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<hr class="chap" />

<p id="half-title">TRUE STORIES OF THE GREAT WAR</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<h1>
TRUE STORIES<br />
OF THE<br />
GREAT WAR
</h1>

<p class="center spaced space-above">
TALES OF ADVENTURE&mdash;HEROIC DEEDS&mdash;EXPLOITS<br />
TOLD BY THE SOLDIERS, OFFICERS, NURSES,<br />
DIPLOMATS, EYE WITNESSES<br />
<br />
<small>
<i>Collected in Six Volumes</i><br />
<i>From Official and Authoritative Sources</i><br />
(<i>See Introductory to Volume I</i>)<br />
</small>
<br />
VOLUME V<br />
<br />
Editor-in-Chief<br />
FRANCIS TREVELYAN MILLER (Litt. D., LL.D.)<br />
Editor of The Search-Light Library<br />
<br />
1917<br />
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY<br />
NEW YORK<br />
</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="center">
Copyright, 1917, by<br />
REVIEW OF REVIEWS COMPANY<br />
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<h2>CONTENTS</h2>

<blockquote>
<p>This group of stories for VOLUME V has been selected by the Board of
Editors according to the plan outlined in "Introductory" to Volume
I. It includes episodes from thirty-one story-tellers&mdash;tales of
Dragoons, Marines, Bishops, Foreign Legion, Fleet Surgeon, Scouts,
Exiles, Soldiers, Spies and Eye-Witnesses. The selections have
been made from the most authoritative sources in Europe and
America. Full credit is given in every instance to the original
source.</p>
</blockquote>

<div class="center">VOLUME V&mdash;THIRTY-ONE STORY-TELLERS&mdash;142 EPISODES<br /><br /></div>

<div class="center">
<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary="">
<tr><td align="left">TALES OF THE DARING RIDES OF A FRENCH TROOPER</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_1">1</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WITH THE TWENTY-SECOND REGIMENT OF DRAGOONS</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Lieut. Christian Mallet of the Dragoons</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of E. P. Dutton and Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"TO RUHLEBEN&mdash;AND BACK" LIFE IN A GERMAN PRISON</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_18">18</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WHERE THE BRITISH CIVILIAN PRISONERS ARE HELD IN</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;DETENTION CAMP</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Geoffrey Pyke, an English Prisoner</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AN AMERICAN AT BATTLE OF THE SOMME WITH FRENCH ARMY</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_36">36</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ARMY LIFE WITH THE SOLDIERS ALONG THE SOMME</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Frederick Palmer</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Dodd, Mead and Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AN AMERICAN'S EXPERIENCES "INSIDE THE GERMAN EMPIRE"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_53">53</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Herbert Bayard Swope</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of The Century Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">"DIXMUDE"&mdash;AN EPIC OF THE FRENCH MARINES</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_64">64</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">STORY OF THE MURDER OF COMMANDER JEANNIOT</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Charles Le Goffic of the Fusiliers Marins</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of J. B. Lippincott Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A BISHOP AT THE FRONT WITH THE BRITISH ARMY</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_75">75</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Right Reverend H. Russell Wakefield, Bishop of Birmingham</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Longmans, Green and Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SHORT RATIONS&mdash;THE TRUTH ABOUT LIFE IN GERMANY</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_83">83</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AN AMERICAN WOMAN IN GERMANY</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Madeline Zabriskie Doty</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of The Century Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">FIGHTING "WITH THE RUSSIAN ARMY"&mdash;ON THE AUSTRIAN FRONT</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_92">92</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE COLOSSAL STRUGGLE OF THE SLAVS</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Barnard Pares</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH FOREIGN LEGION</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_107">107</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE "GLORIOUS RASCALS"</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by E. S. and G. F. Lees</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ADVENTURES OF WOMEN WHO FACE DEATH ON BATTLEGROUNDS</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_121">121</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">LITTLE STORIES OF WOMAN'S INDOMITABLE COURAGE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Hilda Wynne and Others</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York American and New York World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AN AMERICAN WOMAN'S STORY OF THE "ANCONA" TRAGEDY</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_142">142</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Dr. Cecile Greil</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission New York Times)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE STRATEGY OF SISTER MADELEINE</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_151">151</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE STORY OF A FRENCH CAPTAIN'S ESCAPE FROM THE GERMANS&nbsp;&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Himself and Translated by G. Frederic Lees</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TALES OF THE SPIES AND THEIR DANGEROUS MISSIONS</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_169">169</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">REVELATIONS OF METHODS AND DARING ADVENTURES</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Secret Service Men of Several Countries</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York American; New York World; New</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">York Herald and New York Tribune)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WHAT HAPPENED TO THE "GLENHOLME"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_192">192</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ADVENTURES WITH SUBMARINES IN THE MEDITERRANEAN SEA</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Captain Groome to a Friend</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WHAT THE KAISER'S SON SAW ON THE BATTLEFIELD</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_203">203</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">PERSONAL EXPERIENCES OF A GERMAN PRINCE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Prince Oscar of Prussia, Fifth Son of Emperor Wilhelm</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York American)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A DAY'S WORK WITH A FRENCH SUBMARINE</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_222">222</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AN AMERICAN'S EXPERIENCE UNDER THE SEA</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Fred B. Pitney</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York Tribune)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TALE OF THE CHILD OF TERBEEKE</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_233">233</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">HOW IT SAVED A BRITISH BATTALION</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Oliver Madox Hueffer</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A HERO TALE OF THE RED CROSS</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_242">242</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by G. S. Petroff</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Current History)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">LIFE STORY OF "GRANDMOTHER OF THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_246">246</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TRIUMPHANT RETURN FROM FORTY-FOUR YEARS IN</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;SIBERIAN EXILE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Catherine Breshkovskaya, the Russian Revolutionist</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York Tribune)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TALE OF AN AMAZING VOYAGE</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_262">262</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">GERMAN OFFICERS ESCAPE FROM SPAIN IN A SAILING VESSEL</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Frederic Lees</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE POET'S DEATH IN BATTLE&mdash;HOW ALLEN SEEGER DIED</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_278">278</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">A YOUNG AMERICAN IN THE FOREIGN LEGION</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Bif Bear, a Young Egyptian in the Foreign Legion</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE GUARDIAN OF THE LINE&mdash;HERO TALE OF LITHUANIA</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_286">286</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by G. Frederic Lees</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">WITH A FLEET SURGEON ON A BRITISH WARSHIP DURING A BATTLE&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_295">295</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">UNDER FIRE ON HIS MAJESTY'S SHIP, "THE FEARLESS"</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Fleet Surgeon Walter K. Hopkins</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission New York American)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">AIRMEN IN THE DESERTS OF EGYPT</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_304">304</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ADVENTURES OF THE ROYAL FLYING CORPS IN SINAI</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by F. W. Martindale</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">HOW SWEENY, OF THE FOREIGN LEGION, GOT HIS "HOT DOGS"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_312">312</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by Private John Joseph Casey</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of New York World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE DOGS OF WAR ON THE BATTLEGROUNDS</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_316">316</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE "FOUR-FOOTED SOLDIERS" OF FRANCE</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by the Soldiers</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">TRUE STORY ABOUT KILLING THE WOUNDED</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_328">328</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by A. Pankratoff</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Current History)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">HOW WE FOILED "U 39"&mdash;IN THE SUBMARINE ZONE</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_333">333</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">ADVENTURES ABOARD A HORSE TRANSPORT</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by H. O. Read</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Wide World)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">MY WORST EXPERIENCE IN MESOPOTAMIA</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_344">344</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by a Man Who Stopped a Bullet</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">(Permission of Current History)</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">SPIRIT OF YOUNG AMERICA&mdash;HOW WE WENT "OVER THE TOP"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_349">349</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">EXPERIENCES OF A NEW YORK BOY WITH THE CANADIANS</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by (name withheld), wounded in France</td></tr>
<tr><td>&nbsp;</td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">THE SINKING OF "THE PROVENCE II"</td><td align="right"><a href="#Page_358">358</a></td></tr>
<tr><td align="left">Told by N. Bokanowski, Deputy of the Department of the Seine</td></tr>
</table></div>

<hr class="chap" />

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<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-fp1.jpg" width="626" height="900" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>© International Film Service.</p>
<p>THE BALLOON CORPS EXPERIENCE THE SENSATIONS
OF THE POLAR EXPLORER</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 900px;">
<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-fp2.jpg" width="900" height="536" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>DROPPING A BOMB FROM A DIRIGIBLE</p>
<p><i>It is Pleasanter to See This in a Volume Than Overhead!</i></p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 900px;">
<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-fp3.jpg" width="900" height="534" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>A FEW MINUTES BEFORE THIS WAS A GERMAN BATTLE PLANE</p>
<p><i>But the Aircraft Guns Got His Range. The Insert Shows a Naval Plane</i></p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

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<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-fp4.jpg" width="900" height="534" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>© International Film Service.</p>
<p>SOMEONE IS ALWAYS WATCHING IN THE FIRST LINE TRENCH</p>
<p><i>A British Trench at Orvillieres</i></p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_1" id="Page_1">[1]</a></span></p>

<h2>TALES OF THE DARING RIDES
OF A FRENCH TROOPER</h2>

<p><i>With the Twenty-second Regiment of Dragoons</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Lieut. Christian Mallet, of the Dragoons</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This famous 22nd regiment of Dragoons was raised in 1635 and
took part in all the great wars in which the French were engaged
before the Revolution. It fought under the Republic and
then with Napoleon's armies&mdash;at Austerlitz (1805); Jena (1806);
Eylau (1807); Oporto (1809). It saw service with the Army
of the Sambre and Meuse, the Army of the Rhine, the Grande-Armee,
in the War in Spain, the Campaign in Saxony, the Campaign
in France (1814). The regiment was disbanded in 1815 at
the close of the Napoleonic Wars and was not raised again
until 1873. The first great charge of the 22nd Dragoons in the
Great War occurred on the night of September 10-11, 1914. It
has since been fighting heroically "For France and Civilization."
Lieut. Mallet has fought his way up in the ranks with the
Dragoons. He presents the unconquerable spirit of France in
his book: "Impressions and Experiences of a French Trooper."
It is dedicated: "To my Captain, Count J. de Tarragon, and to
my two comrades, 2nd Lieut. Magrin and 2nd Lieut. Clère&mdash;who
fell all three on the field of honour in defense of their country."
One of his stories is recorded herewith by permission of
his publishers, <i>E. P. Dutton and Company</i>: Copyright 1916.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_1_1" id="FNanchor_1_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_1_1" class="fnanchor">[1]</a>
I&mdash;STORY OF PEASANT GIRL ON THE YSER</p>

<p>The battle finished (September 10, 1914) the pursuit
of the conquered army commenced and kept the whole
world in suspense, with eyes fixed on this headlong flight
towards the north, which lasted till the end of the month,
and which was to be the prelude of the great battles of
the Yser.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_2" id="Page_2">[2]</a></span></p>
<p>The region round Verberie was definitely cleared of
Germans and was become once more French. The little
town for some days presented an extraordinary spectacle.</p>

<p>We entered the town after having received the formal
assurance of the 5th Chasseurs, who went farther on,
that all the country was in our hands. Some divisional
cyclists were seated at the roadside. We asked them
for news of the 22nd, and their reply wrung our hearts.
They knew nothing definite, but they had met a country
cart full of our wounded comrades, who had told them
that the regiment had been cut up.</p>

<p>No one could tell us where the divisional area was
to be found. The division itself appeared to have been
dismembered, lost and in part destroyed. We thought
that we were the only survivors of a disaster, and, once
the horses were in shelter in an empty abandoned farm
stuffing themselves with hay, we wandered sadly through
the streets destroyed by bombardment and by fire in
search of such civilians as might have remained behind
during the invasion.</p>

<p>A little outside the town we at last found a farm where
two of the inhabitants had stayed on. The contrast between
them was touching. One was a paralysed old man
unable to leave his fields, the other was a young girl of
fifteen, a frail little peasant, and rather ugly. Her
strange green eyes contrasted with an admirable head
of auburn hair, and she had heroically insisted on looking
after her infirm grandfather, though all the rest of the
family had emigrated towards the west. She had remained
faithful to her duty in spite of the bombardment,
the battle at their very door and the ill-treatment of the
Bavarian soldiers who were billeted in the farm. Distressed,
yet joyous, she prepared a hasty meal and busied<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_3" id="Page_3">[3]</a></span>
herself in quest of food, for it was anything but easy
to satiate eleven men dying of hunger when the Germans,
who lay hands on everything, had only just left.</p>

<p>She wrung the neck of an emaciated fowl which had
escaped massacre, and, by adding thereto some potatoes
from the garden, she served us a breakfast, washed down
with white wine, which made us stammer with joy, like
children. One needs to have fasted for five days to have
felt the cutting pains of hunger and of thirst in all their
horror, to appreciate the happiness that one can experience
in eating the wing of a scraggy fowl and in drinking
a glass of execrable wine tasting like vinegar. She
bustled about, and her pitying and motherly gestures
touched our hearts. While we ate she told us the most
astonishing story that ever was, a story acted, illustrated
by gestures, which made the scenes live with remarkable
vividness.</p>

<p>She told us how, faithful to her oath, she was alone
when the Bavarians came knocking at her door, how she
lived three days with them, a butt for their innumerable
coarsenesses, sometimes brutally treated when the soldiers
were sober, sometimes pursued by their gross assiduities
when they were drunk; how one night she had to fly half
naked through the rain, slipping out through the venthole
of the cellar, to escape being violated by a group
of madmen, not daring to go to bed again, sleeping fully
dressed behind a small copse; how at last French chasseurs
had put the Bavarians to flight and had in their turn
installed themselves in the farm, and how among them
she felt herself protected and respected.</p>

<p>She attached herself to her new companions, whom
she looked after like a mother for three days. Then
they went away, promising to return, and she was left
alone.</p>

<p>But the next day at dawn, uneasy at the row that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_4" id="Page_4">[4]</a></span>
came from the town, she decided to go in search of news.
She put on a shawl and slipped through the brushwood
and thickets as far as the first houses. She was afraid
of being seen, and made herself as small as possible,
keeping close to the walls, crossing gardens and ruined
houses. The terrible noise increased, and she went
towards it. She wanted to see what was going on, and
a fine virile courage sustained her. The shells fell near
her; no matter, she had only a few more steps to go to
turn the corner of a street. She arrived on the <i>place</i>
as the battle was finishing.</p>

<p>Her fifteen chasseurs were there, fifteen corpses at the
foot of the barricade. One of them, who still lived,
raised himself on seeing her, and held out his arms
towards her. Then, forgetting all danger, in a magnificent
outburst of feminine pity, she braved the rain of fire
and dashed to the centre of the <i>place</i>. She knelt by the
young fellow, enveloped him in her shawl to warm him
and rocked him in her arms till he closed his young eyes
for ever, thankful for this feminine presence which had
made his last sufferings less bitter.</p>

<p>While she remained kneeling on the pavement wet with
blood, a last big calibre shell knocked over, almost at her
feet, a big corner house, which in its fall buried the
German and French corpses in one horrible heap. She
fell in a faint on the stones, knocked over by the windage
of the shell, which had so nearly done for her.</p>

<p>During the latter part of her discourse she straightened
her thin figure to the full, her strange eyes sparkled, and
she appeared to be possessed by some strong and mysterious
spirit which made us tremble. She became big
in her rustic simplicity&mdash;big, as the incarnation of grief
and of pity, and of the peasant in her gave place to a
living image of the war&mdash;an image singularly moving and
singularly beautiful.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_5" id="Page_5">[5]</a></span></p>


<p>II&mdash;WITH THE WARRIORS FROM THE MARNE</p>

<p>From the next day Verberie became in some degree
the rallying point for all soldiers who had lost touch
with their units. Elements of all sorts of regiments, of
all arms, of all races even, arrived on foot, on horseback,
on bicycles, in country carts. There were dragoons,
cuirassiers, chasseurs, artillerymen, Algerian Light
Infantry and English. Bernous, khaki uniform, blue
capes, rubbed shoulders with dolmans, black tunics and
red trousers.</p>

<p>In this extraordinary crowd there were men from
Morocco mounted on Arab horses and wearing turbans;
there were "Joyeux" who wore the tarboosh, and ruddy
English faces surmounted by flat caps. All the uniforms
were covered with dirt and slashed and torn. Many of
the men had bare feet, and some carried arms and some
were without. It was the hazard of the colossal battle
of the Marne, where several millions of men had been
at grips, which had thrown them on this point. All were
animated by the same desire for information, and particularly
of the whereabouts of their respective regiments.
From every direction flowed in convoys, waggons,
artillery ammunition waggons, stragglers from
every division and from every army corps. The mix-up
and the confusion were indescribable. One heard shouting,
swearing, neighing of horses, the horns of motor-cars,
and the rumble of heavy waggons, which shook the
houses.</p>

<p>Faces drawn with fatigue were black with dust and
mud and framed in stubbly beards. Everyone was gesticulating,
everyone was shouting and a bright autumn
sun, following upon the storm, threw into prominence
amongst the medley of clothing the luminous splashes of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_6" id="Page_6">[6]</a></span>
gaudy colours and imparted an Oriental effect to the
crowd.</p>


<p>III&mdash;STORY OF THE PRIEST&mdash;AND TWO
CHASSEURS</p>

<p>Having eaten, washed and rested, I walked the streets,
drinking the morning air and taking deep breaths of the
<i>joie de vivre</i>, of the strength and vitality mingled with
the air. I looked on every side to see whether I could
not find some acquaintance in the crowd, some stray
trooper from my regiment.</p>

<p>So it was that the hazard of my walk brought me
to a scene which moved me to tears and which rests
graven so deeply on my memory that I can see its smallest
detail with my eyes shut. The Gothic porch of the
church, with its fine sculptures of the best period, was
open, making in the brightness of the morning a pit of
shade, at the foot of which some candles shone like stars.
On the threshold of the porch, gaily lighted by the morning
sun, a priest, whose fine virile face I can still recall,
held in his hand the enamel pyx, and his surplice of lace
of a dazzling whiteness contrasted with the muddy boots
and spurs. One could guess that after having traversed
some field of battle, consoling the wounded and the dying,
he had dismounted to officiate in the open air under the
morning sun.</p>

<p>Before him, on a humble country cart and lying on a
bed of straw, were stretched the rigid bodies, fixed in
death, of two chasseurs who had fallen nobly while defending
the bridge over the river. All around, kneeling
in the mud of the porch, a semicircle of bare-headed
soldiers, overcome by gratitude and humility, were assembled
to accomplish a last duty and pay their last
respects to the two comrades who were lying before them<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_7" id="Page_7">[7]</a></span>
and who were sleeping their last sleep in their bloodstained
uniforms, and assisted at the supreme office.
The priest finished the <i>De profundis</i>, and in a clear voice
pronounced the sacred words "<i>Revertitur in terram suam
unde erat et spiritus redit ad Deum qui dedit illum</i>."
The officiant gave the holy-water sprinkler to the priest,
who sprinkled the bodies and murmured "<i>Requiescat in
pace</i>." "Amen," responded the kneeling crowd, and a
great wave of religious feeling passed over the kneeling
men, the greater part of whom gave way to overmastering
emotion.</p>

<p>I can still see a big devil of an artilleryman, with his
head between his hands, shaken by convulsive sobs. Having
given the absolution, the priest raised the host sparkling
in the sunlight for the last time and pronounced
the sacramental words. I moved off, deeply affected by
the grandeur of the scene.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;DEPRAVED SOLDIERS IN A DRAWING
ROOM</p>

<p>By the 12th a good number of 22nd Dragoons and
some officers of the regiment had rejoined at Verberie.
We formed from this débris an almost complete squadron
under the command of Captain de Salverte, who had
succeeded in getting through the lines by skirting the
forest.</p>

<p>I again found my officer, M. Chatelin, whom I had
last seen in the little clearing near Gilocourt, surrounded
by lurking enemies, and whom I had hardly dared hope
to see again alive; also M. de Thézy, my comrade Clère
and others.</p>

<p>We were all sorry to hear that Lieutenant Roy had
fallen on the field of battle with several others, and that
Major Jouillié had been taken prisoner. As for Captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_8" id="Page_8">[8]</a></span>
de Tarragon, it was stated that he might have escaped
on foot with his orderly and that he might be somewhere
in the neighbourhood with a contingent of escaped
men, but any precise information was wanting.</p>

<p>The night before I had slept in the drawing-room of
the château belonging to M. de Maindreville, the mayor.
Its appearance merits some brief description, so that
those who are still in doubt as to the savagery of the
Germans may learn to what degree of bestiality and
ignominy they are capable of attaining.</p>

<p>This fine drawing-room was a veritable dung heap.
The curtains were torn, the small billiard-table lay upside
down in the middle of the room, a litter of rotting food
covered the floor, the furniture was in matchwood, the
chairs were broken, the easy-chairs had had their stuffing
torn out of them and the glass of the cabinets was
smashed. One could see that all small objects had been
carried off and all others methodically broken. On the
first floor the sight was heart-breaking. Fine linen,
trimmed with lace, was soiled with excrement; excrement
was everywhere, in the bath, on the sheets, on the floor.
They had vomited on the beds and urinated against the
walls; broken bottles had shed seas of red wine on the
costly carpets. An unnamable liquid was running down
the staircase, obscene designs were traced in charcoal on
the wall-papers and filthy inscriptions ornamented the
walls.</p>

<p>I have told enough to give an idea of the degrading
traces left by a contemptible enemy. I have exaggerated
nothing; if anything, I have understated the truth.</p>

<p>And this is the people that wants to be the arbiter of
culture and of civilisation! May it stand for ever
shamed and reduced to its true level, which is below that
of the brute beast.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_9" id="Page_9">[9]</a></span></p>


<p>V&mdash;THE SEARCH FOR CAPTAIN DE TARRAGON</p>

<p>On the morning of the 12th, under the command of
Captain de Salverte we crossed the Oise by a bridge of
boats, the stone bridge having been destroyed by dynamite
some days before. We went north to billet at
Estrée-Saint Denis, which was to be the definite rallying
point of the 22nd Dragoons. We were followed by
several country carts, full of dismounted troopers, saddles,
lances, cloaks and odds and ends of equipment.</p>

<p>Acting on very vague information, I set out on the
13th to look for Captain de Tarragon. I was mounted
on a prehistoric motor bicycle, requisitioned from the
village barber. I scoured the country seeking information
from everyone I met. I received the most contradictory
reports, made a thousand useless detours and
was exasperated when overtaken by night without having
found any trace of him.</p>

<p>I followed the road leading to Baron and to Nanteuil-le-Haudoin,
along which but a few days before the corps
of Landwehr, asked for by von Kluck, had marched with
the object of enveloping our army, and along which it
had just been precipitately hustled back. The sky was
overcast and the day was threatening. At each step dead
horses with swelled bellies threatened heaven with their
stiff legs. A score of soldiers were lying in convulsed
attitudes, their eyes wide open, with grimacing mouths
twisted into a terrifying smile, and with hands clasping
their rifles. Involuntarily I trembled at finding myself
alone at nightfall in this deserted country, where no
living being was to be seen, where not a sound was to be
heard except the cawing of thousands of crows and the
purr of my motor, which panted on the hills like an
asthmatic old man, causing me the liveliest anxiety.</p>

<p>Fifteen hundred mètres from Baron, after a last gasp,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_10" id="Page_10">[10]</a></span>
my machine stopped for ever, and, as I was ignorant of
its mechanics, I was compelled to leave it where it was
and continue my journey on foot through the darkness.</p>

<p>The proprietor of the château of Baron put me up for
the night. As at Verberie, everything had been burnt,
soiled and destroyed. Nothing remained of the elegant
furniture beyond a heap of shapeless objects. Next
morning with the aid of a captain on the staff who
requisitioned a trap for me, I got back to Verberie and
found Captain de Tarragon there. He had slept at the
farm of La Bonne Aventure, quite near to where I lay.</p>

<p>When he saw me, after the mortal anxieties through
which he had lived, believing his squadron lost and cut
up, he was overcome by such a feeling of gratitude and
joy that I saw tears rise to his eyes while he shook me
vigourously by the hand. He had already sent forward
my name for mention in the order for the day with reference
to the affair at Gilocourt and the death of poor
Dangel. I was recommended for the military medal, and
my heart swelled with pride and joy, while I was carried
back to Estrée-Saint-Denis, stretched out in a country
cart with a score of dismounted comrades.</p>

<p>A few days afterwards I was promoted corporal and
proudly sported the red flannel chevrons bought at a
country grocer's shop.</p>


