the Paris press, but a few nights later I found Linder on
the _terrasse_ of a boulevard café relating his very live adventure in
getting there.

Leaving out of consideration the feelings of the men's families
these were after all comparatively harmless and unimportant fakes. A
more sinister story, hinted at for weeks and finally openly printed,
was that a certain French general had been shot for treachery while
stationed near the Belgian frontier. So persistent was this report
that it was finally necessary for General Joffre himself to issue a
statement that the general in question was alive and well and had
merely been removed to another field of active service.

Of all the fakes and all the fakirs, I believe the French authorities
will admit that the greatest offenders have been their own papers. The
English correspondents were always fairly reliable, while the accounts
furnished the American papers have received the least criticism of
all--and the greatest praise. The most outstanding example of incorrect
information appearing in the British press was a story early in the war
that the British expeditionary force had been entirely destroyed. It
is only just to state that the writer of the story was ignorant of his
facts and not a wilful fakir. Nevertheless he has since been _persona
non grata_ in France and has confined his activities to the Russian
front.

Not all of the American accounts have been free from faking. One
American correspondent printed an "exclusive interview" with President
Poincaré which he declared was arranged and took place on the
battlefield. This story was entirely false, the correspondent merely
seeing the President reviewing the troops, a dozen other correspondents
having the same privilege.

The most glaring example of inaccuracy upon the part of an American
writer was an account of the battle of Ypres which appeared in both
English and American publications. This account, giving the entire
credit for the victory to the English, with faint praise for the
French, was resented by both the English and French officers, the
former as sportsmen not wishing undue praise, and the latter naturally
piqued that a story having such wide circulation should not have been
based more materially upon facts. This correspondent was later denied
the privilege of visiting the French front and has retired from the
zone of military activity.

Most of the fakes, as I have shown, occurred at the beginning of
the war, or during the first six months, when all the world was in
a state of great excitement, and when correspondents, the majority
of whom had never seen a war before, should have been forgiven for
sometimes letting their imaginations run riot. During the past twelve
months, since organization has taken the place of chaos in so many
activities related to the war, and when correspondents have acquired
experience and perspective, I know of scarcely any cases of wilful
misrepresentation of the truth. During the battle of Champagne in
September, 1915, one correspondent did attempt to project his astral
body to the battlefield for the purpose of writing an "eye witness"
account of the fighting; but he paid dearly for the indiscretion.
He was at once crossed off the official list of correspondents at
the French war office and all his credentials were withdrawn for the
duration of the war.

CHAPTER XXII

WHEN CHENAL SINGS THE "MARSEILLAISE"

I went to the Opéra Comique one day to hear Marthe Chenal sing the
"Marseillaise." For several weeks previous I had heard a story going
the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the effect that if one
wanted a regular old-fashioned thrill he really should go to the Opéra
Comique on a day when Mlle. Chenal closed the performance by singing
the French national hymn. I was told there would be difficulty in
securing a seat.

I was rather skeptical. I also considered that I had had sufficient
thrills since the beginning of the war, both old-fashioned and new. I
believed also that I had already heard the "Marseillaise" sung under
the best possible circumstances to produce thrills. One of the first
nights after mobilization 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath
the windows of the _New York Times_ office where I was at work. They
sang the "Marseillaise" for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their
national enemy sounding in every note. The solemnity changed to a wild
passion as the night wore on. Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode
through the street to disperse the mob. It was a terrific scene.

So I was willing to admit that the "Marseillaise" is probably the most
thrilling and most martial national song ever written, but I was just
not keen on the subject of thrills.

Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opéra Comique and it was a
week before his ardor subsided. He declared that this rendition of a
song was something that will be referred to in future years. "Why,"
he said, "when the war is over the French will talk about it in the
way Americans still talk about Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, or De Wolf
Hopper reciting 'Casey at the Bat.'"

This induced me to go. I was convinced that whether I got a thrill or
not the singing of the "Marseillaise" by Chenal had become a distinct
feature of Paris life during the war.

I never want to go again. To go again might deepen my impression--might
better register the thrill. But then it might not be just the same. I
would be keyed to such expectancy that I might be disappointed. Persons
in the seats behind me might whisper. And just as Chenal got to the
"Amour sacré de la patrie" some one might cough. I am confident that
something of the sort would surely happen. I want always to remember
that ten minutes while Chenal was on the stage just as I remember it
now. So I will not go again.

The first part of the performance was Donizetti's "Daughter of the
Regiment," beautifully sung by members of the regular company. But
somehow the spectacle of a fat soprano nearing forty in the rôle of
the twelve-year-old vivandière, although impressive, was not sublime.
A third of the audience were soldiers. In the front row of the top
balcony were a number of wounded. Their bandaged heads rested against
the rail. Several of them yawned.