<p>VI&mdash;TALES OF THE DRAGOONS</p>

<p>Once the half-regiment was reconstituted after a
fashion, though many were missing (a detachment of
fifty men without horses having returned to the depot),
we were attached to the 3rd Cavalry Division, which
happened to be in our neighbourhood, ours having left
the area for some unknown destination. Until the 1st of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_11" id="Page_11">[11]</a></span>
October our lot was bound up with that of the 4th
Cuirassiers, who marched with us.</p>

<p>On the 23rd of September, as supports for the artillery,
we were present at violent infantry actions between
Nesle and Billancourt. The 4th Corps attacked, and the
furious struggle extended over the whole country. My
troop was detached as flank guard and, in the thick
morning fog, we knocked up against a handful of German
cavalry, whom, in the distance, we had taken for
our own men.</p>

<p>We charged them at a gallop, and we noticed that they
were tiring and that we were gaining on them. One
of them drew his sabre and cut his horse's flanks with
it, whilst a non-commissioned officer turned and fired his
revolver without hitting us; but, thanks to the fog, they
got away. We did not tempt providence by following
them too far for fear of bringing up in their lines.</p>

<p>At night we were sent to reconnoitre some fires which
were reddening the horizon and which, from a distance,
seemed vast conflagrations. We came upon a bivouac of
Algerian troops, who were squatting on their heels, warming
themselves, singing strange African melodies and
giving to this corner of French soil an appearance of
Algeria.</p>

<p>On hearing the sound of our horses they sprang to
arms with guttural cries, but when they had recognised
that we were French they insisted on embracing our
officer and danced round us like children.</p>

<p>We billeted at Parvillers in a half-destroyed farm, and
there at daybreak a sight that suggested an hallucination
met our eyes. Some ten German soldiers were there in
the courtyard dead, mowed down by the "75," but in
such natural attitudes that but for their waxen colour
one could have believed them alive. One was standing
holding on to a bush, his hand grasping the branches.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_12" id="Page_12">[12]</a></span>
His face bespoke his terror, his mute mouth seemed as if
in the act of yelling and his eyes were dilated with fear.
A fragment of shell had pierced his chest. Another was
on his knees, propped against a wall, under cover of
which he had sought shelter from the murderous fire.
I approached to see where his wound was and it took
me a moment to discover it, so intact was the corpse. I
saw at last that he had had the whole of the inside of his
cranium carried away and hollowed out, as if by some
surgical instrument. His tongue and his eyes were kept
in place by a filament of flesh, and his spiked helmet had
rolled off by his side. An officer was seated on some
hay, with his legs apart and his head thrown back, looking
at the farm.</p>

<p>All these eyes fixed us with a terrifying immobility,
with a look of such acute terror that our men turned
away, as if afraid of sharing it; and not one of them
dared to touch the magnificent new equipment of the
Germans, which would have tempted them in any other
circumstances. There were aluminum water-bottles and
mess tins, helmet plates of shining copper and sculptured
regimental badges dear to the hearts of soldiers, and
which they have the habit of collecting as trophies.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;LAST CHARGE OF THE HORSEMEN</p>

<p>The dawn of the 25th broke without a cloud over the
village of Folies. A heat haze hid the early morning
sun. The enemy were quite near, and the sentries on
the barricades gave the alarm. The cuirassiers and dragoons,
leaving their horses under cover, had been on
watch in the surrounding country since the morning to
protect the village and the batteries of "75's," which were
firing from a little way back.</p>

<p>A non-commissioned officer and I had remained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_13" id="Page_13">[13]</a></span>
mounted. M. de Thézy sent us to investigate some horsemen
whose shadows had loomed through the mist and
whom we had seen dismount in an apple orchard near
the village of Chocques. We set off at a quiet trot, convinced
that we had to deal with some French hussars
whom I had seen go that way an hour before. We
crossed a field of beetroot and made straight towards
them. They seemed anchored to the spot, and when we
were within one hundred mètres, and they showed no
signs of moving, our confidence increased. The fog
seemed to grow thicker and our horses, now at the walk,
scented no danger. We were within fifty mètres of
them when a voice spoke out and the word "carbine"
reached us distinctly, carried by a light breeze. The
non-commissioned officer turned to me, his suspicions
completely stilled, and said, "We can go on, they are
French, I heard the word carbine." At the same instant
I saw the group come to the shoulder and a dozen jets
of fire tore the mist with short red flashes. A hail of
bullets fell all around us, and we had only just time
enough to put between them and ourselves as much fog
as would conceal us, for before turning tail we had seen
the confused grey mass of a column coming out of the
village. We had only to warn the artillery and then there
would be some fun.</p>

<p>The lieutenant of artillery was two kilomètres back
perched on a ladder. Having listened to what we had
to say, he turned towards his gun and cried through a
megaphone, "2600, corrector 18." We were already far
off, returning at the gallop to try to see the effect, and
it was a fine sight.</p>

<p>Leaving the horses in a farm, we slipped from tree
to tree. There was the column, still advancing. A first
shell, ten mètres in front of it, stopped it short; immediately
a second fell on the left, wounding some men, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_14" id="Page_14">[14]</a></span>
a horse reared and upset its rider. A third shell struck
mercilessly into the centre of the column and caused an
explosion which sent flying, right and left, dark shapes
which we guessed to be fragments of bodies. It rained
shell, which struck the road with mathematical precision,
sowing death and panic. In the twinkling of an eye the
road was swept clean. The survivors bolted in every
direction like madmen, and the agonising groans of a
dying horse echoed through the whole countryside.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>On the 1st of October we rejoined our division and
the first half-regiment at Tilloy-les-Mofflaines. Up to
the 20th we passed through a period of great privation
and fatigue owing to the early frosts. We were unable
to sleep for as many as five days on end, and when at
night we had a few hours in which to rest, we passed
them lying on the pavement of the street, propped up
against some heap of coal or of stones, holding our
horses' reins, each huddled up against his neighbour to
try and keep warm.</p>


<p>VIII&mdash;DIARY OF A FRENCH TROOPER</p>

<p>Here are extracts from my diary, starting from 8th
of October:</p>

<p><i>8th October.</i>&mdash;All night we guarded the bridge at
Estaires, after having constructed a formidable barricade.
Damp and chilly night, which I got through lying
on the pavement before the bridge; drank a half-litre of
spirits in little sips to sustain me. This is the most
trying night we have passed, but the spirits of all are
wonderful.</p>

<p><i>9th October</i>: <i>Twenty minutes to four, two kilomètres
from Estaires, scouting amongst beetroot fields.</i>&mdash;Has the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_15" id="Page_15">[15]</a></span>
supreme moment come? A little while ago I firmly believed
it had; now I am out of my reckoning, so incomprehensible
and widespread is the struggle which surrounds
us.</p>

<p>We have evacuated Estaires and the bridge over the
Lys, which we were guarding, to rejoin our horses on
foot. After some minutes on the road the first shells
burst. My troop received orders to fight dismounted, and
here we are, lying down as skirmishers amongst the
beetroot, in the midst of a heavy artillery and musketry
fire. I am on the extreme right, and a moment ago
two shrapnel shells came over and burst six or eight
mètres above my head, peppering the ground with bullets.
Never, I imagine, have I come so near to being hit.</p>

<p>For the moment it is impossible to understand what is
going on; the whole of the cavalry which was on in front
of us&mdash;chasseurs, dragoons and all the cyclists&mdash;have
fallen back, passing along the road on our flank. We,
however, have had no order to retire. The peasants with
their wives and children are running about the country
like mad people. It is a sorry sight. A moment ago I
saw an old man and a little girl fall in their hurry to
escape from their farm, which a shell had just knocked
to pieces. They are like herds of animals maddened by
a storm.</p>

<p>At dusk the Germans are 500 mètres off. We have
orders to take up our post in the cemetery of Estaires.
I have hurt my foot and each step in the ploughed land
is a torture. I have noted a way which will lead me to
the bridge on the other side of the town.</p>

<p>I brought up my patrol at the double. When I got
back I saw the troop retiring.</p>

<p>We passed through the town, which had a sinister look
by night, reddened by the flames from many fires. The
whole population is in flight, leaving houses open to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_16" id="Page_16">[16]</a></span>
streets, and crowding up the roads. All the windowpanes
are broken by the bombardment; somewhere, in
the middle of the town, a building is burning and the
flames mount to the sky. There are barricades in every
street. We have reached the horses, which are two kilomètres
from the town, and we grope for them in the
dark. Mine is slightly wounded in the foreleg. Long
retreat during the night (the second during which we
have not slept&mdash;a storm wets us to the skin).</p>

<p>Arrived at Chosques at five in the morning. We get
to bed at 6.30 and we are off again at 8 o'clock. I ask
myself for how many days men and horses can hold out.</p>

<p><i>10th October.</i>&mdash;In the afternoon we again covered the
twenty kilomètres which separated us from Estaires.
Hardly had we settled down to guard the same bridge as
yesterday when we were sent to La Gorgue. On the
way stopped in the village, as shells commenced to fall.
The 1st troop took refuge in a grocer's, where we were
parked like sheep. A large calibre shell burst just opposite
with a terrible row. I thought that the house was
going to fall in. Lieutenant Niel, who had stayed outside,
was knocked over into the ditch and wounded. We
are falling back with the horses to La Gorgue, and we are
passing a third night, without sleep, on the road, Magrin
and I on a heap of coal. Horses and men have had
nothing to eat, the latter are benumbed, exhausted, but
gay as ever.</p>

<p><i>11th October.</i>&mdash;We get to a neighbouring farm at
Estrem to feed the horses. They have scarcely touched
their hay and oats before an order comes telling us to
rejoin at the very place from which we have come. The
Germans are trying to take the village from the east,
thanks to the bridge which they captured the day before
yesterday, but we have been reinforced by cyclists, and
the 4th Division is coming up. We are holding on;<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_17" id="Page_17">[17]</a></span>
the position is good. The belfry of the town hall has
just fallen. We are going back to Estrem.</p>

<p>Three hours passed in a trench without greatcoats.
Magrin and I are so cold that we huddle up one against
the other and share a woollen handkerchief to cover our
faces. We put up at Calonne-sur-la-Lys. And so it
goes on up to the 17th, the date on which we re-enter
Belgium, passing by Bailleul, Outersteene and Locre. It
is not again a triumphal entry on a fine August morning,
it is a march past ruins and over rubbish heaps.</p>

<p>At Outersteene, however, we were received with
touching manifestations of confidence and enthusiasm;
an old tottering and broken-down teacher had drawn up
before the school a score of young lads of seven to ten
years old, who watched us passing and sang the <i>Marseillaise</i>
with all their lungs, while the old man beat the
time.</p>

<p>The village had been evacuated only three days ago,
and it was from the thresholds of its houses, partly fallen
in and still smoking, that this song rose, a sincere and
spontaneous outburst.</p>

<p>(Lieut. Mallet tells "How We Crossed the German
Lines"; "The Charge of Gilocourt"; "The Escape in the
Forest of Compiegne"; "The Two Glorious Days at
Staden"; "The Funeral of Lord Roberts"; "The Attack
at Loos.")</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_1_1" id="Footnote_1_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_1_1"><span class="label">[1]</span></a> All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories
herein told&mdash;not to chapters in the original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_18" id="Page_18">[18]</a></span></p>


<h2>"TO RUHLEBEN&mdash;AND BACK"&mdash;LIFE
IN A GERMAN PRISON</h2>

<p><i>Where the British Civilian Prisoners Are Held
in Detention Camp</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Geoffrey Pyke, an English Prisoner</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This is a picturesque and thrilling story of a real adventure.
The author, a young Englishman, entered Germany at the outbreak
of the War, was discovered, imprisoned, and transferred
to the great detention camp at Ruhleben. Here he made one
of the most marvelous escapes on record, and after undreamed-of
dangers and hardships arrived in safety at the Dutch front.
Mr. Pyke in relating his experience says: "I was caught up in
a vast mechanism ... that bounds the German Empire and
tossed from one part to another, was beaten, crushed, and
hammered ... the machine took me and threw me in jail, and
then in another jail, and then in another, and then back into
the first. Finally vomiting me, in a fit of either weariness,
mercy or disgust, into a concentration camp for untrained civilians."
Finally escaping from Ruhleben on July 9th, 1915. "Had
only the 4,500 other inhabitants of Ruhleben escaped at the
same time, in a species of general stampede, and one or two
other people in Berlin or elsewhere died or been called off,
matters might have arranged themselves very satisfactorily."
The escaped prisoner has collected his experiences into a volume
entitled: "To Ruhleben&mdash;And Back," from which we present a
single chapter by permission of his publishers, <i>Houghton, Mifflin
and Company</i>.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_2_2" id="FNanchor_2_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_2_2" class="fnanchor">[2]</a>
I&mdash;HERR DIREKTOR OF THE PRISON</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_19" id="Page_19">[19]</a></span></p>
<p>I forget now how many times I saw the Direktor of
the prison, though at the time, the days on which I did
were as distinct to me as wounds, which a man cannot
see, but which he knows individually and intimately. In
order to obtain audience of this gentleman, it was necessary,
when the warder unlocked the door at 6.30 and the
pitchers were put out, to ask to see the Herr Direktor.
At half-past nine you were taken out of the cell, let
through the door at the end down one flight and through
to the floor which you could see over the railings of the
balcony. Here again you were put into a cell, and the
door was locked, and time passed by. Nothing else happened.
In half an hour, or an hour, you were lined up
in the passage with any others who also had requests.
One by one you would go into that little office. You
would bow at the entrance. "Ja?" would remark the
bald-headed old gray-beard, with an Iron Cross of '70
hanging from his coat. "Ja?" And you would state
your request. A vast ledger opposite him, the old bird,
for he looked exactly like the Jackdaw of Rheims, would
enter and sign and countersign in it. His decision was
given in a curt "<i>Ja</i>" or "<i>Nein</i>," or "<i>Das geht nicht</i>,"<a name="FNanchor_3_3" id="FNanchor_3_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_3_3" class="fnanchor">[3]</a>
and you would be standing in the line outside, among
those whose chance had not yet come. You had succeeded;
you had failed&mdash;who knows what luck would attend
you on these expeditions. Every request to write
a letter had to be made in this manner. The shiny-headed
old bird, with the head jailer in attendance his hand stiffly
at his sword, would enter your name, the name of the
addressee, and the reason for writing it, in his vast ledger.
"<i>Ja? Nein. Das geht nicht</i>," and it is all over. Time
after time I craved permission to write to His Excellency
the American Ambassador, to request him to tell my
people at home that I was alive. It was granted at the
third request. What agony were those mornings, pacing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_20" id="Page_20">[20]</a></span>
up and down in the cell downstairs, waiting to be put into
line. What could I say to the old boy to persuade him?
Hundreds of passionate words rose in my mind, as I
paced up and down that cell, waiting for the moment.
"<i>Bitte, Herr Direktor, kann ich ein brief schreiben?</i>"<a name="FNanchor_4_4" id="FNanchor_4_4"></a><a href="#Footnote_4_4" class="fnanchor">[4]</a>
was all that I could stammer out, almost before I had
reached the threshold of his office. "<i>Ja? Nein. Das
geht nicht</i>," and I, after staring at him with eyes like a
rabbit's fastened on a snake, unable to find words to say
more, aching with the dull misery of refusal, have passed
away, giving place to someone else who, in his turn, also
succeeds or fails.</p>

<p>I used to try once a fortnight, and though I have
since discovered that even the letters I wrote were never
sent, yet nevertheless I always had a hope of their getting
through. Regularly as clockwork every other Monday,
after the Hell of Sunday, I would request to see the
Direktor. For the first ten weeks, I persevered in this.
Then suddenly I began to go to pieces. I missed one
Monday, and put off asking the old bald-pate until Tuesday.
When the moment came round on the Tuesday
morning, I funked again. Wednesday came, and again
I funked. On Thursday, I managed to push the words
asking to see the Direktor from between my lips. Then
with a rush, realising there was no going back, I felt
all courage return to me. My head became as clear
as a bell, and arguments to meet every objection of the
Direktor's came to my mind. He had let me write several
times previously, and I had not troubled him now
for seventeen days. I was confident. Again I repeated
my request gently to myself.... Suddenly I realised I
was standing before him, and that I must speak. I must
say something. I had come there to say something.
Unless I asked him something, he would say I was not
to be brought before him again. My eyes fixed on the
large pimple on the top of his head. I could not take
them away. The pimple was not quite in the centre of
the cranium, but occupied, so to speak, the position halfway
betwixt centre-forward and right outside. He wore
it where a comedian wears a top hat the size of a five-shilling
bit in attempts to be funny. My thoughts followed
it. It was unique, and magnificent. "Have YOU
any superfluous hair?" I thought. I should love to
breathe very gently on the shiny surface, just to see if it
becomes misty, or whether it still shines through everything.
I wondered if it was very sensitive, so sensitive
that he could feel what was reflected in it, or whether
it was pachydermatous, and safe to dig pins into. He
was going to move. He was just finishing off the entry
he was making in the ledger. He was going to look up
at me and say, "Ja wohl?"&mdash;Speak, say something&mdash;speak&mdash;speak....</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_21" id="Page_21">[21]</a></span></p>

<p>It was evening. I was in my cell. The light was fading
fast. I was thinking how on the morrow I would try
again, how it only needed careful preparation, and I
should be as able as anybody to say what I wanted to,&mdash;to
speak.</p>


<p>II&mdash;SOLITARY CONFINEMENT AT THE
POLIZEIGEFANGNIS</p>

<p>After you have been in solitary for some time, it becomes
increasing difficult to retain your judgment. I
know that first I would make up my mind that I was
going to be in prison for two years, and then a great
and irresistible hope would arise within me, that I should
be sent to a concentration camp called Ruhleben, that
I had had a whisper of from my friends. I had hoped
for some sort of a trial to know how long I was going
to remain where I was. Every day that passed at ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_22" id="Page_22">[22]</a></span>
o'clock, when I imagined that anyone, before whom I
might be brought, had come down to his office, I would
put on the one collar I had. Every day at six I would
take it off again, preserving it for the next day. At
times I became convinced that, because I was not yet of
age, I was to be kept for a few months more, and that
the day after my twenty-first birthday, I was to be sentenced
to some ghastly sort of punishment, like solitary
for two years, or for life. (There seemed absolutely no
difference between these two, and I dreaded the one as
much as the other. Both appeared interminable, and I
had no hopes of coming out sane, even after the shorter
period. I pictured myself moaning about the London
Law Courts in a celluloid collar, picking up a little copying
work here, and a little there, until I finally sank
into a mumbling old age at twenty-five, and died in
delirium tremens at thirty.)</p>

<p>Another fact made me terribly despondent, and, fight
how I would, was gradually making me utterly hopeless.
About fourteen days after my companions of the British
Relief Committee had gone, a new-comer had arrived.
He spoke German absolutely perfectly, but with an Austrian
accent. I had heard him say something to the
warder. I will not tell his story, for he is at the present
moment in another prison in Berlin, though not in solitary,
and is, I know, writing his reminiscences in readiness
for when the war shall come to an end. Let it
suffice, however, to say that he had been discovered, soon
after war broke out, writing articles for a London paper.
He was arrested at the flat he happened to be living in,
and, after a large amount of palaver, was given twenty-four
hours to leave the country in. He was accompanied
to the frontier. Within a fortnight he was back
again. He had gone to London, had seen his paper,
had come back to Holland, and at the frontier had pretended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_23" id="Page_23">[23]</a></span>
to be an Austrian waiter who had been expelled
from England. He so exasperated his interrogators at
the frontier by his eternal repetition of his ill treatment
at the hands of his dastardly English employers, that they
finally let him pass. However, in the end he was caught&mdash;as
we all are&mdash;and recognised. He had been told that
he was to be sent to this place Ruhleben, and, when
one day he disappeared, I naturally surmised that he had
been taken there. He was very good to me, for he had
managed to get permission to buy fruit; I had been
refused it. So he used to buy double the quantity, and
daily, on going down the stairs, smuggle me an apple.
"If he," I argued, "who has done this thing <i>twice</i>, and
who is hoary with old age (he was about thirty-five),
gets sent to this camp Ruhleben, after being here for
three weeks, and I, who have only done it once, and am
not yet of age, and have been here nine weeks, and have
not been sent there, then there is no hope of my ever
getting there. They would have sent me there by now,
were they going to do so at all." Afterwards, I found,
of course, that he had never been sent anywhere near
Ruhleben, but simply to another prison. I heard the
most wonderful stories about his doings there, from a
friend who was sent to prison for a time. He would
appear for exercise dressed in flamboyant pink running
shorts, a vest and socks to match&mdash;and a top hat. What
on earth for? Well, if the walls of prison don't supply
you with humour or whimsicality, you must undertake
the task yourself.</p>

<p>The best of luck to him. He probably thinks I am
still in that Polizeigefängnis.</p>

<p>For some time I had been the oldest inhabitant of the
prison. The usual denizen of the place came for a day
or two, and then went on his way through that process
called Law and Justice. My position gradually came to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_24" id="Page_24">[24]</a></span>
give me tiny privileges. For instance, they became quite
convinced that I was going mad, for, apart from my
habit of walking round and round the exercise yard at
nearly five miles per hour, every night I would repeat the
Jabberwocky. It had taken me a whole week with my
broken-down memory to piece together the odd bits of
lines and verses that I still carried in my head; and
another week to evolve Mr. Kipling's "If." I would
suddenly shout loudly into the solid blackness that "All
mimsey were the borrow-groves and the moamwraths
outgrabe," I knew quite well that borrogoves was the correct
litany, but I preferred borrow-groves; so borrow-groves
it was. "One two, one two and through and
through the vorpel blade went snicker snack. He left it
dead and with its head he went galumphing back," and I
would make that "snicker snack" all slow and creepy,
like Captain Hook; and would rise to a triumphant roar
as I announced the fact that he "galumphed" back, in
preference to any other form of locomotion that might
have been available, glorying at his ability to resist temptations
such as taxi-cabbing, taking the tube, or walking,
and, above all, the insidious run.</p>

<div class="poem">
"<i>If</i> you can make one heap of all your winnings,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And risk it on one turn of pitch and toss,</span><br />
And lose; and start again at your beginnings,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">And never breathe a word about your loss."</span><br />
<br />
<i>If</i> (and I shouted as if I was praying for life itself)<br />
<br />
"<i>If</i> you can force your heart, and nerve, and sinew<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">To serve their turn, long after they are gone,</span><br />
And so hold on, when there is nothing in you,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 1em;">Except the will, which says to them, 'hold on.'"</span><br />
</div>

<p>And I would repeat it softly to myself, until loudly again,
pacing madly up and down the cell, I would argue, "Yes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_25" id="Page_25">[25]</a></span>
that's all very well, you know, but your will is the very
thing that suffers before your heart and nerve and sinew
are anywhere near gone. Why, it's the very base, the
very foundation of all things, that it attacked, and then
what are you going to do, Mr. Rudyard?" Nevertheless,
I found an odd sort of comfort, and they were nearly
always my prayer to the setting sun as the darkness
stole in.</p>

<p>I also used to hum, whistle, and sing. This was strictly
forbidden by one of the thirty-three regulations pasted
on the back of the door. One night in December, when
the darkness had been extra oppressive,&mdash;I was in darkness
for eighteen out of the twenty-four hours&mdash;and I
had been singing loud enough for the warders to hear,
one came up and, rapping on the door, said that such
behaviour was forbidden, nevertheless, he would ask the
Herr Direktor as an especial favour, if I might be permitted
to whistle occasionally. This is what comes of
being the oldest inhabitant of a jail. The next day there
was solemnly filled into the ledger by the chief warder,
and countersigned by the Direktor, "Erlaubnis zu nummer
acht und fünfzig zu singen und zu pfeifen."<a name="FNanchor_5_5" id="FNanchor_5_5"></a><a href="#Footnote_5_5" class="fnanchor">[5]</a></p>


<p>III&mdash;IN A CELL AT THE STADT VOGTEI</p>

<p>I shall never forget the day on which, after thirteen
weeks, in January, 1915, I left prison&mdash;to go to another.
Nothing, I was convinced, could be more of a living
Hell than those thirteen weeks at the Polizeigefängnis.
I was escorted out into the street. There was snow upon
the pavements: it had been summer when I saw them
last. Our route lay round the corner. Here, after passing
through a low door in an immensely thick wall, once
again I found myself in an atmosphere, not merely of
red tape, but of the very essence from which tape, and
redness, are made. Those innumerable bureaux: those
ticketings, docketings, searching of clothes, etc., occupied
a couple of hours, until I found myself in a bright and
beautiful cell thirteen feet by six. This was the famous
Stadt Vogtei prison. "Vogtei," literally translated, means
a bailiff's office, but why a prison should be called "The
City Bailiff's Office," or why the city bailiff's office should
be a prison, I am at a loss to say.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_26" id="Page_26">[26]</a></span></p>
<p>Notwithstanding the bailiff, it was quite a good prison.
Large numbers of English people&mdash;five to six hundred
in all&mdash;had been here before they were sent to Ruhleben
"for purposes of quarantine" as the official report says.
It was a gentleman's prison; it was intended for those
who had sentences for minor offences to serve, e.g. two
to three months. But this did not frighten me, as I knew
of its character as a depot for Ruhleben. I was full of
hope. We had two meals of skilly a day instead of one.
I was allowed to talk to the others during the two hours'
exercise they were good enough to allow, and I could
buy almost anything I wanted&mdash;bar newspapers.</p>

<p>I had another experience here that nearly killed me.
There was the usual shelf for bowl, spoon, etc., and from
the side hung a fat little book with one hundred and
thirty-three rules. It contained all the punishments for
all the various main crimes, worked out in permutations
and combinations. Things such as "for not cleaning out
of the cell for the first time the prisoner is to be punished
by the three days' withdrawal of the midday hot meal, or
instead one day withdrawal of the hot meal, and a second
day withdrawal of the cold meal (breakfast), or, in lieu
thereof.... In addition to which ... or as an alternative
... in substitute thereof.... But for the second
offence, or dirtiness of a second degree, or unpunctuality
of the third degree, or noise of the twentieth degree, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_27" id="Page_27">[27]</a></span>
prisoner shall be punished by withdrawal of ... whereof
... in lieu of this can be subtituted ..." etc. etc.</p>

<p>On the outside of this little fat book with its one
hundred and thirty-three rules was a diagram of the shelf
from which it hung, showing exactly in what order the
washing bowl, the eating bowl, the spoon, the fork, the
soap were to be placed. And not merely was there a front
view, but also two side views were given: one showing
the side of the shelf with one towel hanging somnolently
from a nail, and the other side view showing the other
end of the shelf with the booklet itself hanging even more
somnolently from another nail. But yes, there was something
more: for not merely was there a picture of the
booklet, but the picture of the booklet had the picture
of the booklet pasted on the booklet's cover, and, what is
more, the side which bore this diagram faced outwards,
and the right-hand top corner was against the wall. Thus
was it according to the picture. But it so happened that
this was impossible, for the two were incompatible.
Either the picture had to face inwards, or the left-hand
top corner must touch the wall. But both together was
contrary to the nature of the book. Feeling rather jolly
at my new environment, I pointed this out to the jailer,
who wasn't a bad sort of fellow, when he came in. At
first he didn't grasp it, but when he did, he took serious
note of it with pen and ink. Next day, in came the
prison governor, a military-looking fellow, and he went
straight to the booklet at the side of the cupboard, and
examining the diagram on the cover, studied the incompatibility
carefully for a long time. He turned round,
and after looking whimsically at me, and then at the
warder for some time, as if trying to make up his mind
as to who was the biggest fool, said, "H'm," very definitely,
and went away.</p>

<p>Alas, I only remained here five days. I had hardly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_28" id="Page_28">[28]</a></span>
finished breakfast when the warder came round with a
list and said I was to "pack up," though, since I had
nothing to pack, his orders were rather superfluous.
Again weary hours of waiting in the bureau, and then,
for the first time in my life, I saw the inside of Black
Maria.</p>

<p>I had imagined it to have cells all the way down the
side, but there were only two. There were seven of us,
including a woman and a policeman. Heaven knows
what the woman was "in" for, and though I several times
formulated the question mentally, I could never manage
to get it out. The policeman was quite a nice fellow,
and let us talk, and joined in himself with an air of a
busy man sparing a moment to play with some children.
It soon became plain that one of the men was the woman's
husband, or ought to have been if he wasn't. The
others were gentlemen, sentenced for petty offences, who
were being taken to the town hall to be enlisted in the
army. They did not seem to relish the prospect, but
"at any rate," they said, "it would be a change." I looked
through the grille to see what I could of Berlin streets.
There were not many people on them, and the greater
number were women and in black, but the quietness of
the place was nothing to what I was to see later. There
were a few luxury-selling shops, such as flower sellers,
that were closed, but the majority seemed able to get
along. That Teutonic spectacle, extraordinary but obviously
sensible, of women going about without hats could
be seen everywhere. And then we suddenly drove into
the inevitable yard. Two gates unbarred and locked
themselves automatically as one passed.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"MY THIRD PRISON&mdash;MOABIT: CELL 1603"</p>

<p>It was the great prison&mdash;Moabit. A huge central hall
surmounted by a dome, with wings going in all directions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_29" id="Page_29">[29]</a></span>
and the end of each wing connected by another great
building, each with six storeys of cells, and each of these
with its iron balcony with glass flooring. There was
noise, and clanging of doors everywhere. I was told to
stand at the commencement of one of the wings, just
off the dome. There was a huge clock, and I noticed it
had a bell attached to it. At any rate, I thought, I shall
hear the hour strike. The number of my cell, I can
remember it now, was 1603, "the year Queen Elizabeth
died," I remarked to myself, as it was unlocked, and
I went in. It was a larger cell than I had hitherto had&mdash;about
fourteen feet by six. There was electric light and
a table and seat that folded down from the wall. The
window was, as usual, above my head, but this time it
was made of frosted glass. There was a horrid suggestion
of permanency about the place that made me feel
rather bad. I asked the warder who gave me my prison
underclothing&mdash;I was allowed to keep my own suit&mdash;whether
one was always in solitary here, and for how
long one came. "Immer im einzelhaft"&mdash;always in solitary,&mdash;and
for three to four months and upward, he said.
"Never less?" I asked. "No, never," he replied. "Come
with me," he continued, and I was taken down into the
very bowels of this terrible edifice, till, finally, I joined
a vast squad of criminals. He left me. We then filed
down devious passages once more, and finally were led
into a vast room with about two hundred and seventy
showers in it. When bathed, I was locked into a large,
bare cellar just opposite, and here I was soon joined by
two others, one an elderly middle-aged man of about
fifty-six, and the other an evil-looking devil of about
thirty-four. They sat down on the bench. I was walking
up and down. They were an interesting couple.
They were about to be examined by an Untersuchungsrichter,
or examining magistrate, and the younger one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_30" id="Page_30">[30]</a></span>
was coaching the other in what to say. The elder seemed
too numbed to agree or disagree, though he seemed to
have a tendency towards the truth, which the other
promptly suppressed, but just sat there, his hands on his
knees, seemingly deaf. Once the younger strode up to
him threateningly as if to hit him. He ground his teeth
and swore that by God, if the old man were to say that
he'd &mdash;&mdash;. Then he tried a different tack; he argued, he
elucidated, he showed the simplicity of his ideas, and
how, above all, it would help themselves.</p>

<p>When the young one became bellicose I had felt no
inclination to help the old man. Why, I knew not. I
think I felt that nothing, least of all truth, should stand
in the way of man's salvation from that place, and that
if the old man hadn't got enough gumption to tell what
seemed to be a few well-concocted lies, well, he ought
to be made to, since it involved the fate of the younger
man, who was not yet reduced to the state of an incapacitated
jelly. It was the same old story: Fate had beaten
the old man, but had not succeeded in persuading the
young one that he also was beaten; the young one refused
to acknowledge it. It was blind instinct that told him
to lie, though he knew with clever lawyers against him,
and, worst of all opponents, the law, the chances of his
getting through to freedom were remote. I had noticed
hitherto that it was always the young men who felt the
strain most, seemed most conscious of the inhuman
cruelty of prison, and I was to find out later that it was
generally the young ones who recovered easiest. Sometimes
the older ones don't recover. A man I was to meet
later was afflicted with sudden decay of the optic nerve,
and is now gradually going blind, purely as a result of
solitary.</p>

<p>The door opened suddenly, and they were taken out,
and as they passed me I saw the younger and villainous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_31" id="Page_31">[31]</a></span>
one look at the old man, in a manner in which threats,
prayers, and above all, the desire to instil the wish to live
were all inexpressibly mixed. They passed. I never saw
them again. I often wonder where they are. There are
lots like them.</p>

<p>I was taken back to my cell. I was now sinking fast.
I saw little hopes of recovery. I was quickly becoming
a broken-down creature, and though physically I should
have lasted out for years, mentally I saw there was a
crash not far ahead. I had seen it happen with other
men before. As it was, mentally I was fast becoming a
species of cow. I would stand for hours at a time, leaning
my head into the corner, my hands in my pockets,
staring at the floor. I would find that for hours I had
been saying to myself "My dear sir"&mdash;I always called
myself "my dear sir" when talking out loud,&mdash;"you really
must make an effort to get out. I mean it's simply too
stupid to spend the best years of your life in a box like
this. Use your wits. Do something. Go on, you juggins,
get out somewhere. Think!" and so on, from
twelve till three. I became absolutely impersonal, and
found it difficult to have likes and dislikes about anything.
I absolutely forgot what flowers smelt like. Milk
I could not imagine. Fruit, tobacco, fish, were mere
names to me. I had forgotten what they were. I could
not understand the meaning of the term "red."</p>

<p>Though I longed to be free, I felt that human beings
would be perfectly unbearable. I no longer considered
myself as one. I felt perfectly decorporealised: I was
merely a mind contemplative and a poor one at that. And
yet I longed for their company. I still kept up my nightly
habit of repeating a few verses from any poem I could
remember, and after the light had gone out&mdash;for here
there was electric light&mdash;I would rise solemnly in the
dark, and make the most fiery speeches to the Cambridge<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_32" id="Page_32">[32]</a></span>
Union&mdash;poor Cambridge Union. I would then proceed
to oppose my own motion, pick holes in it, show up the
proposer as an impostor and a charlatan. A seconder
would then arise, who with all the sarcasm of a Voltaire
would rend the immediate speaker adjective from substantive,
verb from adverb, until quivering with the
laceration received, the latter would be thrown, a bleeding
proposition, into the waste deserts of verbosity.</p>


<p>V&mdash;GHASTLY HOURS UNDER GERMAN
BRUTALITY</p>

<p>It was just about this time that I nearly got myself
shot for attempted murder. I was so used to the darkness
that I found electric light rather trying to the eyes,
and therefore turned the racket upwards toward the ceiling
in order to have but reflected light. A little later in
came the warder. He saw the upturned bracket, and
lifting the hilt of his sword, hit me sharply over the head.
In a flash I was on him. I had raised my fists on each
side for a smashing blow on his temples. He was unable
to get away, for he was so short that my arms could
have nailed him as he tried. He saw there was no escape,
and the sight of my face blazing with fury and wretchedness
made him drop his sword. I relished that moment,
I gloated over it. I kept my fists going backwards and
forwards nearly touching his temples, but never quite. I
tried to imagine the agony in his rabbit-like mind, waiting
for the crushing blow to fall upon him, and wondering
what it would feel like. Suddenly he turned a sickly
green. His hat was knocked all on one side. I saw
beneath his uniform a fat little vulgar bourgeois, incapable
of a thought outside the satisfying of his own
senses. He turned from green to a pasty yellow. He
glanced piteously up into my distorted face. I drove him
back towards the door, growling and hissing at him, my<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_33" id="Page_33">[33]</a></span>
fists going like a steam hammer on each side of his head.
His agony became worse. His eyes flew from one side to
the other, like a rabbit looking for escape. His little
pointed flaxen beard wobbled and, such was his panic,
so did his stomach. Suddenly my mind changed, and
taking him by the shoulders, and putting my knee, as
far as it was possible, into his belly, I pushed him backwards,
and he sat down violently and disconsolately in
the passage outside, his sword underneath him, and his
hat rolling away into the darkness. I slammed the door,
and after a time he got up and locked it. I knew nothing
would happen to me, for he was not permitted to hit me,
but had I hit him back, I gasp to think of the number
of years I should now be doing.</p>

<p>This, the third prison I had been in, was the worst.
Physically it was slightly better: there was more space,
light, two good meals a day, but the very last drop of
individuality was taken away from you. It was not
permitted even to arrange the bowls on the shelf as you
liked. I never saw daylight, for our exercise took place
at half-past six in the dark. It was now the 20th of
January. I had been arrested in the early days of October.
Since then I had been residing in a lavatory. I
found it dull.</p>

<p>Despite the warder's announcement that nobody ever
came there for less than three or four months, I was
suddenly taken away again after five days, and Black
Maria drove me back once more to the Polizeigefängnis
of the Alexanderplatz. I was too miserable by now to
care where I was sent or what they did to me. I was
beginning to lose the power of appreciating anything&mdash;whatever
its nature. I found some new arrivals at
Alexanderplatz. The place was full as usual with neutrals
who were under suspicion: Dutch, Swedes and
Danes. One Dutchman had been there for seven weeks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_34" id="Page_34">[34]</a></span>
in solitary. I was just reaching the final depths of
despair when, one night, just as I had got my first foot
into bed, the door was flung open, and into the gloom a
voice shouted "'raus."<a name="FNanchor_6_6" id="FNanchor_6_6"></a><a href="#Footnote_6_6" class="fnanchor">[6]</a> I "raused" timidly and in my
nightshirt, and was told to dress quickly. I did so, surmising
I was to go to another prison. I began to feel
quite numb, and I no longer hoped for anything. Downstairs
in the bureau a very pleasant policeman took charge
of me, and after having signed the receipts for the acceptance
of my carcase, he made the usual remark,
"Kommen Sie mit," and off we went. I thought it odd
that we should go alone: they usually fetch the criminals
in batches. "Where are we going to?" I asked. "Ruhleben,"
he said.</p>


<p>VI&mdash;ON THE ROAD TO RUHLEBEN PRISON</p>

<p>For a moment I could hardly feel. I hardly dared feel.
I just breathed quietly to myself, and thought how nice
the air tasted. I was going to see human beings again.
For a time the words were rather meaningless, and then
I gradually began to revive under their warmth. We
went out into the street to the Alexanderplatz station.
I had a fine opportunity to run away here, though I
should have been a fool to have done so, and to have
invited prison again. In any case, I had no glasses with
me, and I was very short-sighted. We had gone up on
to the platform, and I was chuckling and giggling like a
schoolgirl at seeing life once again, when the policeman
discovered it was the wrong one. "Run," he said,
"there's our train over there." I ran like a leopard. In
ten bounds I had slipped through the crowd and had
lost him. I ran on down the stairs, and into the street.
How glorious it all seemed, and I roared aloud with
laughter, at which a sallow-faced woman in black seemed
offended and turned round to stare. I rushed on, up the
other set of stairs and in time my captor appeared. The
idea of bolting had just entered my head and flown, but
"no," I said, "wait till we get to Ruhleben, and have got
tired of that, then we'll see what can be done."</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_35" id="Page_35">[35]</a></span></p>
<p>Meanwhile, I stared out into the darkness from the
brightly-lit carriage as we steamed through the suburbs
of Berlin. I got a glimpse of a tiny room, in which
numbers of steaming dishevelled women were crowded
together bending over machines and needlework. They
were being sweated. That was their daily life. They
too, lived in what was really a prison, though no law
stopped them roaming whence they would. I was in the
world once more....</p>

<p>(The prisoner relates numerous stories of his experiences,
of which the above is but a single instance.
He describes the prison; how it feels waiting to be shot;
the impressions of a lunatic on release from solitary
confinement and his daring escape with Mr. Edward
Falk, District Commissioner in the Political Service of
Nigeria.)</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTES</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_2_2" id="Footnote_2_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_2_2"><span class="label">[2]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
from original sources.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_3_3" id="Footnote_3_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_3_3"><span class="label">[3]</span></a> "That is impossible."</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_4_4" id="Footnote_4_4"></a><a href="#FNanchor_4_4"><span class="label">[4]</span></a> "Please, Herr Direktor, may I write a letter?"</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_5_5" id="Footnote_5_5"></a><a href="#FNanchor_5_5"><span class="label">[5]</span></a> "Permit to Number 58 to sing and to whistle."</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_6_6" id="Footnote_6_6"></a><a href="#FNanchor_6_6"><span class="label">[6]</span></a> "Out!"</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_36" id="Page_36">[36]</a></span></p>

<h2>AN AMERICAN AT BATTLE OF THE
SOMME WITH FRENCH ARMY</h2>

<p><i>Army Life With the Soldiers Along the Somme</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Frederick Palmer, American War
Correspondent</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Mr. Palmer was the only accredited correspondent who had
freedom of the field in the Battles of the Somme. At the time
of this writing he has been officially appointed as a member of
the staff of General Pershing, with the American Armies in
France. This American has become a world figure. His life
has been spent on the battlefields of the modern wars: The
Greek War, the Philippine War, the Macedonian Insurrection,
the Central American Wars, the Russian-Japanese War, the
Turkish Revolution, the Balkan Wars. At the beginning of the
Great War, he was with the British army and fleet. His
descriptions of the fighting are unsurpassed in the war's literature&mdash;it
is "the epic touch of great events." He has made a
notable historical record in his book entitled "My Second Year
of the War," in which he presents graphic pictures of the grim
fighting along the Somme, with admirable descriptions of the
heroism of the Canadians, the Australians and the fighters from
all parts of the Earth, who are giving their lives "to make the
world safe for Democracy." A single chapter from Mr. Palmer's
book is here reproduced by permission of his publishers, <i>Dodd,
Mead and Company</i>: Copyright 1917.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_7_7" id="FNanchor_7_7"></a><a href="#Footnote_7_7" class="fnanchor">[7]</a>
I&mdash;STORY OF THE BATTLE RIDGE ON THE
SOMME</p>

<p>Sometimes it occurred to one to consider what history
might say about the Ridge and also to wonder how much
history, which pretends to know all, would really know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_37" id="Page_37">[37]</a></span>
Thus, one sought perspective of the colossal significance
of the uninterrupted battle whose processes numbed the
mind and to distinguish the meaning of different stages
of the struggle. Nothing had so well reflected the character
of the war or of its protagonists, French, British
and German, as this grinding of resources, of courage,
and of will of three powerful races.</p>

<p>... It is historically accepted, I think, that the
first decisive phase was the battle of the Marne when
Paris was saved. The second was Verdun, when the
Germans again sought a decision on the Western front
by an offensive of sledge-hammer blows against frontal
positions; and, perhaps, the third came when on the Ridge
the British and the French kept up their grim, insistent,
piece-meal attacks, holding the enemy week in and week
out on the defensive, aiming at mastery as the scales
trembled in the new turn of the balance and initiative
passed from one side to the other in the beginning of that
new era.</p>

<p>This scarred slope with its gentle ascent, this section
of farming land with its woods growing more ragged
every day from shell fire, with its daily and nightly thunders,
its trickling procession of wounded and prisoners
down the communication trenches speaking the last word
in human bravery, industry, determination and endurance&mdash;this
might one day be not only the monument to
the positions of all the battalions that had fought, its
copses, its villages, its knolls famous to future generations
as in Little Round Top with us, but in its monstrous
realism be an immortal expression, unrealized by
those who fought, of a commander's iron will and foresight
in gaining that supremacy in arms, men and material
which was the genesis of the great decision.</p>

<p>The German began drawing away divisions from the
Verdun sector, bringing guns to answer the British and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_38" id="Page_38">[38]</a></span>
French fire and men whose prodigal use alone could
enforce his determination to maintain <i>morale</i> and prevent
any further bold strokes such as that of July (1916).</p>

<p>His sausage balloons began to reappear in the sky as
the summer wore on; he increased the number of his aeroplanes;
more of his five-point-nine howitzers were sending
their compliments; he stretched out his shell fire
over communication trenches and strong points; mustered
great quantities of lachrymatory shells and for
the first time used gas shells with a generosity which
spoke his faith in their efficacy. The lachrymatory shell
makes your eyes smart, and the Germans apparently
considered this a great auxiliary to high explosives and
shrapnel. Was it because of the success of the first gas
attack at Ypres that they now placed such reliance in
gas shells? The shell when it lands seems a "dud,"
which is a shell that has failed to explode; then it blows
out a volume of gas.</p>

<p>"If one hit right under your nose," said a soldier, "and
you hadn't your gas mask on, it might kill you. But
when you see one fall you don't run to get a sniff in order
to accommodate the Boche by asphyxiating yourself."</p>

<p>Another soldier suggested that the Germans had a big
supply on hand and were working off the stock for want
of other kinds. The British who by this time were settled
in the offensive joked about the deluge of gas shells
with a gallant, amazing humor. Going up to the Ridge
was going to their regular duty. They did not shirk
it or hail it with delight. They simply went, that was
all, when it was a battalion's turn to go.</p>


<p>II&mdash;GUNNERS IN THE FURNACE OF WAR</p>

<p>July heat became August heat as the grinding proceeded.
The gunners worked in their shirts or stripped<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_39" id="Page_39">[39]</a></span>
to the waist. Sweat streaks mapped the faces of the
men who came out of the trenches. Stifling clouds of
dust hung over the roads, with the trucks phantom-like
as they emerged from the gritty mist and their drivers'
eyes peered out of masks of gray which clung to their
faces. A fall of rain comes as a blessing to Briton and
German alike. German prisoners worn with exhaustion
had complexions the tint of their uniforms. If the
British seemed weary sometimes, one had only to see the
prisoners to realize that the defensive was suffering more
than the offensive. The fatigue of some of the men was
of the kind that one week's sleep or a month's rest will
not cure; something fixed in their beings.</p>

<p>It was a new kind of fighting for the Germans. They
smarted under it, they who had been used to the upper
hand. In the early stages of the war their artillery had
covered their well-ordered charges; they had been killing
the enemy with gunfire. Now the Allies were returning
the compliment; the shoe was on the other foot.
A striking change, indeed, from "On to Paris!" the old
battle-cry of leaders who had now come to urge these
men to the utmost of endurance and sacrifice by telling
them that if they did not hold against the relentless hammering
of British and French guns what had been done
to French villages would be done to their own.</p>

<p>Prisoners spoke of peace as having been promised as
close at hand by their officers. In July the date had been
set as Sept. 1st. Later, it was set as Nov. 1st. The German
was as a swimmer trying to reach shore, in this
case peace, with the assurance of those who urged him
on that a few more strokes would bring him there. Thus
have armies been urged on for years.</p>

<p>Those fighting did not have, as had the prisoners, their
eyes opened to the vast preparations behind the British<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_40" id="Page_40">[40]</a></span>
lines to carry on the offensive. Mostly the prisoners
were amiable, peculiarly unlike the proud men taken in
the early days of the war when confidence in their "system"
as infallible was at its height. Yet there were exceptions.
I saw an officer marching at the head of the
survivors of his battalion along the road from Montauban
one day with his head up, a cigar stuck in the corner
of his mouth at an aggressive angle, his unshaven chin
and dusty clothes heightening his attitude of "You go
to &mdash;&mdash;, you English!"</p>

<p>The hatred of the British was a strengthening factor in
the defense. Should they, the Prussians, be beaten by
New Army men? No! Die first! said Prussian officers.
The German staff might be as good as ever, but among
the mixed troops&mdash;the old and the young, the hollow-chested
and the square-shouldered, mouth-breathers with
spectacles and bent fathers of families, vigorous boys in
their late 'teens with the down still on their cheeks and
hardened veterans survivors of many battles east and
west&mdash;they were reverting appreciably to natural human
tendencies despite the iron discipline.</p>

<p>It was Skobeloff, if I recollect rightly, who said that
out of every hundred men twenty were natural fighters,
sixty were average men who would fight under impulse
or when well led, and twenty were timid; and armies
were organized on the basis of the sixty average to
make them into a whole of even efficiency in action. The
German staff had supplied supreme finesse to this end.
They had an army that was a machine; yet its units were
flesh and blood and the pounding of shell fire and the
dogged fighting on the Ridge must have an effect.</p>

<p>It became apparent through those two months of piece-meal
advance that the sixty average men were not as
good as they had been. The twenty "funk-sticks," in
army phrase, were given to yielding themselves if they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_41" id="Page_41">[41]</a></span>
were without an officer, but the twenty natural fighters&mdash;well,
human psychology does not change. They were
the type that made the professional armies of other days,
the brigands, too, and also those of every class of society
to whom patriotic duty had become an exaltation
approaching fanaticism. More fighting made them fight
harder.</p>


<p>III&mdash;DEAD BODIES STRAPPED TO GUNS</p>

<p>Such became members of the machine-gun corps, which
took an oath never to surrender, and led bombing parties
and posted themselves in shell-craters to face the charges
while shells fell thick around them, or remained up in
the trench taking their chances against curtains of fire
that covered an infantry charge, in the hope of being
able to turn on their own bullet spray for a moment
before being killed. Sometimes their dead bodies were
found strapped to their guns, more often probably by
their own request, as an insurance against deserting their
posts, than by command.</p>

<p>Shell fire was the theatricalism of the struggle, the
roar of guns its thunder; but night or day the sound
of the staccato of that little arch devil of killing, the
machine gun, coming from the Ridge seemed as true
an expression of what was always going on there as a
rattlesnake's rattle is of its character. Delville and High
Woods and Guillemont and Longueval and the Switch
Trench&mdash;these are symbolic names of that attrition, of
the heroism of British persistence which would not take
No for answer.</p>