After the operetta came a "Ballet of the Nations." The "nations," of
course, represented the Allies. We had the delectable vision of the
Russian ballerina dancing with arms entwined about several maids of
Japan. The Scotch lassies wore violent blue jackets. The Belgian girls
carried large pitchers and rather wept and watered their way about the
stage. There were no thrills.

[Illustration: MDLLE. CHENAL SINGING THE MARSEILLAISE]

After the intermission there was not even available space. The majority
of the women were in black--the prevailing color in these days. The
only touches of brightness and light were in the uniforms of the
officers liberally sprinkled through the orchestra and boxes.

Then came "Le Chant du Depart," the famous song of the Revolution. The
scene was a little country village. The principals were the officer,
the soldier, the wife, the mother, the daughter and the drummer boy.
There was a magnificent soldier chorus and the fanfare of drums and
trumpets. The audience then became honestly enthusiastic. I concluded
that the best Chenal could do with the "Marseillaise," which was next
on the program, would be an anti-climax.

The orchestra played the opening bars of the martial music. With the
first notes the vast audience rose. I looked up at the row of wounded
leaning heavily against the rail, their eyes fixed and staring on the
curtain. I noticed the officers in the boxes, their eyes glistening. I
heard a convulsive catch in the throats of persons about me. Then the
curtain lifted.

I do not remember what was the stage setting. I do not believe I saw
it. All I remember was Chenal standing at the top of a short flight of
steps, in the center near the back drop. I indistinctly remember that
the rest of the stage was filled with the soldier chorus and that near
the footlights on either side were clusters of little children.

"Up, sons of France, the call of glory--"

Chenal swept down to the footlights. The words of the song swept over
the audience like a bugle call. The singer wore a white silk gown
draped in perfect Grecian folds. She wore the large black Alsatian
head dress, in one corner of which was pinned a small tricolored
cockade. She has often been called the most beautiful woman in Paris.
The description was too limited. With the next lines she threw her
arms apart, drawing out the folds of the gown into the tricolor of
France--heavy folds of red silk draped over one arm and blue over
the other. Her head was thrown back. Her tall, slender figure simply
vibrated with the feeling of the words that poured forth from her lips.
She was noble. She was glorious. She was sublime. With the "March
on, march on," of the chorus, her voice arose high and fine over the
full orchestra, and even above her voice could be sensed the surging
emotions of the audience that seemed to sweep over the house in waves.

I looked up at the row of wounded. One man held his bandaged head
between his hands and was crying. An officer in a box, wearing the
gorgeous uniform of the headquarters staff, held a handkerchief over
his eyes.

Through the second verse the audience alternately cheered and stamped
their feet and wept. Then came the wonderful "Amour sacré de la
patrie"--sacred love of home and country--verse. The crashing of the
orchestra ceased, dying away almost to a whisper. Chenal drew the folds
of the tricolor cloak about her. Then she bent her head and, drawing
the flag to her, lips, kissed it reverently. The first words came
like a sob from her soul. From then until the end of the verse, when
her voice again rang out over the renewed efforts of the orchestra,
one seemed to live through all the glorious history of France. At the
very end, when Chenal drew a short jeweled sword from the folds of her
gown and stood, silent and superb, with the folds of the flag draped
around her, while the curtain rang slowly down, she seemed to typify
both Empire and Republic throughout all time. All the best of the past
seemed concentrated there as that glorious woman, with head raised
high, looked into the future.

And as I came out of the theater with the silent audience I said
to myself that a nation with a song and a patriotism such as I had
witnessed could not vanish from the earth--nor again be vanquished.

THE END

[Illustration: FRONT D'ARTOIS]

NOTE

The attached map of the "Front d'Artois" is the first of the kind ever
presented to the public. The author of this book has been specially
authorized to reproduce it by the French Ministry of War, under whose
direction it was first executed from photographs by French airmen taken
on their trips over the German lines.

It bears the date September 25, 1915, that being the day when the
great offensive was launched against the Germans both in Artois and
Champagne. On that occasion the map was given only to French officers.

The heavy blue zigzag line shows the front line of the German trenches.
The thin blue lines running to the rear show the communication trenches
extending back to the second and even the third lines of defense.
The French trenches are naturally not shown, but were to the west of
the Germans, in some places not over fifteen yards of barbed wire
entanglements separating them. At the time of the September attack all
these trenches were captured by the French.

The Artois front, which is often called "the sector north of Arras,"
is one of the most important on the entire line, inasmuch as the army
holding the plateau holds also the key to the channel ports. The
bloodiest and most desperate battles of the war have occurred there.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Passed by the censor: The Experience of an American Newspaper Man in France" ***

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