<p>You might think that you had seen ruins until you
saw those of Guillemont after it was taken. They were
the granulation of bricks and mortar and earth mixed
by the blasts of shell fire which crushed solids into dust<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_42" id="Page_42">[42]</a></span>
and splintered splinters. Guillemont lay beyond Trônes
Wood across an open space where the German guns had
full play. There was a stone quarry on the outskirts,
and a quarry no less than a farm like Waterlot, which
was to the northward, and Falfemont, to the southward
and flanking the village, formed shelter. It was
not much of a quarry, but it was a hole which would be
refuge for reserves and machine guns. The two farms,
clear targets for British guns, had their deep dugouts
whose roofs were reinforced by the ruins that fell upon
them against penetration even by shells of large caliber.
How the Germans fought to keep Falfemont! Once they
sent out a charge with the bayonet to meet a British
charge between walls of shell fire and there through the
mist the steel was seen flashing and vague figures wrestling.</p>

<p>Guillemont and the farms won and Ginchy which lay
beyond won and the British had their flank of high
ground. Twice they were in Guillemont but could not
remain, though as usual they kept some of their gains.
It was a battle from dugout to dugout, from shelter to
shelter of any kind burrowed in the débris or in fields,
with the British never ceasing here or elsewhere to continue
their pressure. And the débris of a village had particular
appeal; it yielded to the spade; its piles gave natural
cover.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;THE ARTILLERYMEN IN THE WOODS</p>

<p>A British soldier returning from one of the attacks
as he hobbled through Trônes Wood expressed to me the
essential generalship of the battle. He was outwardly
as unemotional as if he were coming home from his day's
work, respectful and good-humored, though he had a hole
in both arms from machine-gun fire, a shrapnel wound<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_43" id="Page_43">[43]</a></span>
in the heel, and seemed a trifle resentful of the added
tribute of another shrapnel wound in his shoulder after
he had left the firing-line and was on his way to the
casualty clearing station. Insisting that he could lift
the cigarette I offered him to his lips and light it, too, he
said:</p>

<p>"We've only to keep at them, sir. They'll go."</p>

<p>So the British kept at them and so did the French at
every point. Was Delville Wood worse than High
Wood? This is too nice a distinction in torments to be
drawn. Possess either of them completely and command
of the Ridge in that section was won. The edge
of a wood on the side away from your enemy was the
easiest part to hold. It is difficult to range artillery on
it because of restricted vision, and the enemy's shells
aimed at it strike the trees and burst prematurely among
his own men. Other easy, relatively easy, places to hold
are the dead spaces of gullies and ravines. There you
were out of fire and there you were not; there you
could hold and there you could not. Machine-gun fire
and shell fire were the arbiters of topography more dependable
than maps.</p>

<p>Why all the trees were not cut down by the continual
bombardments of both sides was past understanding.
There was one lone tree on the skyline near Longueval
which I had watched for weeks. It still had a limb, yes,
the luxury of a limb, the last time I saw it, pointing with
a kind of defiance in its immunity. Of course it had
been struck many times. Bits of steel were imbedded in
its trunk; but only a direct hit on the trunk will bring
down a tree. Trees may be slashed and whittled and
nicked and gashed and still stand; and when villages
have been pulverized except for the timbering of the
houses, a scarred shade tree will remain.</p>

<p>Thus, trees in Delville Wood survived, naked sticks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_44" id="Page_44">[44]</a></span>
among fallen and splintered trunks and upturned roots.
How any man could have survived was the puzzling thing.
None could if he had remained there continuously and
exposed himself; but man is the most cunning of animals.
With gas mask and eye-protectors ready, steel helmet
on his head and his faithful spade to make himself
a new hole whenever he moved, he managed the incredible
in self-protection. Earth piled back of a tree-trunk
would stop bullets and protect his body from shrapnel.
There he lay and there a German lay opposite him, except
when attacks were being made.</p>

<p>Not getting the northern edge of the woods the British
began sapping out in trenches to the east toward
Ginchy, where the many contours showed the highest
ground in that neighborhood. New lines of trenches
kept appearing on the map, often with group names such
as Coffee Alley, Tea Lane and Beer Street, perhaps.
Out in the open along the irregular plateau the shells
were no more kindly, the bombing and the sapping no less
diligent all the way to the windmill, where the Australians
were playing the same kind of a game. With the actual
summit gained at certain points, these had to be
held pending the taking of the whole, or of enough to
permit a wave of men to move forward in a general attack
without its line being broken by the resistance of
strong points, which meant confusion.</p>


<p>V&mdash;STALKING A MACHINE GUN IN ITS LAIR</p>

<p>Before any charge the machine guns must be "killed."
No initiative of pioneer or Indian scout surpassed that
exhibited in conquering machine-gun positions. When a
big game hunter tells you about having stalked tigers,
ask him if he has ever stalked a machine gun to its lair.</p>

<p>As for the nature of the lair, here is one where a Briton<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_45" id="Page_45">[45]</a></span>
"dug himself in" to be ready to repulse any counter-attack
to recover ground that the British had just won.
Some layers of sandbags are sunk level with the earth
with an excavation back of them large enough for a machine-gun
standard and to give the barrel swing and for
the gunner, who back of this had dug himself a well four
or five feet deep of sufficient diameter to enable him to
huddle at the bottom in "stormy weather." He was general
and army, too, of this little establishment. In the
midst of shells and trench mortars, with bullets whizzing
around his head, he had to keep a cool aim and make
every pellet which he poured out of his muzzle count
against the wave of men coming toward him who were
at his mercy if he could remain alive for a few minutes
and keep his head.</p>

<p>He must not reveal his position before his opportunity
came. All around where this Briton had held the fort
there were shell-craters like the dots of close shooting
around a bull's-eye; no tell-tale blood spots this time,
but a pile of two or three hundred cartridge cases lying
where they had fallen as they were emptied of their
cones of lead. Luck was with the occupant, but not with
another man playing the same game not far away.
Broken bits of gun and fragments of cloth mixed with
earth explained the fate of a German machine gunner
who had emplaced his piece in the same manner.</p>

<p>Before a charge, crawl up at night from shell-crater
to shell-crater and locate the enemy's machine guns.
Then, if your own guns and the trench mortars do not get
them, go stalking with supplies of bombs and remember
to throw yours before the machine gunner, who also has
a stock for such emergencies, throws his. When a machine
gun begins rattling into a company front in a charge
the men drop for cover, while officers consider how to
draw the devil's tusks. Arnold von Winkelried, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_46" id="Page_46">[46]</a></span>
gathered the spears to his breast to make a path for his
comrades, won his glory because the fighting forces were
small in his day. But with such enormous forces as are
now engaged and with heroism so common, we make only
an incident of the officer who went out to silence a machine
gun and was found lying dead across the gun with
the gunner dead beside him.</p>


<p>VI&mdash;TALKS WITH THE MEN IN THE REAR</p>

<p>The advance on the map at our quarters extended as
the brief army reports were read into the squares every
morning by the key of figures and numerals with a detail
that included every little trench, every copse, every
landmark, and then we chose where we would go that
day. At corps headquarters there were maps with still
more details and officers would explain the previous day's
work to us. Every wood and village, every viewpoint,
we knew, and every casualty clearing station and prisoners'
inclosure. At battalion camps within sight of the
Ridge and within range of the guns, where their blankets
helped to make shelter from the sun, you might talk with
the men out of the fight and lunch and chat with the officers
who awaited the word to go in again or perhaps
to hear that their tour was over and they could go to
rest in Ypres sector, which had become relatively quiet.</p>

<p>They had their letters and packages from home before
they slept and had written letters in return after waking;
and there was nothing to do now except to relax and
breathe, to renew the vitality that had been expended in
the fierce work where shells were still threshing the earth,
which rose in clouds of dust to settle back again in enduring
passive resistance.</p>

<p>There was much talk early in the war about British
cheerfulness; so much that officers and men began to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_47" id="Page_47">[47]</a></span>
resent it as expressing the idea that they took such a war
as this as a kind of holiday, when it was the last thing
outside of Hades that any sane man would choose. It
was a question in my own mind at times if Hades would
not have been a pleasant change. Yet the characterization
is true, peculiarly true, even in the midst of the
fighting on the Ridge. Cheerfulness takes the place of
emotionalism as the armor against hardship and death;
a good-humored balance between exhilaration and depression
which meets smile with smile and creates an atmosphere
superior to all vicissitudes. Why should we be
downhearted? Why, indeed, when it does no good. Not
"Merrie England!" War is not a merry business; but
an Englishman may be cheerful for the sake of self and
comrades.</p>

<p>Of course, these battalions, officers and men, would talk
about when the war would be over. Even the Esquimaux
must have an opinion on the subject by this time.
That of the men who make the war, whose lives are the
lives risked, was worth more, perhaps, than that of people
living thousands of miles away; for it is they who
are doing the fighting, who will stop fighting. To them
it would be over when it was won. The time this would
require varied with different men&mdash;one year, two years;
and again they would turn satirical and argue whether
the sixth or the seventh year would be the worst. And
they talked shop about the latest wrinkles in fighting; how
best to avoid having men buried by shell-bursts; the value
of gas and lachrymatory shells; the ratio of high explosives
to shrapnel; methods of "cleaning out" dugouts
or "doing in" machine guns, all in a routine that had
become an accepted part of life like the details of the
stock carried and methods of selling in a department
store.</p>

<p>Indelible the memories of these talks, which often<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_48" id="Page_48">[48]</a></span>
brought out illustrations of racial temperament. One
company was more horrified over having found a German
tied to a trench <i>parados</i> to be killed by British shell
fire as a field punishment than by the horrors of other
men equally mashed and torn, or at having crawled over
the moist bodies of the dead, or slept among them, or
been covered with spatters of blood and flesh&mdash;for that
incident struck home with a sense of brutal militarism
which was the thing in their minds against which they
were fighting.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;WITH STEEL HELMETS AND GAS MASKS</p>

<p>With steel helmets on and gas masks over our shoulders,
we would leave our car at the dead line and set off
to "see something," when now the fighting was all hidden
in the folds of the ground, or in the woods, or lost
on the horizon where the front line of either of these two
great armies, with their immense concentration of men
and material and roads gorged with transport and thousands
of belching guns, was held by a few men with
machine guns in shell-craters, their positions sometimes
interwoven. Old hands in the Somme battle become shell-wise.
They are the ones whom the French call "varnished,"
which is a way of saying that projectiles glance
off their anatomy. They keep away from points where
the enemy will direct his fire as a matter of habit or
scientific gunnery, and always recollect that the German
has not enough shells to sow them broadcast over the
whole battle area.</p>

<p>It is not an uncommon thing for one to feel quite safe
within a couple of hundred yards of an artillery concentration.
That corner of a village, that edge of a shattered
grove, that turn in the highway, that sunken road&mdash;keep
away from them! Any kind of trench for shrapnel;
lie down flat unless a satisfactory dugout is near for protection<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_49" id="Page_49">[49]</a></span>
from high explosives which burst in the earth.
If you are at the front and a curtain of fire is put behind
you, wait until it is over or go around it. If there is
one ahead, wait until another day&mdash;provided that you
are a spectator. Always bear in mind how unimportant
you are, how small a figure on the great field, and that
if every shell fired had killed one soldier there would
not be an able-bodied man in uniform left alive on the
continent of Europe. By observing these simple rules
you may see a surprising amount with a chance of surviving.</p>

<p>One day I wanted to go into the old German dugouts
under a formless pile of ruins which a British colonel had
made his battalion headquarters; but I did not want
to go enough to persist when I understood the situation.
Formerly, my idea of a good dugout&mdash;and I always like
to be within striking distance of one&mdash;was a cave twenty
feet deep with a roof of four or five layers of granite,
rubble and timber; but now I feel more safe if the fragments
of a town hall are piled on top of this.</p>

<p>The Germans were putting a shell every minute with
clockwork regularity into the colonel's "happy home"
and at intervals four shells in a salvo. You had to make
a run for it between the shells, and if you did not know
the exact location of the dugout you might have been
hunting for it some time. Runners bearing messages took
their chances both going and coming and two men were
hit. The colonel was quite safe twenty feet underground
with the matting of débris including that of a fallen chimney
overhead, but he was a most unpopular host. The
next day he moved his headquarters and not having been
considerate enough to inform the Germans of the fact
they kept on methodically pounding the roof of the untenanted
premises.</p>

<p>After every battle "promenade" I was glad to step into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_50" id="Page_50">[50]</a></span>
the car waiting at the "dead line," where the chauffeurs
frequently had had harder luck in being shelled than we
had farther forward. Yet I know of no worse place
to be in than a car when you hear the first growing scream
which indicates that yours is the neighborhood selected
by a German battery or two for expending some of its
ammunition. When you are in danger you like to be on
your feet and to possess every one of your faculties. I
used to put cotton in my ears when I walked through
the area of the gun positions as some protection to the
eardrums from the blasts, but always took it out once I
was beyond the big calibers, as an acute hearing after
some experience gave you instant warning of any
"krump" or five-point-nine coming in your direction, advising
you which way to dodge and also saving you from
unnecessarily running for a dugout if the shell were passing
well overhead or short.</p>

<p>I was glad, too, when the car left the field quite behind
and was over the hills in peaceful country. But one never
knew. Fifteen miles from the front line was not always
safe. Once when a sudden outburst of fifteen-inch
naval shells sent the people of a town to cover and
scattered fragments over the square, one cut open the
back of the chauffeur's head just as we were getting into
our car.</p>

<p>"Are you going out to be strafed at?" became an inquiry
in the mess on the order of "Are you going to take
an afternoon off for golf to-day?" The only time I
felt that I could claim any advantage in phlegm over
my comrades was when I slept through two hours of
aerial bombing with anti-aircraft guns busy in the neighborhood,
which, as I explained, was no more remarkable
than sleeping in a hotel at home with flat-wheeled surface
cars and motor horns screeching under your window.
A subway employee or a traffic policeman in New<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_51" id="Page_51">[51]</a></span>
York ought never to suffer from shell-shock if he goes
to war.</p>

<p>The account of personal risk which in other wars might
make a magazine article or a book chapter, once you sat
down to write it, melted away as your ego was reduced to
its proper place in the cosmos. Individuals had never been
so obscurely atomic. With hundreds of thousands fighting,
personal experience was valuable only as it expressed
that of the whole. Each story brought back to the mess
was much like others, thrilling for the narrator and
repetition for the polite listener, except it was some officer
fresh from the communication trench who brought news
of what was going on in that day's work.</p>

<p>Thus, the battle had become static; its incidents of
a kind like the product of some mighty mill. The public,
falsely expecting that the line would be broken, wanted
symbols of victory in fronts changing on the map and
began to weary of the accounts. It was the late Charles
A. Dana who is credited with saying: "If a dog bites
a man it is not news, but if a man bites a dog it is."</p>

<p>Let the men attack with hatchets and in evening dress
and this would win all the headlines in the land because
people at their breakfast tables would say: "Here is
something new in the war!" Men killing men was not
news, but a battalion of trained bloodhounds sent out to
bite the Germans would have been. I used to try to hunt
down some of the "novelties" which received the favor
of publication, but though they were well known abroad
the man in the trenches had heard nothing about them.</p>

<p>Bullets, shells, bayonets and bombs remained the tried
and practical methods there on the Ridge with its overpowering
drama, any act of which almost any day was
greater than Spionkop or Magersfontein which thrilled
a world that was not then war-stale; and ever its supreme
feature was that determination which was like a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_52" id="Page_52">[52]</a></span>
kind fate in its progress of chipping, chipping at a stone
foundation that must yield.</p>


<p>VIII&mdash;VICTORY!&mdash;"THE RIDGE IS TAKEN"</p>

<p>The Ridge seeped in one's very existence. You could
see it as clearly in imagination as in reality, with its
horizon under shell-bursts and the slope with its maze of
burrows and its battered trenches. Into those calm army
reports association could read many indications: the telling
fact that the German losses in being pressed off the
Ridge were as great if not greater than the British, their
sufferings worse under a heavier deluge of shell fire, the
increased skill of the offensive and the failure of German
counter-attacks after each advance.</p>

<p>No one doubted that the Ridge would be taken and
taken it was, or all of it that was needed for the drive that
was to clean up any outstanding points, with its sweep
down into the valley. A victory this, not to be measured
by territory; for in one day's rush more ground was
gained than in two months of siege. A victory of position,
of will, of <i>morale</i>! Sharpening its steel and wits
on enemy steel and wits in every kind of fighting, the
New Army had proved itself in the supreme test of all
qualities.</p>

<p>(This American correspondent relates thirty-one remarkable
narratives of adventure, all of which equal in
human interest and historical importance, the single narrative
given above. He tells about his experiences "Forward
with the Guns;" "The Brigade that Went
Through;" "The Storming of Contalmaison;" "The
Mastery of the Air;" "The Tanks in Action;" "The
Harvest of Villages;" "Five Generals and Verdun"&mdash;all
of which are notable historical records.)</p>


<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_7_7" id="Footnote_7_7"></a><a href="#FNanchor_7_7"><span class="label">[7]</span></a> All numerals throughout this volume relate to the stories
herein told&mdash;not to chapters in the original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_53" id="Page_53">[53]</a></span></p>

<h2>AN AMERICAN'S EXPERIENCES "INSIDE
THE GERMAN EMPIRE"</h2>

<p><i>Told by Herbert Bayard Swope, an American in Berlin</i></p>


<blockquote>

<p>These experiences and observations inside the German Empire
in the third year of the War form an invaluable narrative.
They have been recognized by one of the leading American
universities as the most important contribution of a journalist
to the literature of the Great War. Hon. James W. Gerard,
American Ambassador to the German Empire, says: "The
facts and experiences ... (of Herbert Bayard Swope), gathered
first-hand by the author, whose friendship I value and
whose professional equipment I admire, form an important contribution
to contemporaneous history." Mr. Swope says: "My
volume is based upon a series of articles I wrote for the <i>New
York World</i>, and I am grateful to Mr. Ralph Pulitzer of that
paper, for permission to use the material in this form." This
inspiring book is published by <i>The Century Company</i>: Copyright,
1917, with whose authority this chapter is given.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_8_8" id="FNanchor_8_8"></a><a href="#Footnote_8_8" class="fnanchor">[8]</a>
I&mdash;JOURNEYS IN THE SPY-BESIEGED LAND</p>

<p>Germany to-day is a giant fortress completely ringed
by besiegers. Every man, woman, and child, all the
beasts of burden and food, are checked and located.
The doors have been locked against travelers seeking to
enter and those seeking to depart. Only in exceptional
cases are visitors received, and in rarer instances are
natives permitted to leave.</p>

<p>The police are able at all times to account for every
one of the population, passport issuance has been made
extremely difficult, the ordeal of search and inquest at
the frontier is severe and thorough, interior travel has
been sharply restricted, every foot of the border is
guarded against illegal entry, obstacles have been put in
the way of mail and telegraph communications, the
espionage system has been multiplied in efficiency and
extent&mdash;all for the safety of the empire. And because
this is the underlying reason for them, the Germans have
submitted to the restrictions willingly, and, instead of
rebelling, aid them.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_54" id="Page_54">[54]</a></span></p>
<p>The spy mania that swept over war-ridden Europe two
years ago has lessened in its visible intensity in Germany,
but the precaution against spies has been increased.
The people have confidence in the safeguards against
espionage, and so suspicion has been quieted. How well
this confidence is justified can be attested by any one
who has been inside the empire in the second year of
the war.</p>

<p>A stranger is under observation from the time he
enters until he has left. The watchfulness is not obtrusive,
it is rarely evident; but it is always thorough.
Within twelve hours of a visitor's arrival he must report
in person at the nearest police station, and every time
he makes a railroad journey this operation must be
repeated.</p>

<p>When an American undertakes a voyage to Germany,
the wheels of the imperial Government begin to revolve
immediately upon the first application for a visé to his
passport being made in this country. The first question
to be answered concerns the applicant's character, so
that Germany may feel sure he does not purpose to aid
or abet her enemies; and the second, the actual need of
the business that causes him to make the trip. Obtaining
a passport from the American Government is attended
by many formalities, and these are renewed when the
German consul-generals are asked to approve.</p>

<p>Germany insists that a fortnight intervene between<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_55" id="Page_55">[55]</a></span>
the application for a visé and the beginning of the trip.
This is to enable her officials to make the necessary investigations,
and then to communicate the facts to Berlin
and to the traveler's port of arrival.</p>

<p>All travel between America and Germany is through
Copenhagen, Stockholm, or Rotterdam. From Copenhagen
the traveler enters Germany through Warnemunde;
from Stockholm he enters through Sassnitz;
and from Rotterdam through Bentheim. Upon his arrival
at one of the three neutral cities he must begin the
proceedings afresh....</p>

<p>Upon arrival at Warnemunde (the methods throughout
the empire are standardized, and are the same at
every other entrance point) the travelers are shunted into
a long low wooden shed, carrying their hand baggage,
having previously surrendered the checks for their
heavier luggage. Upon entering the place they are given
numbers, and in return surrender their passports to brisk,
keen-eyed, non-commissioned officers, whose efficiency
has been increased by long practice.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"SEARCHED" BY THE SECRET POLICE</p>

<p>Once in the room, the travelers are not permitted to
leave except through one door, and that they pass only
when their numbers are called. Barred windows and
armed sentries prevent any trifling with this system. The
numbers are called one by one except in the case of husbands
and wives, who are permitted to go through together&mdash;and
when this is reached, the traveler passes
through into a second office, where he is questioned as
to his identity and the photographs on the passports are
verified.</p>

<p>While he is undergoing this questioning he is being
overheard and carefully watched by numbers of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_56" id="Page_56">[56]</a></span>
<i>geheim-Polizei</i> (secret police), some of whom are in
uniform and others of whom masquerade in civilian
attire as new arrivals. If there is any error in his papers
it is developed at this point, and he is at once turned
about and sent back to Copenhagen. But if it is a case
of <i>alles in Ordnung</i> (everything in order), it is so reported,
and he is ushered into another room, where, having
passed the first two inquisitorial chambers, he is
submitted to the grand ordeal, that of search.</p>

<p>And what a search it is! Unless one's credentials are
exceptionally strong, one is stripped and one's mouth,
ears, nose, and other parts of the body examined. One's
fountain pen is emptied, every piece of paper taken away,
including visiting cards, and even match-boxes are confiscated.
Finger rings, umbrellas and canes are inspected.
If bandages are worn, these must be stripped
off, too. No distinction is drawn between men and
women beyond the fact that women are of course examined
before female inspectors.</p>

<p>The bodily search having been completed, that of the
clothing is begun. Every article of apparel is felt over
carefully and exposed to a strong light for fear there
may be writing on the lining. If there is the slightest
reason for suspicion, the travelers are given a sponge
bath of water with a large admixture of citric acid, which
has the effect of making apparent any writing on the body
that may have been done with invisible ink. The Germans
say that these precautions have been necessitated by
the ingenious ruses employed by spies, whose entrance
into the country is considered a greater menace than is
their departure, since in entering they bring with them
instructions to their confederates already within the
empire awaiting orders.</p>

<p>The next step is the examination of the baggage, and
this is done in a manner to make the American customs<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_57" id="Page_57">[57]</a></span>
inspection seem childish. The interior and exterior
measurements of the trunks are taken to guard against
false sides, tops, and bottoms, and then one by one every
article the trunks contain is put through a separate
inspection....</p>

<p>Every sort of liquid is confiscated. The perfumes of
the women are poured into a big tub, and such liquors
as the men may be carrying are treated in a similar
manner. The contents of travelers' alcohol or spirit
lamps are carefully emptied into air-tight containers for
later use. The reason for the drastic regulation against
taking any liquid, however small the quantity, into Germany
was the danger of the fact that high explosives
such as nitroglycerine can be carried in small vessels.
On several occasions, the Germans say, railroads and
bridges have been blown up by the enemy travelers who
carried the means of destruction in this way. In this
connection the additional precaution is taken by the
authorities of prohibiting all travelers from putting their
heads out the windows of the coupés while crossing
bridges.</p>

<p>All written or printed matter, such as books, newspapers,
pamphlets, magazines, is taken away. Upon request
the traveler may have these forwarded to his point
of destination after they have been censored and deleted.
As every point on the German border is carefully
guarded, it is virtually impossible for any one to enter
the country except at stated points. All the roads are
closed, and the border fields are carefully patrolled.</p>

<p>Upon his arrival in Berlin, or wherever he may be
bound, the traveler must present himself in person at the
nearest police station. There his passport is again viséd,
and he is given official permission to remain for a given
period. But every time he makes a trip he must report
himself going and coming....</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_58" id="Page_58">[58]</a></span></p>


<p>III&mdash;THE COUNTRY THAT WENT "SPY MAD"</p>

<p>In every hotel are to be met spies in the form of
guests, waiters, chambermaids, telephone operators, and
bartenders. In the early part of the war these last proved
their worth often, for men otherwise cautious and reticent
became outspoken under the influence of a few
Scotches or cocktails, which are still in vogue in Germany
despite their American origin.</p>

<p>At one of the biggest of the Berlin hotels it is a noticeable
fact that all the floor waiters are young, active,
highly intelligent men. When they are asked why they
are not serving at the front all have excuses on the score
of health. The truth is that they are all governmental
agents whose duty it is to familiarize themselves with
the details of every visitor's business. That they do well.
Every stranger's papers are thoroughly investigated, no
matter how securely they may be locked up, before he
has been in the city two days, assuming he leaves them in
his room. Two members of the American diplomatic
corps who made short stays in Berlin can tell singular
stories on this point.</p>

<p>The chief of the floor waiters at this hotel&mdash;and it is
illustrative of all the others&mdash;is a polished-mannered
young fellow of about thirty-two who speaks English,
French, Italian, Spanish, and Danish with the same facility
that he reads them, and he reads them as well as he
does his native German. I noticed the chief of the telephone
operators, who while discharging the duties of his
lowly job wore livery, attending the races in an English
sport-coat, with glasses strung over his shoulders, and
he went to and from the course in a taxicab, the height
of luxury in wartime Berlin. One would hardly credit
his income solely to the measly wages he received from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_59" id="Page_59">[59]</a></span>
his work at the switch-board. He, too, as well as his
assistants, was an accomplished linguist.</p>

<p>It must not be thought that espionage is confined to the
Americans. On the contrary, even the subjects of Germany's
allies receive this attention. Austrian, Bulgarian,
or Turkish, it makes no difference; all are put under
the scrutiny of the secret eyes and ears of the Kaiser.
Almost it is more difficult to obtain a passport permitting
one to travel to Austria than it is to obtain one for a
journey to America, and the examination at the Austrian
border is just as severe as at the frontier between Germany
and Denmark.</p>

<p>German spies travel on all the transatlantic liners running
from Denmark, Sweden, Norway, and Holland to
America, and back again. They find out as much as they
can about their fellow-travelers, so that the secret police
may be forewarned as to whom and what they are to receive.
These agents are rarely employed by the German
Government for the secret transmission of mail; that is
usually done by men of solid reputation, American or
other neutrals who are persuaded to accept the task on
the ground of a service to the empire. Obviously, they
must be violently pro-German before they are asked to
assume the undertaking.</p>

<p>The difficulty of communication is one of the severe
hardships that the German Government and people suffer.
Mails to and from the empire are seized by the
Allies, and if delivered at all, are so belated as to make
them valueless. Only such cables as the Allies choose
to pass are permitted transmission. Male Germans are
not permitted to travel on the seas. So German communication
is restricted to the wireless, to supposedly
neutral couriers, and to submarines, both of the commercial
type as the <i>Deutschland</i>, and of the war type,
which have been secretly conveying important German<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_60" id="Page_60">[60]</a></span>
mail to Spanish waters, where it is loaded upon friendly
neutral vessels, which carry it into Spanish ports and
thence forward it to America and other points. This
last method has been a carefully guarded secret of the
German Government. Mail sent out by Spain is not
seized and censored by the Allies....</p>


<p>IV&mdash;A VISIT TO GENERAL LORINGHOVEN</p>

<p>To get the official view of the situation held by the
officers of the general staff, I called on General von Freytag-Loringhoven
at the general staff building in Berlin,
where the great Moltke long presided. He received me
in a room the distinguishing features of which were
maps, not only showing the disposition of the German
forces, but immense wall-sized ones on which were diagrammed
the present locations of the Allies, showing
their number, their commanders (designated by name
and locations of headquarters), with their relative ranks
indicated by little parti-coloured flags. I had just returned
from the Somme, and as I saw how each of the
French and British lines was clearly marked, I expressed
my surprise.</p>

<p>The general smiled.</p>

<p>"Yes, our intelligence department is pretty thorough,"
he said, "but it is no better on the Somme than our
enemy's is, for in France, where we stand on occupied
soil, almost every civilian is an aid to the Allies.</p>

<p>"But despite that, despite all the French and English
can do at the Somme," he went on, "they will never break
through."...</p>

<p>I asked the general for his impressions of the French
and British soldiers. He answered:</p>

<p>"The French are better soldiers. They are better
schooled and drilled. They have been at it longer and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_61" id="Page_61">[61]</a></span>
they are enormously brave and sacrificing. But the
British are proving their worth, too. They are all of
them warlike and like to fight, but they don't know how
as yet. You can't make a soldier in a few weeks or
months; it takes time and patience.</p>

<p>"The French artillery is exceptional. The French
artillery officers have always been of high repute. They
are teaching much to the English and Russians, and
these forces are showing a corresponding betterment.</p>

<p>"Because of their greater experience, I should say the
French are better officered than the English. The Russian
officers are a poor lot. There is no sympathy between
them and their men. The men are brave enough,
but are sheep-like in their lack of intelligence...."</p>

<p>In September, I stood in the general's field headquarters
and watched the big guns drop shells all around
the famous "windmill of Pozières" on the high ridge
which had been taken by the British and was being used
by their artillery observers, who gamely held on, although
the position was anything but comfortable.</p>

<p>While we watched the bombardment a squadron of
English fliers passed overhead. I ducked and made for
the bomb-proof.</p>

<p>"Don't worry," said the general, "the fliers rarely bomb
us. Our aviators generally leave their generals' headquarters
alone, and they usually do the same by us. It is
a sort of understood courtesy."...</p>

<p>While I stood in his observation-point with Wenninger
an iron-gray quartermaster sergeant passed. He
had been in the east against the Russians as well as in
the west. In reply to my question as to his opinion of
the schools of fighting, he answered:</p>

<p>"I'd rather face twenty infantry attacks from the Russians
than bring up food to the first lines here (British).
Their damned artillery makes it hell."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_62" id="Page_62">[62]</a></span></p>


<p>V&mdash;"AT THE SOMME, I MET VON PAPEN"</p>

<p>At the Somme I met Captain von Papen, the former
German military attaché, who was sent home by America.
After six weeks on the firing line he was made chief of
staff to General Count Schweinitz, commanding the
Fourth Guard Division and holding the Grevillers-Warlencourt-Ligny
line. He has proved himself an efficient
officer.</p>

<p>Captain Boy-Ed, the naval attaché, who was sent
back to Germany at the same time, is now chief intelligence
officer at the admiralty in Berlin. He is very bitter
toward America, while von Papen is friendly. Dr.
Dernburg, the other propagandist who was returned to
the fatherland, is philosophical as regards his work in
America, and is without rancour over his treatment. He
is living in Berlin, working on housing plans for the
poor, but he has lost the confidence of his Government....</p>

<p>All the world knows Hindenburg. Germany's Iron
Man, the hero of the Masurian Swamps, a colossal
wooden statue of whom stands opposite the Reichstag in
the Sieges-allee, the Avenue of Victory, in Berlin's Tiergarten.
But who is Ludendorff?</p>

<p>Ludendorff is Germany's man of mystery, the grim,
inscrutable, silent man whose picture is on sale in every
shop, whose name is in every mouth, but whose real personality
is hidden even from his own countrymen.</p>

<p>Ludendorff is Hindenburg's indispensable right-hand
man....</p>

<p>There are those who say that Ludendorff is Hindenburg's
brain, and that Hindenburg's greatest successes
have been planned by his silent, retiring assistant. Hindenburg,
when in the mood, becomes very talkative and
chatty, and at such times he often attributes his success<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_63" id="Page_63">[63]</a></span>
to his assistant. There is a perfect harmony between
the two; Ludendorff plans and Hindenburg decides....</p>

<p>On August 28 (1914) it was announced that the Russians
were fleeing across the border. The news grew.
Five army corps and three cavalry divisions had been
annihilated. More than ninety thousand prisoners were
taken. Tannenberg, one of the greatest victories of the
war, had changed the whole face of affairs in the east.</p>

<p>There have been bigger battles and longer battles, and
there have been battles of more significance in the history
of the war, but there has been no other battle in which
the result has been so overwhelming and complete a victory
for either side.</p>

<p>Just what happened at Tannenberg and in the Masurian
Swamps is still a secret. There have been stories
that a hundred thousand men were drowned in the
swamps. There have been tales of dikes released and
men swept away in a swirl of rushing waters. All that
is known certainly is that a Russian army disappeared.</p>

<p>(This American war correspondent then gives his impressions
of men and events within the German Armies,
telling many interesting tales of Boelcke, the German
"knight of the air" who shot down thirty-eight enemy
aeroplanes before he was killed in collision with one of
his own German machines.)</p>

<div class="footnotes"><h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_8_8" id="Footnote_8_8"></a><a href="#FNanchor_8_8"><span class="label">[8]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
in the original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_64" id="Page_64">[64]</a></span></p>

<h2>"DIXMUDE"-AN EPIC OF THE
FRENCH MARINES</h2>

<p><i>Story of the Murder of Commander Jeanniot</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Charles Le Goffic of the Fusiliers Marins&mdash;Translated
by Florence Simmonds</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The story of the French Marines is one of the epics of the
World's Wars. Such is the story of the Bretons. At Dixmude,
under command of their own officers, retaining not only the
costume, but the soul and language of their profession they
were still sailors. Grouped with them were seamen from all
the naval stations. The heroism of these sailors is told in the
volume entitled "Dixmude," published by <i>J. B. Lippincott Company</i>.
From these interesting stories, we here relate "The
Murder of Captain Jeanniot."</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_9_9" id="FNanchor_9_9"></a><a href="#Footnote_9_9" class="fnanchor">[9]</a>
I-GREAT HEARTS OF THE FRENCH
MARINES</p>

<p>I had opportunities of talking to several of these
"Parigots," and I should not advise anyone to speak
slightingly of their officers before them, though, indeed,
so few of these have survived that nine times out of ten
the quip could be aimed only at a ghost. The deepest
and tenderest words I heard uttered concerning Naval
Lieutenant Martin des Pallières were spoken by a Marine
of the Rue des Martyrs, George Delaballe, who was
one of his gunners in front of the cemetery the night
when his machine-guns were jammed, and five hundred
Germans, led by a major wearing the Red Cross armlet,
threw themselves suddenly into our trenches.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_65" id="Page_65">[65]</a></span></p>
<p>"But why did you love him so?" I asked.</p>

<p>"I don't know.... We loved him because he was
brave, and was always saying things that made us
laugh, ... but above all because he loved us."</p>

<p>Here we have the secret of this extraordinary empire
of the officers over their men, the explanation of that
miracle of a four weeks' resistance, one against six, under
the most formidable tempest of shells of every caliber
that ever fell upon a position, in a shattered town where
all the buildings were ablaze, and where, to quote the
words of a <i>Daily Telegraph</i> correspondent, it was no
longer light or dark, "but only red." When the Boches
murdered Commander Jeanniot, his men were half crazy.
They would not have felt the death of a father more
deeply. I have recently had a letter sent me written by
a Breton lad, Jules Cavan, who was wounded at Dixmude.
While he was in hospital at Bordeaux he was
visited by relatives of Second-Lieutenant Gautier, who
was killed on October 27 in the cemetery trenches.</p>

<p>"Dear Sir," he wrote to M. Dalché de Desplanels the
following day, "you cannot imagine how your visit went
to my heart.... On October 19, when my battalion
took the offensive at Lannes, three kilometers from Dixmude,
I was wounded by a bullet in the thigh. I dragged
myself along as best I could on the battlefield, bullets
falling thickly all around me. I got over about five
hundred meters on the battlefield and reached the road.
Just at that moment Lieutenant Gautier, who was coming
towards me with a section, seeing me in the ditch, asked:
'Well, my lad, what is the matter with you?' 'Oh, Lieutenant,
I am wounded in the leg, and I cannot drag myself
further.' 'Here then, get on my back.' And he carried
me to a house at Lannes, and said these words,
which I shall never forget: 'Stay there, my lad, till they
come and fetch you. I will let the motor ambulance men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_66" id="Page_66">[66]</a></span>
know.' Then he went off under the fire. Oh, the splendid
fellow!"</p>


<p>II&mdash;TALES OF THE BRAVE "PARIGOTS"</p>

<p>"The splendid fellow!" Jules Cavan echoes Georges
Delaballe, the Breton, the "Parigot." There is the same
heartfelt ring in the words of each. And sometimes,
as I muse over these heroic shades, I ask myself which
were the more admirable, officers or men. When Second-Lieutenant
Gautier received orders to take the place of
Lieutenant de Pallières, buried by a shell in the trench
of the cemetery where Lieutenant Eno had already fallen,
he read his fate plainly; he said: "It's my turn." And
he smiled at Death, who beckoned him. But I know of
one case when, as Death seemed about to pass them by,
the Marines provoked it; when, after they had used up all
their cartridges and were surrounded in a barn, twelve
survivors only remaining with their captain, the latter,
filled with pity for them, and recognizing the futility of
further resistance, said to his men: "My poor fellows,
you have done your duty. There is nothing for it but to
surrender." Then, disobedient to their captain for the
first time, they answered: "No!" To my mind nothing
could show more clearly the degree of sublime exaltation
and complete self-forgetfulness to which our officers had
raised the <i>moral</i> of their men. Such were the pupils these
masters in heroism had formed, that often their own
pupils surpassed them. There was at the Trouville Hospital
a young Breton sailor called Michel Folgoas. His
wound was one of the most frightful imaginable: the
whole of his side was shaved off by a shell which killed
one of his comrades in the trenches, who was standing
next to him, on November 2. "I," he remarks in a letter,
"was completely stunned at first. When I came to
myself I walked three hundred meters before I noticed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_67" id="Page_67">[67]</a></span>
that I was wounded, and this was only when my comrades
called out: '<i>Mon Dieu</i>, they have carried away half your
side.'" It was true. But does he groan and lament over
it? He makes a joke of it: "The Boches were so hungry
that they took a beef-steak out of my side, but this won't
matter, as they have left me a little."</p>

<p>Multiply this Michel Folgoas by 6,000, and you will
have the brigade. This inferno of Dixmude was an inferno
where everyone made the best of things. And the
<i>battues</i> of rabbits, the coursing of the red German hares
which were running in front of the army of invasion, the
bull-fights in which our Mokos impaled some pacific Flemish
bull abandoned by its owners; more dubious escapades,
sternly repressed, in the underground premises of
the Dixmude drink-shops; a story of two Bretons who
went off on a foraging expedition and were seen coming
back along the canal in broad daylight towing a great cask
of strong beer which they had unearthed Heaven knows
where at a time when the whole brigade, officers as well
as men, had nothing to drink but the brackish water of
the Yser&mdash;these, and a hundred other tales of the same
kind, which will some day delight village audiences gathered
round festal evening fires, bear witness that Jean
Gouin (or Le Gwenn, John the White, as the sailors call
themselves familiarly<a name="FNanchor_10_10" id="FNanchor_10_10"></a><a href="#Footnote_10_10" class="fnanchor">[10]</a>), did not lose his bearings even
in his worst vicissitudes.</p>

<p>Dixmude was an epic then, or, as M. Victor Giraud
proposes, a French <i>geste</i>, but a <i>geste</i> in which the heroism
is entirely without solemnity or deliberation, where the
nature of the seaman asserts itself at every turn, where
there are thunder, lightning, rain, mud, cold, bullets,
shrapnel, high explosive shells, and all the youthful gaiety
of the French race.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_68" id="Page_68">[68]</a></span></p>
<p>And this epic did not come to an end at Dixmude.
The brigade did not ground arms after November 10.
The gaps in its ranks being filled from the dépôts, it was
kept up to the strength of two regiments, and reaped
fresh laurels. At Ypres and Saint Georges it charged
the troops of Prince Ruprecht of Bavaria and the Duke
of Würtemberg in succession. Dixmude was but one
panel of the triptych: on the broken apex of the black
capital of the Communiers, on the livid backgrounds of
the flat country about Nieuport, twice again did the brigade
inscribe its stormy silhouette.</p>

<p>But at Ypres and Saint Georges the sailors had the
bulk of the Anglo-French forces behind them; at Dixmude
up to November 4 they knew that their enterprise
was a forlorn hope. And in their hands they held the
fate of the two Flanders. One of the heroes of Dixmude,
Naval Lieutenant Georges Hébert, said that the Fusiliers
had gained more than a naval battle there. My only
objection to this statement is its modesty. Dixmude was
our Thermopylæ in the north, as the Grand-Couronné,
near Nancy, was our Thermopylæ in the east; the Fusiliers
were the first and the most solid element of the long
triumphant defensive which will one day be known as
the victory of the Yser, a victory less decisive and perhaps
less brilliant than that of the Marne, but not less
momentous in its consequences.</p>

<p>The Generalissimo is credited with a dictum which he
may himself have uttered with a certain astonishment:</p>

<p>"You are my best infantrymen," said he to the Fusiliers.</p>

<p>We will close with these simply, soldierly words, more<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_69" id="Page_69">[69]</a></span>
eloquent than the most brilliant harangues. The brigade
will reckon them among their proudest trophies to all
time.</p>


<p>III&mdash;STORY OF MURDER OF DR. DUGUET</p>

<p>On October 25 (1914), we had not yet received any
help from the inundation. Our troops were in dire need
of rest, and the enemy was tightening his grip along the
entire front. New reinforcements were coming up to
fill the gaps in his ranks; our scouts warned us that fresh
troops were marching upon Dixmude by the three roads
of Essen, Beerst, and Woumen.<a name="FNanchor_11_11" id="FNanchor_11_11"></a><a href="#Footnote_11_11" class="fnanchor">[11]</a> We had to expect a
big affair the next day, if not that very night. It came
off that night.</p>

<p>About 7 o'clock the Gamas company went to relieve
the men in the southern trenches. On their way, immediately
outside the town, they fell in with a German
force of about the same strength as themselves, which
had crept up no one knew how. There was a fusillade
and a general <i>mêlée</i>, in which our sailors opened a passage
through the troop with bayonets and butt-ends, disposing
of some forty Germans and putting the rest to
flight.<a name="FNanchor_12_12" id="FNanchor_12_12"></a><a href="#Footnote_12_12" class="fnanchor">[12]</a> Then there was a lull. The splash of rain was
the only sound heard till 2 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, when suddenly a fresh
outbreak of rifle-fire was heard near the Caeskerke station,
right inside the defences. It was suggested that
our men or our allies, exasperated by their life of continual
alarms, had been carried away by some reckless
impulse. The bravest soldiers admit that hallucinations
are not uncommon at night in the trenches. All the pitfalls
of darkness rise before the mind; the circulation of
the blood makes a noise like the tramp of marching
troops; if by chance a nervous sentry should fire his
rifle, the whole section will follow suit.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_70" id="Page_70">[70]</a></span></p>

<p>Convinced that some misunderstanding of this kind had
taken place, the Staff, still quartered at the Caeskerke
railway station, shouted to the sections to cease firing.
As, however, the fusillade continued in the direction of
the town, the Admiral sent one of his officers, Lieutenant
Durand-Gasselin, to reconnoiter. He got as far as the
Yser without finding the enemy; the fusillade had ceased;
the roads were clear. He set out on his way back to
Caeskerke. On the road he passed an ambulance belonging
to the brigade going up towards Dixmude, which,
on being challenged, replied: "Rouge Croix." Rather
surprised at this inversion, he stopped the ambulance;
it was full of Germans, who, however, surrendered without
offering any resistance. But this capture suggested
a new train of thought to the Staff: they were now certain
that there had been an infantry raid upon the town;
the Germans in the ambulance probably belonged to a
troop of mysterious assailants who had made their way
into Dixmude in the night and had vanished no less mysteriously
after this extraordinary deed of daring. One
of our covering trenches must have given way, but which?
Our allies held the railway line by which the enemy had
penetrated into the defences, sounding the charge....
The riddle was very disturbing, but under the veil of a
thick, damp night, which favored the enemy, it was useless
to seek a solution. It was found next morning at
dawn, when one of our detachments on guard by the Yser
suddenly noticed in a meadow a curious medley of Belgians,
French Marines, and Germans. Had our men<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_71" id="Page_71">[71]</a></span>
been made prisoners? This uncertainty was of brief
duration. There was a sharp volley; the sailors fell;
the Germans made off. This was what had happened!</p>

<p>Various versions have been given of this incident, one
of the most dramatic of the defence, in the course of
which the heroic Commander Jeanniot and Dr. Duguet,
chief officer of the medical staff, fell mortally wounded,
with several others. The general opinion, however, seems
to be that the German attack, which was delivered at
2:30 <span class="smcap">P.M.</span>, was closely connected with the surprise movement
attempted at 7 o'clock in the evening on the Essen
road and so happily frustrated by the intervention of
the Gamas company. It is not impossible that it was
carried out by the fragments of the force we had scattered,
reinforced by new elements and charging to the
sound of the bugle. This would explain the interval of
several hours between the two attacks, which were no
doubt the outcome of a single inspiration.</p>

<p>"The night," says an eye-witness, "was pursuing its
normal course, and as there were no indications of disturbance,
Dr. Duguet took the opportunity to go and get
a little rest in the house where he was living, which was
just across the street opposite his ambulance. The Abbé
Le Helloco, chaplain of the 2nd Regiment, had joined
him at about 1:30 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> The latter admits that he was
rather uneasy because of the earlier skirmish, in which,
as was his habit, he had been unremitting in his ministrations
to the wounded. After a few minutes' talk the
two men separated to seek their straw pallets. The
Abbé had been asleep for an hour or two, when he was
awakened by shots close at hand. He roused himself
and went to Dr. Duguet, who was already up. The two
did not exchange a word. Simultaneously, without taking
the precaution of extinguishing the lights behind them,
they hurried to the street. Enframed by the lighted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_72" id="Page_72">[72]</a></span>
doorway, they at once became a target; a volley brought
them down in a moment. Dr. Duguet had been struck by
a bullet in the abdomen; the Abbé was hit in the head,
the arm, and the right thigh. The two bodies were touching
each other. 'Abbé,' said Dr. Duguet, 'we are done
for. Give me absolution. I regret....' The Abbé
found strength to lift his heavy arm and to make the sign
of the cross upon his dying comrade. Then he fainted,
and this saved him. Neither he nor Dr. Duguet had
understood for the moment what was happening.
Whence had the band of marauders who had struck
them down come, and how had they managed to steal
into our lines without being seen? It was a mystery.
This fusillade breaking out behind them had caused a
certain disorder in the sections nearest to it, who thought
they were being taken in the rear, and who would have
been, indeed, had the attack been maintained. The band
arrived in front of the ambulance station at the moment
when the staff (three Belgian doctors, a few naval hospital
orderlies, and Quartermaster Bonnet) were attending
to Dr. Duguet, who was still breathing. They made
the whole lot prisoners and carried them along in their
idiotic rush through the streets. Both officers and soldiers
must have been drunk. This is the only reasonable
explanation of their mad venture. We held all the
approaches to Dixmude; the brief panic that took place
in certain sections had been at once controlled."</p>


<p>IV&mdash;STORY OF MURDER OF COMMANDER
JEANNIOT</p>

<p>"Commander Jeanniot, who had been in reserve
that night, and who, roused by the firing like Dr. Duguet
and Abbé Le Helloco, had gone into the street to
call his sector to arms, had not even taken his revolver
in his hand. Mistaking the identity and the intentions<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_73" id="Page_73">[73]</a></span>
of the groups he saw advancing, he ran towards them
to reassure them and bring them back to the trenches.
This little stout, grizzled officer, rough and simple in
manner, was adored by the sailors. He was known to
be the bravest of the brave, and he himself was conscious
of his power over his men. When he recognized
his mistake it was too late. The Germans seized him,
disarmed him, and carried him off with loud '<i>Hochs!</i>'
of satisfaction. The band continued to push on towards
the Yser, driving a few fugitives before them, and a
part of them succeeded in crossing the river under cover
of the general confusion. Happily this did not last long.
Captain Marcotte de Sainte-Marie, who was in command
of the guard on the bridge, identified the assailants with
the help of a searchlight, and at once opened fire upon
them. The majority of the Germans within range of
our machine-guns were mown down; the rest scattered
along the streets and ran to cellars and ruins to hide themselves.
But the head of the column had got across with
its prisoners, whom they drove before them with the
butt-ends of their rifles.<a name="FNanchor_13_13" id="FNanchor_13_13"></a><a href="#Footnote_13_13" class="fnanchor">[13]</a>
For four hours they wandered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_74" id="Page_74">[74]</a></span>
about, seeking an issue which would enable them
to rejoin their lines. It was raining the whole time.
Weary of wading through the mud, the officers stopped
behind a hedge to hold a council. A pale light began
to pierce the mist; day was dawning, and they could
no longer hope to regain the German lines in a body.
Prudence dictated that they should disperse until nightfall.
But what was to be done with the prisoners? The
majority voted that they should be put to death. The
Belgian doctors protested. Commander Jeanniot, who
took no part in the debate, was talking calmly to Quartermaster
Bonnet. At a sign from their leader the
Boches knelt and opened fire upon the prisoners. The
Commander fell, and as he was still breathing, they
finished him off with their bayonets. The only survivors
were the Belgian doctors, who had been spared,
and Quartermaster Bonnet, who had only been hit in the
shoulder. It was at this moment that the marauders
were discovered. One section charged them forthwith;
another fell back to cut off their retreat. What happened
afterwards? Some accounts declare that the German
officers learned what it costs to murder prisoners,
and that our men despatched the dogs there and then;
but the truth is, that, in spite of the general desire to
avenge Commander Jeannoit, the whole band was taken
prisoners and brought before the Admiral, who had only
the three most prominent rascals of the gang executed."</p>
<hr class="chap" />

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_9_9" id="Footnote_9_9"></a><a href="#FNanchor_9_9"><span class="label">[9]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
in the original sources.</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_10_10" id="Footnote_10_10"></a><a href="#FNanchor_10_10"><span class="label">[10]</span></a> "When we passed through the streets of Ghent they were
full of people shouting, 'Long live the French!' I heard one
person in the crowd call out, 'Long live Jean Gouin!' He must
have known them well." (Letter of Fusilier F., of the island
of Sein.) Le Gwenn, which has been corrupted into Gouin, is a
very common name in Brittany. [Compare the current English
nickname "Jack Tar."&mdash;<span class="smcap">Tr.</span>]</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_11_11" id="Footnote_11_11"></a><a href="#FNanchor_11_11"><span class="label">[11]</span></a> "Germans of the regular army coming from the direction of
Rheims. The Boches we had had to deal with so far had been
volunteers or reservists." (Second-Lieutenant X.'s note-book.)</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_12_12" id="Footnote_12_12"></a><a href="#FNanchor_12_12"><span class="label">[12]</span></a> Not without losses on our side. "Saw Gamas, who has had
fourteen of his men killed to-night, among them his boatswain
Dodu." (Second-Lieutenant Gautier's note-book.)</p></div>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_13_13" id="Footnote_13_13"></a><a href="#FNanchor_13_13"><span class="label">[13]</span></a> Here there seems to have been some confusion in the eye-witness's
account. He leads us to suppose that Dr. Duguet's
ambulance was in the town, and that the Germans who killed him
and wounded the Abbé Le Helloco went on afterwards to the
bridge with their prisoners. "As a fact," we are now told, "the
affair took place between the bridge&mdash;which the head of a column
had crossed by surprise, driving before them a number of
Belgians, sailors, and perhaps some marauders&mdash;and the level
crossing near the station of Caeskerke where the column was
finally stopped. It was in this part of the street that Dr. Duguet
had his dressing-station; and it was there, too, that Commander
Jeanniot, whose reserve post was at Caeskerke, came out to meet
the assailants. And it was the fields near the south bank of
the Yser to which the column betook itself, dragging its prisoners
with it, when it found the road barred."</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_75" id="Page_75">[75]</a></span></p>


<h2>A BISHOP AT THE FRONT WITH THE
BRITISH ARMY</h2>

<p><i>Told by the Right Reverend H. Russell Wakefield,
Bishop of Birmingham</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This is an account of how the Bishop, accompanied by the
Lord Mayor of Birmingham, went to the fighting lines to visit
the staff at headquarters. They were at times within thirty-five
yards of the German trenches. His impressions have been
recorded in a volume published by <i>Longmans, Green and Company</i>,
from which the following incidents are taken.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_14_14" id="FNanchor_14_14"></a><a href="#Footnote_14_14" class="fnanchor">[14]</a>
I&mdash;THE HUMOUR OF BRITISH "TOMMIES"</p>

<p>Whenever, in future, I am inclined towards a fit of
pessimism, I shall shut my eyes in order to see once
again, with the vision of the spirit, a stalwart Britisher
of the Worcester Regiment, not very far from the German
lines, on a certain afternoon, when a most appalling
thunderstorm was raging and some German shells were
falling. He was munching the thickest slice of bread
and jam that I have ever seen, and looking with a mild
contempt at the intruding figure of an unknown padre
whom a considerable number of his comrades were greeting
because they recognised in him their Bishop. He
put down now and again his refreshment in order to do
some bit of work, but he was just as calm and collected
as if he had been in his Worcestershire village and not
in the trenches.</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_76" id="Page_76">[76]</a></span></p>
<p>That which carries our men through so many difficulties
is another thing which impressed me&mdash;namely, their
unfailing sense of humour; a humour which is never
really hurtful even when exercised upon some one deserving
of satire. When he christens a road along which
there are a couple of miles of Army Service carts "Lorry
Park," when he finds every kind of strange anglicising
for Flemish or French words, we know that he is not
only having some fun for himself, but also providing
amusement for those who come after him. The same
humour shines out when he is in hard case. A chaplain
told me that he had been addressing informally some
wounded men who had just arrived from the trenches.
He was expatiating upon the glories of the Victoria Cross
because he noticed some of the men came from a regiment
one of whose number had recently received that
coveted distinction. Suddenly his eloquence was disturbed
by a voice proceeding from a man, both of whose
feet were swathed in bandages, who remarked, "Never
mind the Victoria Cross, give me the Victoria 'Bus!"
Obviously the soldier's sense of humour was conquering
his pain, and his remark made the rest of the party forget
their sufferings for a short time....</p>


<p>II&mdash;FRANCE BLEEDS FOR CIVILIZATION</p>

<p>As one who saw the French during the war of 1870,
when&mdash;being a boy&mdash;I was very susceptible to impressions,
I can hardly express the difference I notice between
the nation then and now. In the former war there
was excitement, impulsiveness, overconfidence, want of
ballast; to-day there is quietude, earnestness, and
withal, assurance of eventual victory. More than once I
journeyed through a considerable part of the French
lines, and I assert with confidence that the Army of
France at the present time is incomparably superior to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_77" id="Page_77">[77]</a></span>
that which she placed in the field in 1870. As to her
civilians, I only saw women, children, and old men; I
did not, in all my thousand miles of travel, discover a
single able-bodied person of military age out of uniform.</p>

<p>The harvest, a very good one, was in full swing.
Every family was out in the fields, all doing something
towards the in-gathering. I have a picture now before
my eyes of seven people, all undoubtedly coming from
the same house, working away hard, whilst at the tail
end of the procession appeared what might have been
the great-grandpapa, no longer capable of bending down
for harvesting, but who, nevertheless, had his piece of
work in carrying about the baby, who, of course, could
not be left behind alone in the house. The whole nation
is doing its utmost.</p>


<p>III&mdash;"HOW I WENT TO THE TRENCHES"</p>

<p>On one occasion after motoring through towns that
are a household word, both at home and with our Allies,
towns which have seen the Germans in them and then
driven out of them, places where the buildings are practically
level with the ground, the limit for vehicular traffic
is reached and one goes forward on foot. Soon you
reach a cutting in the ground and you begin to walk
along a trench. You turn now and again either to
right or left, seeing sign-posts telling sometimes in comic
language and sometimes only by number the name, as it
were, of the underground street; you then rise a little
and find yourself walking in the inside of houses so shattered
that you cannot tell much about what they originally
were until you are told that they formed a street
in a little overgrown village of which nothing is left,
and the last inhabitant of which was the station-master,
who refused to leave though there was neither train,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_78" id="Page_78">[78]</a></span>
station nor house for himself left, because so long as he
remained on the spot he could claim his pay. Forcible
measures had at last to be used to secure his departure.
Where you are walking you are yourself hidden from
the enemy, but are within the range of their fire. You
are taken up to an observation post, where one of your
companions incautiously takes out a white pocket-handkerchief
and is hurriedly told to put it back in his pocket.</p>

<p>You come down again and proceed cautiously along
trenches. Now and again shells pass over, and your
careful guide looks to see in what direction they are falling,
as, though he is quite unconcerned for himself, he
knows that he is responsible for the safety of the troublesome
visitor. You are told to keep your head down and
not to show, for the moment at any rate, any desire to
view the landscape. Soldiers are dotted about here and
there, all of them ready to give a kindly greeting, and
then at last you reach a point where you are told not to
speak loudly because practically only a few yards away
is the enemy, who, were he to hear conversation, might
think it worth while to throw over a hand grenade. What
looks like a tiny bit of glass at the end of a short stick
is there before you, and you are asked to look into it;
when you do the enemies' trenches are visible to you.
Beyond an occasional ping against a sandbag, you have
heard nothing to note the existence of rifle fire, except
that the men you have passed have got these weapons to
hand. You tell the men at the advanced posts how proud
their country is of them, how thankful you are to have
seen them, how you pray that God may bring them back
safe to their homes; you get rid of all cigars or cigarettes
you may have upon you, wishing that you had thousands
more, and then you return home, varying perhaps the
route through the communication trenches.</p>

<p>On another occasion our way took us through a town<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_79" id="Page_79">[79]</a></span>
which is absolutely razed to the ground and is still under
shell fire. There I saw two soldiers busy with spades,
and I asked what kind of fortification they were putting
up, to which, with a broad grin, one replied that they
were looking for souvenirs. He was kind enough to give
me a complete German cartridge case, for which he refused
to take any remuneration. Going on a little farther
in this town, we went down some steps and found ourselves
in an underground club full of soldiers, who were
having a hot meal, were reading papers and playing
games, everything being presided over by perhaps the
most magnetic person I met on my travels, a young Chaplain
to the Forces, who would not wish his name to be
mentioned, though there is probably no one out at the
Front who will not know to whom I refer. When we
went from this place towards the more advanced trenches,
I was taken along a road which looked perfectly harmless,
when suddenly a stalwart Scotchman told my companion
and myself that we must get off it at once as it
was a favourite target for German Maxims. Never was a
General more obediently submitted to than was this, I
believe, private soldier. It was on this occasion that we
had tea in the dugout of the Colonel, who bears a name
distinguished in English naval, military and sporting life.
A characteristic of the German trenches which I noticed
on this and other occasions, was that their sandbags
seemed to be generally white in colour, at any rate in
those of the first line. Leaving the trench on this particular
day, we had to go through an almost alarming
thunderstorm, which in the course of half an hour made
a sea of mud of the place which had been quite dry before.
It was curious to notice how petty the sound of
the guns appeared as compared with the artillery of
heaven.</p>

<p>Pathetic incidents occur and touching scenes are visible<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_80" id="Page_80">[80]</a></span>
on these journeys to the Front. One looked in the
trenches upon little mounds and crosses, marking the
resting-places of men who had been hurriedly, but reverently,
buried. There they are side by side with their
living comrades, who are doing their work whilst their
brothers sleep. Dotted all about the country are little
cemeteries, which tell of devotion unto death, and which
remind one of all the sorrow this war has caused. It is
strange to see how religious emblems appear to have
been strong against shell. Constantly you would see a
church almost totally destroyed and yet the crucifix untouched,
and who will ever forget that sight which can
be seen for miles around, of the tower which has been
almost shattered to pieces and yet the statue of the Virgin
and Child, which was near the top of it, though bent
over completely at right angles, still remains, as it were
blessing and protecting the whole neighbourhood.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"SEE GOD THRO' CLOUD OF SMOKE"</p>

<p>This leads to the consideration of the religious condition
of our troops as affected, first, by the churches and
worshippers of France, and, secondly, by their own experience
in this war. More than one mentioned the
pleasure felt at the sight of the little wayside shrines
which they passed on their march. Others commented
upon the large numbers of people they saw flocking to
their early communion....</p>

<p>What his experience of war is doing for the soldier
in regard to religion is remarkable. It would have been
possible that the sight of humanity striving to the death
and inflicting horrible suffering might have made our
young fellows despair of Christianity. They might have
argued that it was of no avail to teach the religion of
Jesus when no effect was produced upon international<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_81" id="Page_81">[81]</a></span>
conduct; but they have been able to look more deeply
into matters and to realise that not Divine intention was
at fault, but human refusal to follow true teaching.
They have been able to see God through the cloud of
smoke raised by shot and shell, and the Presence of the
Divine has not been obscured by the horrors of war.
Conscious of the seriousness of the work in which they
are engaged, feeling every moment the nearness of eternity,
our soldiers have in no craven spirit, but with a
due remembrance of their relationship to God and to
eternity, turned to religion as a stay in the hour of conflict....</p>

<p>Although I must refrain most reluctantly from saying
anything about the great military personages whom
I met in France, and with whom I was so greatly impressed,
I may perhaps refer to two French persons of
distinction, in no way connected with the war, whom I
was privileged to meet. First there is that outstanding
personality the Mayor of Hazebrouck, Abbé Lemire. He
and I were brought together because he is a clerical
municipal dignitary and I was the first clergyman who
was ever a mayor in this country. He, however, does
more than I have ever been able to do, because he is a
member of the Chamber of Deputies, and here in England
the doors of the House of Commons are still shut against
the clergy....</p>

<p>He is an extraordinarily winning personality, and as
we walked through the streets of his city every woman
and child and old man had something to say to him.
With one he would discuss the imprisonment of a soldier
son in Germany; with another the fact that a married
daughter had had a bouncing boy who would be, so
prophesied the Abbé, a soldier of France in years to
come. To another in deep mourning he had a word of
comfort to give; until at last I said to him that he appeared<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_82" id="Page_82">[82]</a></span>
to be not only <i>le maire</i> but also <i>le père</i> of Hazebrouck....</p>

<p>Another beautiful character is the present Archbishop
of Rouen. Carrying well his seventy-six years, thanks in
no small measure to the loving care of his secretary, the
great dignitary has passed through the recent critical time
for his Church, retaining throughout his breadth of view
and his sweetness of nature. Turned out of his official
residence, he has built himself another, beautifully situated,
in the grounds of which may to-day be seen English
doctors and nurses, and even wounded, resting and gaining
health. The morning upon which I saw him I had
been celebrating the Holy Communion in the chapel of
what once was his palace. When I asked him whether
he felt any objection to this being done by our English
clergy, he answered, "Certainly not." And then, after a
moment's thought, he went on: "After all, what does
it matter whether one celebrates in one vestment and
another in a different one, if at the root of things we are
the same?"</p>

<p>(The Bishop now relates his impressions of the various
countries engaged in the War, all of which, with the
exception of Japan, he has visited. He believes that the
War is to result in a great spiritual awakening throughout
the world.)</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_14_14" id="Footnote_14_14"></a><a href="#FNanchor_14_14"><span class="label">[14]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
in the original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_83" id="Page_83">[83]</a></span></p>

<h2>SHORT RATIONS&mdash;THE TRUTH
ABOUT LIFE IN GERMANY</h2>

<p><i>An American Woman in Germany</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Madeline Zabriskie Doty</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Miss Doty made two trips of exploration to Europe during the
War. She is one of the few "foreigners" who were permitted to
visit prison camps and industrial factories in Germany. It has
remained for this American woman to bring out of Germany
some of the most interesting sidelights. It is a graphic account
of the tragedy which reveals the conditions within the German
Empire. Miss Doty talked with the German women in the
factories, the mothers with their babies, finding everywhere the
tragedy of suffering almost beyond human endurance. The
following reminiscences are from her book: "Short Rations,"
published by the <i>Century Company</i>: Copyright 1917.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_15_15" id="FNanchor_15_15"></a><a href="#Footnote_15_15" class="fnanchor">[15]</a>
I&mdash;STORY OF WOMAN WHO WANTED TO
SELL HER CHILD</p>

<p>I awoke to find myself in Germany.... Hamburg is
a city of sleepers. Its big hotels, its many stores, its
impressive buildings stretch out endlessly, but within all
is still. All that modern industry and the ingenuity of
man can achieve has here been flung upon the land,
and then the force that created it has vanished, leaving
these great monuments to rot, to rust, and to crumble.
The tragedy of unused treasures is as horrible as rows of
dead. A city seems visibly dying....</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_84" id="Page_84">[84]</a></span></p>
<p>A crowd of children is gathering just below. School
is out, and they are surrounding an object of interest.
One or two women join them. There is no passing
populace to swell the throng. We approach and see in
the centre of the crowd of children a woman crouched
upon a bench. She is dirty, ragged, and dark in colouring....
On the ground at her feet is a baby just big
enough to walk. It also is dirty, and possesses only one
ragged garment. The mother sits listless, gazing at her
child. It is evident she is soon to be a mother again.
There is great chattering among the children. I turn to
my companion for explanation.</p>

<p>"The woman wants to sell her child. She says she
hasn't anything to eat. She isn't a German mother. Of
course, no German mother would do such a thing. You
can see she isn't good. She is going to have another
baby."</p>

<p>A school-child gives the toddling baby some cherries.
She eats them greedily. My hand goes to my pocketbook,
but my companion pulls me away. If I bought the
baby, what could I do with her on a trip through Germany?...</p>


<p>II&mdash;THE SECRET GRIEF OF GERMANY</p>

<p>But before I leave Germany the spies get on my
nerves. What was at first amusing becomes a nuisance.
I feel exactly as though I am in prison. I acquire the
habit of looking out of the corner of my eye and over my
shoulder. These spies are as annoying to their countrymen
as to me. The people detest them. They grow restless
under such suppression. Free conversation is impossible,
except behind closed doors. Between German spies
and the spies of other countries supposed to be at large,
public conversation is at a standstill. Everywhere are<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_85" id="Page_85">[85]</a></span>
signs&mdash;"<i>Soldaten</i>"&mdash;"<i>Vorsicht bei gespröchen Spionengefahr</i>."...</p>

<p>In spite of the concealment of the wounded, the population
begins to understand its loss. One night I went to
the station (at Berlin) to see a big detachment leave for
Wilmâ. They had all been in war before. Their uniforms
were dirty and patched. They sat on benches
clinging to a loved one's hand, or stood in listless groups.
No one talked. They were like tired children. They
needed food and bed. The scenes of farewell were
harrowing.</p>

<p>Here was a young boy saying good-by to a mother and
three aunts. He was all they had&mdash;their whole life.
Here a father saying farewell to a wife and three sons,
all under seventeen. Or a mother in deep mourning
taking leave of her last son, or a young wife with a
baby in her arms giving a last embrace.</p>

<p>As the train moved out of the station there were no
shouts, no cheers, no words of encouragement. Instead
there was a deadly silence. The men leaned out of windows,
stretched despairing hands towards loved ones.
As the train pulled away the little groups broke into
strangling sobs. They were shaken as by a mighty tempest.
Paroxysms of grief rent and tore them. They
knew the end had come. A man may go once into battle
and return, but not twice and thrice. Life held no hope.
As I came away I stopped before the big building which
conducts military affairs. It is known as the "House of
Sorrow." On its rear wall is posted the list of dead and
wounded....</p>

<p>One evening at midnight as I cross the Thiergarten I
pass a small procession of new recruits. Midnight, my
friend tells me, is the favourite hour for seizing fresh
food for cannon. There is something sinister in choosing
dark hours, when the city sleeps, for this deed....</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_86" id="Page_86">[86]</a></span></p>


<p>III&mdash;A BEAUTIFUL STORY TOLD IN GENEVA</p>

<p>While in Geneva I visited the Red Cross authorities.
This is the Central Bureau for relief work. It gives aid
to the wounded and prisoners of all the belligerent countries.
Many horrible, tragic and beautiful stories pass
through the committee's hands.</p>

<p>After the war these stories will come to light. At
present the rigid censorship prevents publication, for it
is impossible to carry printed or written material across
frontiers.</p>

<p>But one story told me needed no notes. It became
engraven in my memory. It is the story of an English
boy and a German mother.</p>

<p>I could not secure the letters that passed between
these two but their contents, and the other facts given
are here set forth accurately. This is a true story.</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>The sky was a soft, shining blue. The air was still.
The warmth of summer brooded over the land. But no
bird's song broke the stillness. No bees fluttered over
flowers. The earth lay torn and bare. In deep brown
furrows of the earth, hundreds of restless men lay or
knelt or stood.</p>

<p>The land was vibrant with living silence. But now
and again a gigantic smashing roar broke the tense stillness.
Then in some spots, the ground spit forth masses
of dirt, a soldier's helmet, a tattered rag of uniform, and
bits of a human body.</p>

<p>It was after such a mighty blast that a great winged
object came speeding from the north. It skimmed low
over the trenches and dipped, and circled and paused
above the English line. Like a great eagle it seemed
about to rush to earth, snatch its prey, and then be off.
But as it hung suspended, another whirring monster<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_87" id="Page_87">[87]</a></span>
flew swiftly from the south. It winged its way above
its rival, then turning, plunged downward. The great
cannons grew silent. The eyes of the pigmies in the
trenches gazed skyward. A breathless tenseness gripped
the earth. Only sun and sky shone on with no whisper
of the mad fight of these two winged things.</p>

<p>For a few wild moments they rushed at one another.
Then the whirring bird with wings of white rose high,
turned back, and plunged again upon that other whose
wings had huge, black crosses.</p>

<p>It missed its prey, but there came a cracking sound.
A puff of smoke, like a hot breath, burst from the creature
of the iron crosses. It shuddered, dropped, turned,
and fell head down. With sweeping curves the pursuer
also came to earth. A lean, young Englishman sprang
from the whirring engine. His body quivered with excitement.
He sped with running feet to the broken
object lying on the ground. He knelt by the twisted
mass. Beneath the splintered wood and iron he saw a
boyish figure. It was still and motionless. He gently
pulled the body out. A fair young German lay before
him. A deep gash in the head showed where a blow
had brought instant death. The body was straight and
supple, the features clear cut and clean. A boy's face
with frank and fearless brow looked up at the young
Englishman. The eyes held no malice. They were full
of shocked surprise. The brown haired lad felt the
lifeless heart. A piece of cardboard met his fingers. He
pulled it from the coat pocket. It was a picture&mdash;a
picture of a woman&mdash;a woman with gray hair and kindly
eyes,&mdash;a mother whose face bore lines of patient suffering.
Scrawled beneath the portrait in boyish hand were
the words, "Meine Mutter."</p>

<p>A sob choked the young Englishman. Tenderly he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_88" id="Page_88">[88]</a></span>
gathered the lifeless form in his strong arms. Then he
rose and walked unheeding across the open field of
battle. But no angry bullet pelted after those young figures.
The men in the trenches saw and understood.
Behind the lines the boy lay his burden down. Taking
paper and pencil from his pocket and placing the little
picture before him, he began to write.</p>

<p>When he had finished he placed the letter and portrait
in a carefully directed envelope. Then walking hurriedly
to his machine he prepared for flight. Soon he was
whirring low over the enemy trenches. Leaning out, he
dropped his missile. The cannons roared, but no rifle
was turned on that bright figure. Instinctively, men
knew his deed was one of mercy. As the little paper
fluttered downward it was picked up by eager soldier
hands. A little cheer broke from a hundred throats.
Willing messengers passed it to the rear. Speedily it
went on its way.</p>

<p>Twenty-four hours later a mother with pale face and
trembling hands fingered the white scrap of paper. Her
unseeing eyes gazed out on a smiling landscape. Between
green meadows in the warm summer sunshine lay
the glittering Rhine. But she saw nothing. Her baby
boy was dead. Memories of him flooded her. She felt
again the warmth of the baby body as it clung to hers
and the pull of the tiny hands at her breast. She saw
him as a boy, his eager restlessness. She heard his
running steps at the door and his cry of "mother." It
was over. That bright spirit was still. The third and
last son had been exacted. Her fingers touched the letter
in her lap. Her eyes fell on the penciled words.
Slowly they took meaning. This boy who wrote: He'd
seen the beauty of her son. He'd lifted the dear body
in his arms. His heart was torn by anguish. What
was it he said?</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_89" id="Page_89">[89]</a></span></p>


<p>IV&mdash;WHAT THE GERMAN MOTHER READ ON
THE SCRAP OF PAPER</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"'It's your son. I know you can't forgive me for I
killed him. But I want you to know he didn't suffer.
The end came quickly. He was very brave. He must
also have been very good. He had your picture in his
pocket. I am sending it back, though I should like to
keep it. I suppose I am his enemy, yet I don't feel so
at all. I'd give my life to have him back. I didn't think
of him or you when I shot at his machine. He was an
enemy spying out our men. I couldn't let him get back
to tell his news. It meant death to our men. It was a
plucky deed. We were covered up with brush. He
had to come quite low to see us and he came bravely.
He nearly escaped me. He handled his machine magnificently.
I thought how I should like to fly with him.
But he was the enemy and had to be destroyed. I fired.
It was over in a second. Just a blow on the head as
the machine crashed to earth. His face shows no suffering,
only excitement. His eyes are bright and fearless.
I know you must have loved him. My mother died
when I was quite a little boy. But I know what she
would have felt if I had been killed. War isn't fair to
women. God! how I wish it were over. It is a nightmare.
I feel if I just touched your boy, he'd wake and
we'd be friends. I know his body must be dear to you.
I will take care of it and mark his grave with a little
cross. After the war you may want to take him home.</p>

<p>"'For the first time, I'm almost glad my mother isn't
living. She could not have borne what I have done.
My own heart is heavy. I felt it was my duty. Yet
now when I see your son lifeless before me and hold
your picture in my hand, it all seems wrong. The world
is dark. O Mother, be my mother just a little too, and
tell me what to do.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Hugh.</span>'"</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_90" id="Page_90">[90]</a></span></p>

<p>Slowly great tears rolled down the woman's cheeks.
What was this monster that was smashing men? Her
boy and this other, they were the same. No hate was
in their hearts. They suffered&mdash;the whole world suffered.
Her country went in hunger. The babies in the
nearby cottages grew weak for want of milk. She
mustn't tell that to the English lad. His heart would
break. Why must such suffering be? Was she to
blame? There was the English lad without a mother.
She had not thought of him and others like him. Her
home, her sons, her Fatherland, these had been sufficient.
But each life hangs on every other. Motherhood
is universal.</p>


<p>V&mdash;A GERMAN MOTHER TO THE ENGLISH
BOY WHO KILLED HER SON</p>

<p>Suddenly she knew what to write. What she must
say to that grief-stricken English boy. Quickly her hand
penned the words:</p>

<blockquote>

<p>"<span class="smcap">Dear Lad</span>: There is nothing to forgive. I see you
as you are&mdash;your troubled goodness. I feel you coming
to me like a little boy astounded at having done ill when
you meant well. You seem my son. I am glad your
hands cared for my other boy. I had rather you than
any other touched his earthly body. He was my youngest.
I think you saw his fineness. I know the torture
of your heart since you have slain him. To women
brotherhood is a reality. For all men are our sons. That
makes war a monster that brother must slay brother.
Yet perhaps women more than men have been to blame
for this world war. We did not think of the world's
children, our children. The baby hands that clutched our
breast were so sweet, we forgot the hundred other baby<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_91" id="Page_91">[91]</a></span>
hands stretched out to us. But the Earth does not forget,
she mothers all. And now my heart aches with
repentance. I long to take you in my arms and lay your
head upon my breast to make you feel through me your
kinship with all the earth. Help me, my son, I need
you. Be your vision, my vision. Spread the dream of
oneness and love throughout the land. When the war
is over come to me. I am waiting for you.&mdash;<span class="smcap">Deine
Mutter.</span>"</p></blockquote>

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_15_15" id="Footnote_15_15"></a><a href="#FNanchor_15_15"><span class="label">[15]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
in the original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_92" id="Page_92">[92]</a></span></p>

<h2>FIGHTING "WITH THE RUSSIAN
ARMY"&mdash;ON AUSTRIAN FRONT</h2>

<p><i>The Colossal Struggle of the Slavs</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Bernard Pares, Official Observer with the
Russian Army</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This is one of the most important narratives in the records of
the War; it is an invaluable witness of the colossal struggle
waged on the Eastern battle front. The author was granted
official privileges awarded to no other non-combatant. He
passed through the first Warsaw Campaign, the crucial battle
of Dunajec, and the Russian retreat. When Germany declared
war on Russia, he volunteered for service and went to Petrograd
and Moscow, where he was appointed official correspondent
with the Russian Army, traveling with the general staff. He
later joined the third army as an attaché. Here he was given
written permit by General Radko Dmitriev to visit any part of
the firing line. "We were the advance guard," he says, "of
the liberation of the Slavs ... the retreat of the army to the
San and to the Province of Lublin. We were driven out by
sheer weight of metal ... it was a delight to be with such
splendid men as the Staff of the Russian Army. I never saw
anything base all the while I was with the Army. There was
no drunkenness, everyone was at his best, and it was the
simplest and noblest atmosphere in which I have ever lived."
His experiences have been gathered into a volume entitled, "Day
by Day With the Russian Army," from which the following
incidents are retold by permission of his American publishers,
Houghton, Mifflin and Company.</p></blockquote>

<p><a name="FNanchor_16_16" id="FNanchor_16_16"></a><a href="#Footnote_16_16" class="fnanchor">[16]</a>
I&mdash;WAR STORIES FROM THE RUSSIANS</p>
<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_93" id="Page_93">[93]</a></span></p>
<p>It is wonderful how little effect the war seems to
have made on the body of Russia. On the other hand,
the atmosphere of nervous tension begins to disappear
the moment one begins to get really near to the front.
In the Red Cross offices at Kiev I found the same straining
toward the front as elsewhere, only much calmer
because these were people who had a big war work to do.
Hospitals meet the eye in the streets at every turn.</p>

<p>Once in the train for Galicia it was again the war
atmosphere and simplicity itself. The talk was all of
people engaged directly or indirectly in it. A graceful
old lady with a very attentive son was on her way to get
a sight of her husband, one of the generals. A young
officer, whose wound has kept him out of it for three
weeks, is on his way to the front before Cracow. A
fresh-looking young man, at first unrecognisable to his
friends with his close-cropped bullet head, tells how he
went on a reconnaissance, how he came on the Austrians,
how their first line held up their muskets and when the
Russians had passed on fired on their rear, how nevertheless
practically all came back safe and sound. It was
told with a kind of schoolboy ingenuousness and without
suggestion or comment of any kind on the conduct of
those concerned. Then followed an account of a war
marriage, at first put off and then carried out as quietly
as possible. All the friends of every one seemed to be
at the war.</p>

<p>At the old frontier some of the buildings near the
station were wrecked by artillery fire, and the railway
was lined with a succession of solid hospital barracks,
with the local commandant's flag flying over one of them.
There was plenty to eat at the station; and though we
moved on very quickly, every one from our crowded train
managed to find a place in the Austrian carriages, chiefly
because every one was ready to help his neighbour. The
corridors jammed with passengers and kits, we moved on
through the typical "strips" of Russian peasant culture,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_94" id="Page_94">[94]</a></span>
a pleasant wooded country, passing a draft detachment
on the halt which waved greetings to us. My companion,
Mr. Stakhovich, a phenomenally strong man and
imbued by a fine spirit, was talking of the indifference of
the Russian peasant to danger; he regarded it as an
indifference to all sensations; anyhow they go forward,
whatever the conditions, as a sheer matter of course.
With the ordinary educated man the mind must be kept
occupied with work if unpleasant possibilities of all kinds
are to be kept out of it; but General Radko Dmitriev,
to whom we are going, will jump up from a meal, however
hungry, when there is a chance of getting under fire.</p>


<p>II&mdash;IN THE CONQUERED CITY OF LVOV</p>

<p>We draw up in the great station at Lvov. To the
right of us stretch endless lines crowded with wagons,
especially with sanitary trains. In the lofty passages and
waiting-rooms are sleeping troops with piled muskets,
some wounded on stretchers tended by the sisters of
mercy who are constantly on duty here, and a crowd of
men, all soldiers, coming and going. One passed many
Austrian prisoners, of whom another enormous batch
was just announced to arrive; and elsewhere a Russian
private explained to me the excellent quality of the Hungarian
knapsack, which he and his comrades had turned
into busbies. One man was asleep inside the rail opposite
the ticket office. He did not seem to mind how often
he was awakened.</p>

<p>In the town everything is quiet, and life goes so naturally
that no one could take it for a conquered city. In
the country this might have been expected because far
the greater part of the population is Little Russian; but
in Lvov the Russians are only about 17 per cent. and
the predominant element is the Polish (60 per cent.), the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_95" id="Page_95">[95]</a></span>
rest being Jews (20 per cent.) or Germans (3 per cent.).</p>

<p>Lvov is taking on more of the character of a Russian
town. Many of the Jews have left. The Russian signs
over new restaurants, stores, etc., meet the eye everywhere.
Of the Little Russian party which supported the
Austrians, many have now returned and are making their
peace with the new authorities. The Russian soldier is
quite at home in Lvov, as one sees when the singing
"drafts" swing past the Governor-General's palace; the
Austrian prisoners in uniform, who are allowed liberty on
parole, seem equally at their ease. Numbers of Russian
priests are pouring into Galicia, but not fast enough for
the Uniat villages which have embraced Orthodoxy; as
soon as they arrive, peasants come with their carts and
take them off to their parishes, without waiting for any
formal distribution. The Uniat creed and ritual are
practically identical with the Orthodox, so that the difference
between the two was purely political. At the
new People's Palace of Nicholas II, I saw a number of
children, principally from families that had suffered severely
at the hands of Austrian troops, receive Christmas
presents on the day of St. Nicholas, who is the Russian
Santa Claus. Archbishop Eulogius, in a very effective
little address, told them that the biggest Christmas present
which they were receiving was the liberty to speak
their own language and worship in their own way in
union with their Russian brothers.</p>

<p>Starting for the army, I spent a night of strange happening
in the great railway station, as our train was
delayed till the morning. At one time I went, in the
frosty night, to look for it at the goods station, where
there were endless rails and wagons, and found it after
a long search. In the big restaurant four little boys
made great friends with me, one of fourteen in uniform
and spurs who had been serving as mounted scout with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_96" id="Page_96">[96]</a></span>
a regiment at the front, and one of thirteen who had
attached himself in the same capacity to a battery. Both
were small creatures, and the first was a remarkable little
person, with all the smartness and determination of a
soldier, relieved by an amusing childlike grace and courtesy.
He said to me in a confidential voice, "I see you
are very fond of little children," and he ordered with
pride lemonade and chocolates for us both. He said the
men at the front could last a week to ten days, if necessary,
without any food but <i>sukhari</i> (army biscuit), so
long as they had cigarettes. His imagination had been
caught by the aeroplanes over Peremyshl, and also by the
Carpathians, which he described with an up and down
movement of the hand. He had a great disgust for anything
mean and a warlike pride in the exploits of the
soldiers of his regiment. His model was a boy, now a
young man, who had been through the Japanese War.
"If a general comes past," and he made a salute to show
the extreme respect felt for his hero. Many a time in
that long night, while the weary heads of doctors and
sisters of mercy were bent in sheer tiredness against the
tables, he would come and sit by me and ask me to read
the war news to him, or to tell him about the English
submarines. He left me with the smartest of salutes in
the early hours of the morning.</p>


<p>III&mdash;TALES TOLD ON AN ARMY TRAIN</p>

<p>Our train is an enormous one with endless warm carriages
(<i>teplushki</i>) for the wounded. The staff of sanitars
and sisters, working for the Zemstvo Red Cross, live
in a spotlessly clean carriage, and there are special carriages
for drugs, stores, kitchen, etc. They are simple
and interesting people, and, as I am now in the Red Cross
and have many interests in common with them, they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_97" id="Page_97">[97]</a></span>
kindly made me up a bed in their carriage, where we discussed
Russia in all its bearings.</p>

<p>We carry a group of passengers who have all made
friends after the Russian way. A colonel and his wife
are going to fetch the body of a fallen comrade. Another
colonel, a delightfully simple man with close-cropped
hair, thin brown face and bright, clever eyes seems to
know all the Slavonic languages and has much to say
of the Austrians. He has seen twenty of them surrender
to a priest and his clerk who came on them in a wood,
made the sign of the cross and told them to come with
them. In another place twenty-two Austrians were captured
by two Russians. The Austrian officers put quick-firing
guns behind their own rifle pits for the "encouragement"
of their men, on whom he has seen them fire.
They make their gunners fire every two hours in the
night as a kind of exercise. He has seen them form
their men in close column under fire and march them
about up and down along the line of the Russian trenches.
The Austrian artillery seldom takes cover; the Russian
directs its fire on the enemy rather than on his batteries.
In one place, heavy Russian artillery at a range of seven
miles demolished an Austrian field train and two battalions
who were lunching in the square of a small town.
He is full of life and confidence, and all that he says
breathes of fresh air and of work.</p>

<p>Our train made its way through to the furthest point
up. We had to stop several times to let through the
ambulance trains already charged with wounded, which
take precedence. We had to go very slowly over several
repaired bridges; and this was no simple matter, as we
had twenty-seven long and heavy coaches. Some of these
repairs were complicated pieces of work, as the bridges
were high above the level of the rivers. At point after
point, and especially on the Austrian sides of the rivers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_98" id="Page_98">[98]</a></span>
we passed lines of carefully prepared trenches, and in one
place there was a masterpiece of artillery cover, with
every arrangement for a long stay.</p>

<p>The damage done by the artillery fire was sporadic&mdash;here
a smashed station building, there a town where
several houses had suffered. But there was nothing indiscriminate;
and the Polish population, which showed
no sign of any hostility to the Russians, seemed to find
the war conditions livable.</p>

<p>As in other parts, I was specially struck by the easy
relations existing between the inhabitants, the Austrian
soldiers and their Russian captors. There were exceptions.
I had some talk with a few Austrian Germans
from Vienna. They were simple folk and seemed to
have no grudge against the Russians; and the circumstance
in their position which they felt most&mdash;they were
only taken the day before yesterday&mdash;was that this was
Christmas Eve, the "<i>stille Nacht, heilige Nacht</i>" of the
beautiful German hymn, and that they were far from
home among strange people. They kept apart as far as
possible not only from their captors but from their fellow
prisoners from Bohemia and Moravia. These last seemed
at least quite comfortable, smoking their long pipes and
leisurely sweeping the platforms. They were quite a
large company. They understood my Russian better
than my German. When I asked them how they stood
with the German troops, instead of the sturdy "Gut"
of their Viennese fellows, they answered with a slang
word and a gesture. When asked about the Russians,
they replied in a quite matter-of-course way: "We are
brothers and speak the same tongue; we are one people."
For any difficulties, the Poles often prove good interpreters.
It is very different for the Austrian captive officers,
who often cannot understand their own men.</p>

<p>These Czechs confidently assured me that any Russian<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_99" id="Page_99">[99]</a></span>
troops that entered Bohemia would be welcomed as
friends; and they claimed that not only the neighboring
Moravians and Slovaks but also the Croats further south
were to be taken as feeling as they did. The Bohemians
and Moravians seem to be surrendering in the largest
numbers of all; and though the Viennese claimed that
large numbers of Russians had also been taken, I cannot
regard as anything but exceptional the enormous batches
of blue uniforms that I passed on the road here. I asked
these men about their greatcoats and was not at all surprised
when they said they felt cold in them. It is nothing
like such a practical winter outfit, whether for head,
body or legs, as that of the Russian soldier.</p>

<p>We came very well over the last part of our journey.
I was sorry to part with the friendly sanitars, who all
seemed old acquaintances by the end of the journey and
invited me to take up my quarters permanently with
them. Theirs was more than ordinary kindness, as they
had shared everything they had with me, including their
little sleeping apartment. The bearer company under
their orders is all composed of Mennonites, a German
religious sect from South Russia which objects to war on
principle and, being excused military service even in this
tremendous struggle, seems to be serving wholesale as
ambulance volunteers.</p>

<p>As there were none but soldiers about, these men
helped me out with my luggage; and through the window
of the First Aid point in Tarnow station, I saw another
acquaintance waving me a welcome. This is the last
point that the railway can serve; and my friends will
go back with a full burden, which will keep the medical
staff busy day and night all the way. One of my new
companions, who has been out to a village to get milk for
the wounded, has seen the shrapnel bursting; and the
guns are sounding loud and clear near the town as I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_100" id="Page_100">[100]</a></span>
write this. It is here that the most seriously wounded
must be treated at once, as a railway journey would
simply mean death for them. This is brought home to
one, if one only looks at the faces of the workers. Yet
with this huge line of operations, and the assaults which
may be made at any point of it, at any moment the nearest
field hospitals may need to send off any wounded who
can be moved without delay. Though the work is being
done with danger all round, less thought is being given to
it than anywhere that I have been yet.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;CHRISTMAS IN AN AUSTRIAN HOSPITAL</p>

<p>Christmas Eve: peace on earth and good will toward
men. And all through "the still night, the holy night,"
the sound that means killing goes on almost continuously.
How can any one say prayers for a world which is at war,
or for himself that is a part of it? May God, who knows
everything, help each of us to bear our part and not
disgrace Him, and make us instruments to the end that
He wishes.</p>

<p>Christmas day I spent in the hospitals. In one ward,
at a local Austrian hospital, and full of wounded, I found
that almost every one of the line of patients was of a different
nationality. Going round the room, one found
first a Pole of western Galicia, then a Russian from the
Urals, next a Ruthenian (Little Russian) from eastern
Galicia, next a Magyar from Hungary, and against the
wall a young German from Westphalia. After him came
an Austrian-German from Salzburg, a Serbian from
southern Hungary, another Ruthenian, an Austrian-German
from Moravia, an Austrian-German from Bohemia,
and a Moravian from Moravia.</p>

<p>I spent a couple of hours here, talking sometimes with
each of the patients, sometimes with all. The Pole knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_101" id="Page_101">[101]</a></span>
only Polish and the bearded Russian, who had a bad
body wound, was too tired to talk much. Of the Ruthenians
one was a frail, white-faced boy from close to the
Russian frontier who seemed, like most of his people,
subdued, and confused with the strangeness of his position
in fighting against his own people; the other was a
lumpish boy without much intelligence. The thin,
bearded Hungarian, who knew no German but a little
Russian, was mostly groaning or dozing. The Salzburg
Austrian was dazed and drowsy, but at intervals talked
quietly of his pleasant homeland.</p>

<p>The German stood out from the rest. He was a bright,
vigorous boy of twenty, had gone as a volunteer and was
tremendously proud of the spirit of the German army.
He had fought against the French during four days of
pouring rain, mostly in standing water. The Bavarians,
who seemed to have quarrelled with the other troops in
that part, were making war atrociously, he said, knifing
the inhabitants, insulting the women and destroying all
that came in their way. He was later moved to the
Carpathians, where one German division fought between
two Austrian ones. They advanced in snow without field
kitchens, and were not allowed to touch the pigs and
poultry that they passed. However, they had enough to
eat; and they were hoping to surprise their enemy, when
the Russians fell upon them and left only the remnants
of a regiment, many of the officers also falling. He himself
was wounded in both legs, and was brought here
in a cart.</p>

<p>Every German soldier has a prayer-book and a song-book.
They constantly sing on the march, and find it
a great remedy against fatigue. Songs of Arndt and
Körner are very popular, and there is a new version of
an old song, which is perhaps the greatest favorite; it
begins&mdash;</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_102" id="Page_102">[102]</a></span></p>

<div class="poem">
"Oh Deutschland hoch an Ehren,<br />
<span style="margin-left: 2em;">Du heil'ges Land der Treu."</span><br />
</div>

<p>and it goes on to speak of the new exploits in east and
west. There are any number of volunteers in Germany;
the women are all joining the Red Cross; and the population
is busy with every kind of work for the army;
but when I asked whether the people were keen for the
war, he answered with astonishment, "The people? The
people thought that the war was not to be avoided; but
that was at the start; now it is different." He asked if
there were many other Englishmen in Russia, and when
I answered that there were some, he said, to my surprise,
"The English are everywhere, they are a fine people&mdash;<i>nobel</i>."
He also asked me on the quiet whether,
when he was well, he would be sent to Siberia. He had
been told that the Russians were terrible, but had written
home to say that he had found them nothing of the
sort.</p>

<p>Much of our talk turned on the Austrian army. The
German said that it didn't stand firm "unless it was properly
led, by Germans." In Bohemia and Moravia the
regiments were mixed, Slavs and Austrian-Germans, and
according to the Moravian soldiers, were constantly quarrelling;
all the officers were Austrian-Germans, and even
some of the Hungarian regiments seemed to be commanded
by Germans. The young Serbian spoke of frequent
quarrels and even brawls between Serbian and
Hungarian fellow-soldiers. The great wish of all was
that the war should end. When I said that the end was
not in sight, the German exclaimed, "More misery, more
misery;" a second said, "Oh, Jammer, Jammer" (lamentation),
and a third had tears in his eyes.</p>

<p>In another ward I heard more of the Bohemians.
There Prussia is the antipathy. There appear to be Czech<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_103" id="Page_103">[103]</a></span>
officers only in the reserve. After the outbreak of war,
the Austrians made wholesale arrests among the educated
Czechs, quite apart from party politics, and were
particularly severe on the gymnastic volunteer organizations
(<i>sokols</i>), which are popular among all the Slav
nationalities of Austria. The Bohemians had not had
time to find their legs under the new possibilities created
by the Russian successes, but the Russian troops would
be sure of a cordial welcome there. The whole of my informant's
regiment had surrendered <i>en masse</i>; and even
in the mobilization of 1914, a Prague regiment had refused
to march against Russia and several of the men
had been shot. I was told that the Austrian army was
much weaker in reserves than the Russian.</p>


<p>V&mdash;HOW THE RUSSIAN SOLDIERS DIE</p>

<p>I ended the day at the railway station, where the Russian
wounded just brought in were being attended to
while the cannon sounded from time to time not far
off. Several lay on stretchers in the corridors and others
on pallets in the ambulance room, all still in their greatcoats
and with their kits lying beneath them. I had no
conversations here; there was too much pain, one could
only sit by the sufferers or perhaps help them to change
their position. First aid had been given elsewhere, but
this was the stage when the wounds seem to be felt most.
There was wonderfully little complaining. Most were
silent, except when a helping hand was needed. One
man shot through the chest told me that "By the grace
of God, it was nothing to matter." It was always a
satisfaction to the men that they had been wounded while
attacking. A general walked quickly round, distributing
cigarettes, which he put in the men's mouths and himself
lighted.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_104" id="Page_104">[104]</a></span></p>

<p>In the night the cannonade sounded close to the town,
but seemed farther off again next morning.</p>

<p>To-day I also went round a hospital with the dressers.
The work was quickly executed, but much of it was very
complicated. One does not describe such scenes, not
so much because of the ugly character of many of the
wounds, nor because of the end impending over many of
the patients. To this last the Russian soldier's attitude
is simple&mdash;<i>gilt es dir, oder gilt es mir</i>. He will speak of
it as "going to America," the undiscovered country. But
all these things come to be forgotten in the atmosphere of
work. Here all the resources of life are going forward
in their own slow way, for they can have no quicker,
handicapped and outpaced in their struggle to keep up
with the work of death.</p>

<p>General Radko Dmitriev is a short and sturdily built
man with quick brown eyes and a profile reminiscent of
Napoleon. He talks quickly and shortly, sometimes
drums on the table with his fingers, and now and then
makes a rapid dash for the matches. The daily visit of
the Chief of the Staff is short, because, as the General
says on his return, simple business is done quickly.
Every piece of his incisive conversation holds together as
part of a single and clear view of the whole military position,
of which the watchword is "Forward."</p>

<p>It is only the heavy rains that have saved the retreating
Austrians from further losses. The roads are so
broken up and so deep with mud that any quick movement
is impossible. This gives the occasion for a useful rest.
The cold weather&mdash;and it is freezing now&mdash;will be welcomed
on this side; and the Russian winter kits, which
have already been served out, are immeasurably better
than the thin blue greatcoats of the draggled and demoralized
Austrians.</p>

<p>Numbers of Austrian units are so reduced that they<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_105" id="Page_105">[105]</a></span>
are only shadows of what they were, and some seem to
have disappeared altogether. The ordinary drafts came
in some time ago and are now exhausted&mdash;such is the
testimony of Austrian officers. The new Russian recruits,
on the contrary, will join the colors shortly.</p>

<p>From the beginning of the war, Bosnians, who are
really Serbians, surrendered in large numbers. Then the
Poles began to come in, and now the Bohemians. The
Hungarians are sure to go on to the end; but the Roumanian
and Italian soldiers of Austria have also come over
very easily. In front of Cracow a Russian officer under
fire came on a whole number of Bohemians who were
singing the "Sokol" songs and shouted a greeting as they
came into the Russian lines.</p>

<p>These wholesale surrenders have, I think, an extremely
interesting political significance. When governments
turned the whole people into an army, it was clear that
the army was also being turned into the people; but it
was not clear how the people could express itself when
under army discipline. These surrenders, in their general
character and in their differences of detail, are a picture
of the feelings and aspirations of the various nationalities
which are bundled together under the name of Austria.</p>

<p>At this Staff, as at the General Staff, life was very
simple. We all met twice a day for a plain meal without
any alcohol; there was plenty of conversation, but it
was that of men engaged in responsible work; any news
from outside was welcome, especially from the western
allies, and there was full appreciation and sympathy for
their hard task.</p>

<p>There was plenty of news from other quarters of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_106" id="Page_106">[106]</a></span>
Russian front, and one could have a much juster and
fuller perspective of how things were going than anywhere
behind the army; the two things which stood out
even more here than elsewhere were, on the one hand,
the immensity of the sacrifices which have been asked
and are being cheerfully made by Russia, and, on the
other, the sense of quiet confidence as to the ultimate
result.</p>

<div class="footnotes">
<h3>FOOTNOTE</h3>

<div class="footnote">

<p><a name="Footnote_16_16" id="Footnote_16_16"></a><a href="#FNanchor_16_16"><span class="label">[16]</span></a> All numerals relate to stories herein told&mdash;not to chapters
from original sources.</p></div>
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_107" id="Page_107">[107]</a></span></p>

<h2>THE ROMANCE OF THE FRENCH
FOREIGN LEGION</h2>

<p><i>The "Glorious Rascals"</i></p>

<p><i>Told by E. S. and G. F. Lees</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The reinstatement by the King of Lieutenant-Colonel John
Ford Elkington in the Royal Warwickshire Regiment, after
he had served for twenty-two months with conspicuous bravery
in the French Foreign Legion, has once more drawn attention
to this unique military organization. As the writers of this
story show, "La Légion Etrangère" of our Allies the French
is literally steeped in romance, and it is therefore the romantic
side of the heroic yet often maligned legionaries which they
have set forth most prominently. Practically every man in the
corps has a history, if he could only be induced to tell it, and in
the present war the Legion has covered itself with glory, as
shown in this story in the <i>Wide World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;STORY OF "THE GLORIOUS BLACKGUARDS"</p>

<p>Budding novelists in search of ideas for tales of adventure,
short story writers who have come to the end
of their stock of episodes, and all who wield the pen
either for amusement or instruction, may be recommended
to turn over the pages that tell the story of the Foreign
Legion. There is a whole literature at their disposal,
covering a period of more than eighty years and
written in almost as many languages as there are nationalities
in this remarkable military body, and it teems
from beginning to end with incidents which respond to
the entire gamut of human emotions.</p>

<p>The Foreign Legion, which in time of peace is composed
of between eight and ten thousand men, but which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_108" id="Page_108">[108]</a></span>
now probably exceeds the strength of an army corps,
since no fewer than thirty-two thousand odd foreigners
enrolled themselves from August 21st, 1914, to April
1st, 1915, is, as it were, a microcosm of the world. According
to official French returns, there were in its ranks
at the beginning of the war nine thousand five hundred
Alsatians and Lorrainers, fourteen hundred and sixty-two
Belgians, three hundred and seventy-nine English,
three thousand three hundred and ninety-three Russians,
four thousand nine hundred and thirteen Italians, thirteen
hundred and eighty Greeks, five hundred and ninety-one
Luxembourgers, nine hundred and sixty-nine Spaniards,
one thousand eight hundred and sixty-seven Swiss,
thirteen hundred and sixty-nine Austro-Hungarians, one
thousand and twenty-seven Germans, five hundred and
ninety-two Turks, six hundred Americans, and four
thousand two hundred and fifty-four of various other
nationalties, including, in all probability, as at the time
of the Empire, Poles, Albanians, Croatians, Illyrians, and
negroes.</p>

<p>In this world-in-little all classes of society are represented&mdash;the
prince and the pauper, the scholar and the
illiterate, the one-time brilliant officer, prominent financier,
and ecclesiastic. All of them are brought to a common
level with the lowest of the low through inherent
human weakness, some foolish act committed in haste
and repented of at leisure, or else through some misfortune
or other over which the man who is "down on his
luck" has no control whatever.</p>

<p>The social outcast, the deserter, the gambler, the fugitive
from justice, the man who has been crossed in love,
the desperate man who, on second thoughts, prefers the
ranks of the Legion to suicide, the man who has a pure
love of soldiering or an inordinate taste for adventure,
the out-and-out failure who has been told by his family<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_109" id="Page_109">[109]</a></span>
to "make good" and clean off his debt to society&mdash;all of
them are found here, living under the shadow of mystery,
undergoing the most arduous life imaginable, and, for the
most part, suffering in silence. So heterogenous are they
that the legionaries, quite unjustly, have been called many
ill names. Through the faults of a few, who necessarily
find their way into such an organization, they have all
been indiscriminately labelled with such epithets as "band
of criminals," "degenerates," "troop of dishonoured foreigners,"
"heartless mercenaries," and so on. But many
sins can be forgiven the soldiers of the Legion when we
read their history aright, and come to understand their
Spartan characters in the hour of trial and danger. And
it is for that reason that, despite their antecedents and
shortcomings, they are now generally known in French
military circles as "The Heroic Rascals," or as "The Glorious
Blackguards."</p>

<p>The Foreign Legion can trace its origin to the days of
the Scottish archers, employed by Charles VII. of France,
and to those of the Swiss, Albanian, Flemish, Walloon,
German, Italian, and other mercenaries in the service of
his successors. At the time of the Convention, in 1793,
an appeal was made to the nations of Europe for soldiers,
with the result that several foreign regiments fought with
the revolutionary armies. All these, however, were disbanded
at the fall of Napoleon. When Louis XVIII.
came to the throne he created the Royal Foreign Legion
in their place, but they gradually merged into the regular
army. However, after the 1830 Revolution the Foreign
Legion was revived, and ever since they have taken part
in nearly every foreign campaign in which France has
been engaged&mdash;in the conquest of Algeria, in the Crimean
War, in Mexico, Tongking, Formosa, Madagascar, and
Morocco.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_110" id="Page_110">[110]</a></span></p>


<p>II&mdash;ASYLUM OF BRAVE UNFORTUNATES</p>

<p>Admission to the Legion is not the result of the efforts
of the recruiting sergeant. All the men are volunteers,
and although all classes and all nationalties are welcome
to join they are not unduly encouraged to do so. There
have been cases in which men who have come to enlist
at the military headquarters in Paris have been told of
the disadvantages they would have to encounter, and advised
"to think the matter over seriously" before signing
away their liberty for a period of five years. Yet, almost
to a man, they have come back to undergo the extremely
rigorous medical examination&mdash;the only examination, by
the way, with which they are troubled. For, as regards
their real name and nationality, no proofs are required.
The authorities show no curiosity whatsoever about a
man's past. They take it for granted that he has a very
good reason for wishing to disappear for a while from
the society of his relatives and friends and become merged
with others of like mind in a semi-anonymous body,
training, marching, and fighting without respite.</p>

<p>The military authorities formerly used to pay the
legionaries the princely salary of a half-penny a day (recently
raised to twopence-halfpenny), and their kit does
not even include socks, yet they are expected to possess
sufficient physical vigour to march a distance of twenty
to thirty-two miles, over rocky, slippery ground and
through jungles, in less than eight hours, halting only ten
minutes each hour, and with a load of seventy to eighty
pounds. This is a terrible test of speed and endurance,
yet one out of which these men come, through systematic
training, with flying colours, and of which they are all
of them justly proud. "No questions asked, but strict
obedience and iron discipline"&mdash;this might be the motto of
the corps, in which such famous soldiers as MacMahon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_111" id="Page_111">[111]</a></span>
Canrobert, Chanzy, De Négrier, Servière, and Villebois-Mareuil
have been officers. In spite of this display of
delicacy, however, many a man's story leaks out. He
may be as silent as the Sphinx for years, yet the time
comes when his taciturnity is overcome through some little
incident, and his secret, or part of it, as in a case related
by Mr. Frederic Martyn, in his "Life in the Legion,"
is out.</p>

<p>It was during the French campaign in Mexico, says
Mr. Martyn, who himself served for five years in the
Legion. A large city having been captured, the general
in command wished to propitiate the inhabitants by celebrating
a spectacular military High Mass in the cathedral.
When all the troops had been assembled, it was
found that the clergy had gone on strike. In the face
of this dilemma, the general was just about to abandon
the ceremony when a corporal of the Legion stepped forward
and, saluting, said, "<i>Mon général</i>, I was a bishop
before I became a corporal, and I will celebrate the Mass."
Another eye-witness of this incident states that the ex-bishop
also offered to preach a sermon, but the general
considered that the Mass alone was sufficient.</p>

<p>M. Maurer, a former officer in the Legion and now
President of the Mutual Aid Society for former officers,
N. C. O.'s, and soldiers of the foreign regiments in Paris,
informed us that he remembered this bishop, whose fall
was due to drink.</p>

<p>This recalls another ecclesiastical anecdote. At the
time of the Fashoda incident a legionary was drowned at
Zarzis whilst attempting to save a fisherman. His comrades
made a coffin out of the only wood available, some
pieces of old packing-cases, on one of which&mdash;the portion,
as it happened, which we used for the top&mdash;were
the words, "Keep the contents dry." Again no priest was
thought to be there to perform the last rites over the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_112" id="Page_112">[112]</a></span>
dead, until an Italian private stepped forward, revealed
his priestly identity, and recited the Burial Service by
heart.</p>


<p>III&mdash;FROM PRINCE TO LEGIONAIRE&mdash;THE
KAISER'S COUSIN</p>

<p>The fall from bishopric to the rank and file of the
Foreign Legion is not the biggest social drop on record
in the Legion. In 1897 a young man of twenty-six, who
gave his name as Albrecht Friedrich Nornemann, was
accepted for service. After ten months in barracks at
Géryville he broke down under the severe training, was
sent into hospital, and in a few weeks died of phthisis. A
day or two later the regiment was astonished to learn
that a German war-vessel had entered the harbour, entrusted
with the astounding mission of fetching the body
of Albrecht Friedrich, cousin-german of Prince Henry of
Prussia, and consequently cousin of the Kaiser, who,
having ordered the remains to be brought back to Hamburg,
probably alone knew the prince's secret.</p>

<p>Six years before this remarkable incident, which is
vouched for by more than one authority, another man of
mysterious origin&mdash;who, if he was not actually a prince
of the realm, was in all probability of royal blood on
one side&mdash;was discovered in a Tongking battalion. A
sergeant and the owner of an illustrious name, since his
father was a general and Minister to a European
monarch, it was noticed that he never received any letters
from his father, but that every month the paymaster
handed him a thousand francs which he never failed to
share with his less well-to-do comrades. Why was he
there, and what was the mystery surrounding his birth?
was often the mental reflection of those who enjoyed
his friendship and generosity. Only after his death did<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_113" id="Page_113">[113]</a></span>
they get an inkling of the truth. His military book stated
that his name was V. de S&mdash;&mdash;, son of V. de S&mdash;&mdash;,
General of Division and Minister of War. "There was
no mention of his mother's name," said a superior officer
to M. de Pouvourville, who tells the story, "and there
can be little doubt that she was of too illustrious a rank
to acknowledge a son the circumstances of whose birth
had placed him beyond the pale."</p>

<p>Some excellent stories of life in the Legion were told
to the authors of this article by the above named M.
Maurer.</p>

<p>One of his orderlies was Graf X&mdash;&mdash;, the son of the
then Governor of Brandenburg, but he could never learn
in what circumstances this man had fallen from his high
estate. It was different in the case of his particular chum,
a young Englishman of distinguished manners, who spoke
several languages and was an accomplished musician,
though the secret of his life did not come out until several
years after M. Maurer had retired and returned to
Paris. One day, when passing the Madeleine, he saw a
splendid equipage, drawn by a pair of magnificent greys,
with silver harness, standing outside the church, and, lo
and behold! sitting in the carriage was his old chum.
Hailing him by the name by which he had always known
him, M. Maurer was astonished to see his friend put his
finger to his lips. The next moment he was invited to
enter the carriage, and, with an invitation to dinner, off
they drove to a fashionable restaurant in the Champs
Elysees. Over dinner M. Maurer's former comrade told
him his real name and story. A young man of good family,
he had started his career with an excellent position in
the Bank of England. One day, when ten thousand pounds
had been slid into his hands, a sudden temptation came
over him, a foolish desire to have a flutter at "Monte."
So he took the earliest opportunity of leaving London.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_114" id="Page_114">[114]</a></span>
As was only to be expected, the inevitable happened; he
lost at the tables every penny of the sum he had embezzled.
Aware of the disgrace that awaited him when the
theft was discovered, he enlisted in the Foreign Legion.</p>

<p>"Now, it is a well-known fact," concluded M. Maurer,
"that the sins of a man who has served his full time in
the Legion are wiped off the slate, and I suppose that
something like this must have happened in the case of
my young friend. I have no doubt that his family restored
the money. Anyway, he attained his rehabilitation.
He is the bearer of a very well-known name, and
to-day occupies an important&mdash;a <i>very</i> important&mdash;post in
public affairs in England."</p>


<p>IV&mdash;THE ROMANCE OF THE EURASIAN</p>

<p>Another little romance revolving round the life of a
legionary, whose birth was enveloped in mystery, was
told some years ago by a British soldier who served in
the Legion. After an engagement at Cao-Thuong, there
was found on one of the dead, sewn in a belt, six British
war medals and a letter addressed to the narrator. Judge
of his surprise when he found that it was in perfect
English, of which he had never for a moment suspected
his comrade-in-arms had a knowledge, and that it contained
the statement that the medals had been won by
the writer's father and grandfather in India. His mother,
the writer explained, was a native, and therefore he, as
a Eurasian, although born in wedlock, was ineligible for
the British Army. As his tastes were wholly military,
and the greatest desire of his life was to add to his forebears'
collection of medals, he had enlisted in the Legion.</p>

<p>The mental attitude of the man who regards the Foreign
Legion as a <i>pis aller</i> is a common trait among its
members; it is often, indeed, the last resource of those
who have met with life's disappointments.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_115" id="Page_115">[115]</a></span></p>

<p>There was once an officer of the German army who
had invented a new type of cannon, and could not get
its merits recognised, either by his own country or by
France, as rapidly as he would have liked, or receive
prompt remuneration for his work. Straightway, therefore,
he went and joined the Légion Etrangère. Some
little time later, in 1895, the French authorities, waking
up to the possibility of the value of the work of so eminent
an engineer, approached him on the subject, but by
then he had become thoroughly soured. He declined to
have anything to do with them, and with the air of one
whose genius has been recognised too late hastily returned
to his kitchen, where he had long carried out the duties
of regimental cook.</p>

<p>In the barracks at Sidi-bel-Abbes, where the most cordial
and frequently rowdy <i>bonne camaraderie</i> reigns, failures
in art, science, literature, and every other walk in
life may be found by hundreds. Special cases like that
of the gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Elkington, who, after
being cashiered by general court-martial, joined the
Legion as a simple private at the beginning of the present
war and won his way to distinction, are rare. He was
in the thick of the fighting in the Champagne country,
lay for ten months in hospital badly wounded, and before
regaining the confidence of his King and country was personally
decorated with the Médaille Militaire and the
Croix de Guerre by an officer attached to General Joffre's
staff. To find an exact parallel to this instance of reinstatement
in the British Army would be difficult. Among
the legionaires, however, there have been quite a number
of men of the type of the American Daly, an artist and
pupil of Gérôme, who lost at Monte Carlo everything
his father had given him to pay for his art training in
Europe; scores, too, of such enigmas as that fine young
fellow who joined the Legion in 1893, served in Tongking,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_116" id="Page_116">[116]</a></span>
and left in 1898, at the end of his time, when by
chance his superiors discovered that he had been first
tenor at the Theâtre de la Monnaie at Brussels. Not a
note had he sung, not a single reference to music had he
made whilst in the regiment! Ah, what stories some of
these ne'er-do-wells, drunkards, comedians, and gentlemen
with fine manners could tell if only they would consent
to open their lips!</p>


<p>V&mdash;WHY GERMANS HATE THE FOREIGN
LEGION</p>

<p>Many of them, of course, have no tale worth telling,
and among these are the deserters from other armies. If
we include the Alsatians and Lorrainers who join to avoid
service under the hated German flag, they form a very
big class indeed. Nearly every year more than a thousand
men of the annexed provinces and more than a
thousand Germans flocked to the French standard, with
the result that the Legion has always been disliked and
slandered by Germans. We have before us seven closely-printed
pages forming a list of books and pamphlets
written by German writers, who, filled with Pan-Germanist
hatred and inspired by the virulent libels of anonymous
scribes, have endeavoured for the past twenty years
to throw mud at a military organization into which so
many of their countrymen escaped. This prompts new
thought. If German soldiers are so glad to join a body
in which life is "a veritable hell upon earth," where men
"never taste meat, but only bread and rice," where they
"sleep on the bare ground," where "noses, ears, and fingers
are cut off for the slightest fault," where they are
"buried in the sand to the waist with an iron cage over
them filled with hungry rats"&mdash;the last idea was stolen by
the German slanderers from Octave Mirbeau's "Jardin<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_117" id="Page_117">[117]</a></span>
des Supplices"&mdash;what must their life in their own army
be like?</p>

<p>As a matter of fact, many Germans who have served
in the Legion have had, on their return home, nothing
but good to say about it, and have become voluntary recruiting
agents for France, hence an increased bitterness
on the part of the Huns. A few years ago deserters
from the German army became so numerous that a society
was formed at Munich, bearing the name "The German
Protection Society Against the Foreign Legion." Several
times men were arrested for trying to persuade their
comrades to join the Legion, but they had to be released,
as it was found that they were pure-born Teutons.</p>

<p>And now let us apply the supreme test and look into
the fighting record of the legionaries. As military experts
are agreed that they are among the finest fighters
in the world. Innumerable instances of their stubbornness
can be given, and it is the quality which has made
them, time after time, invaluable as a "stiffening" whenever
it has been considered necessary to draft a number
of soldiers of the Legion into a regiment of less experienced
troops. "The most pusillanimous of them," said
an old French officer, who had seen much service in
Africa, to us, "will hold out to the death when side by
side with a legionary and inspired by his superb courage."</p>

<p>One of the feats of the Foreign Legion was the taking
of Son-Tay on December 16th, 1883, a square brick
<i>citadelle</i> protected by a hundred cannon, a moat five
yards wide, and hedges of bamboo, and defended by
twenty-five thousand men&mdash;ten thousand Chinese regulars,
ten thousand Black Flags, and five thousand Annamites.
As an example of pure bravery, look at the thirty-six
days' siege of Tuyen-Quan, which in 1885 was held by
six hundred legionaries against twenty thousand Chinese.
Few celebrated sieges have attained and none surpassed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_118" id="Page_118">[118]</a></span>
in horror what took place there. On the occasion of the
Camerone affair, in Mexico, sixty-five legionaries, without
food or shelter, in an open court and under a tropical
sun, held in check for more than ten hours two thousand
enemies, three hundred of whom they killed. The word
"Camerone" is embroidered on the flag of the Foreign
Legion, and if you go to the Invalides you will see on
one of the walls, in letters of gold, the names of the three
officers who directed that handful of heroes, with the
date of the fight: "Lieutenant Vilain, Sub-Lieutenant
Mandet, and Captain Danjou; April 30th, 1863."</p>


<p>VI&mdash;FRANCE'S TRIBUTE TO THE LEGION</p>

<p>The bravery of the Foreign Legion has been so conspicuous
that on February 16th, 1906, M. Eugène Etienne,
then Minister of War, proposed that the flag of the 1st
Foreign Regiment be decorated with the Legion of Honour,
"in recognition of the acts of devotion, courage, and
abnegation which a troop, ever on a war footing, renders
to the country in the defence of its Colonial possessions."
This was done, and at the Invalides, in a special case, can
be seen an old flag of the regiment bearing the date
September 24th, 1862, a flag which had been retaken from
the enemy, and on the staff of which hangs the Cross
of the Legion of Honour, the finest tribute which France
can pay to the glorious deeds of the Foreign Legion.</p>

<p>During the present war a further distinction has been
granted the marching regiment of the Legion. Authority
has just been given the men to wear the <i>fourragère</i>, or
braid, over the left shoulder. The flag of this regiment
had already been decorated with the Croix de Guerre.</p>

<p>The latest recorded exploit of this gallant corps was
the capture, at the point of the bayonet, of a fortified
village strongly held by the enemy. The men of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_119" id="Page_119">[119]</a></span>
Legion held out so vigorously that all the enemy's counter-attacks
were beaten off, and seven hundred and fifty
German prisoners were sent to the rear.</p>

<p>The British residents in Paris and other parts of France
who volunteered for service in the French army and
trained at the Magic City in 1914 were drafted into the
Foreign Legion, and the survivors have reason to be
proud of their old corps.</p>

<p>But the complete history of the doings of the Legion
during this war can only be written some time hence.
Suffice it to say, in addition to the above facts, that they
have been mentioned in army orders no fewer than three
times&mdash;a distinction not won by any other French regiment.
At one time, during the Champagne campaign,
they advanced eighteen kilomètres into the enemy's front,
and if only there had been reinforcements to back them
up there is no doubt a great victory would have been
won. The many personal heroic deeds, too, necessitate
names and details which will not yet pass the Censor's
scrutiny. But one incident, in conclusion, perhaps we
may mention, as recorded to us by M. Maurer.</p>

<p>"One of my former men, an Alsatian peasant of the
lowest type, speaking only of his own <i>patois</i> and unable to
read or write, came to Paris after serving fifteen years
in the Foreign Legion. I was instrumental in getting
him a place in a public wash-house, where he drew a
handcart for the sum of four francs a day, which, by
the by, he promptly spent in drink as soon as it was
handed to him. As soon as war was declared he was off
again to his <i>métier</i>. He returned on leave after ten
months in the trenches, and came to see me. Judge of
my surprise when I found he had become a sub-lieutenant,
wearing the Croix de Guerre and Croix Militaire
with the three palms! Still unable to speak more than
a dozen words in French he explained in his dialect,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_120" id="Page_120">[120]</a></span>
when I inquired what he had done to acquire such distinctions,
that he had killed fifty-two Boches in the most
dramatic circumstances. Night after night he had slipped
out of his trench, and like a snake in the grass crawled
across 'No Man's Land' to the enemy's listening-posts,
which are invariably under the charge of experienced
officers and picked men. He did his work silently and expeditiously&mdash;with
a knife. A terrible but true anecdote
of this relentless war!"</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_121" id="Page_121">[121]</a></span></p>




<h2>ADVENTURES OF WOMEN WHO
FACE DEATH ON BATTLEGROUNDS</h2>

<p><i>Little Stories of Woman's Indomitable Courage</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This is a group of little tales of brave women&mdash;direct from the
battlefields. They are but typical of the noble deeds of the
mothers and daughters of all nations throughout the war. It
has been estimated that forty thousand women have fought in
the armies&mdash;thousands of them in soldiers' uniforms. The first
three stories told here are from the <i>New York American</i>, and
the fourth is from the <i>New York World</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;STORY OF ENGLISHWOMAN WHO RISKED
LIFE ON RUSSIAN BATTLEFRONT</p>

<p>Mrs. Hilda Wynne has youth, beauty, wealth and
fascination&mdash;she cast them all into the great pool of the
war in Europe, and added bravery to them&mdash;a limitless
bravery. She wears the Croix de Guerre, the gift of
France. King Albert of Belgium decorated her with the
Order of Leopold, and Russia honored her with the Order
of St. George. These rare distinctions she won by unique
service. She drove her ambulance between the first
trenches. Back and forth she went, driving her automobile
at furious pace with the fire pouring upon her
from the allies on one side and the Germans on the other,
but a mile separating them. Her unit worked between
the first trenches, the only workers permitted to operate
on this danger line. Mrs. Wynne and her organization,
the Bevan-Wynne Unit, have saved more than 25,000
lives of wounded that but for her speedy aid would have
been lost. She then came to America for the specific
purpose of interesting Americans in the needs of Russian
soldiers.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_122" id="Page_122">[122]</a></span></p>


<p><i>Told by Hilda Wynne, herself</i></p>

<p>I have looked into the eyes of death and seen there
many things.</p>

<p>Looking upon the human carnage I have witnessed,
from this distance and in the little breathing space I have
taken from service to make you Americans know the
Russians and their needs better, I testify that I have seen
thousands of heroic acts, but the bravest act happened
on the Russian front.</p>

<p>I saw two aviators go up to certain death. They were
a Russian and a Frenchman. Both were little men.
They went up to meet twenty German aeroplanes. It
was suicidal. But they had been ordered to go&mdash;and
theirs was the spirit of the gallant six hundred. I stood
near them as they made ready to go. They said nothing.
That is one of the lessons you learn in war&mdash;not to waste
time nor words.</p>

<p>They got their machines ready as a rider tests his saddle
straps and stirrups before starting for his morning
gallop through the park. A little pothering and fixing of
the machinery and they had gone. They went straight
up and began blazing away at the German planes. I
watched and the cords of my heart tightened, for the
German planes, looking like great gray birds with wings
wide spread, came closer and closer. They surrounded
them. They formed a solid double circle about them.
Then they began to fire. And I turned and covered my
eyes with my hands, for out of that solid, ominous group
two dots detached themselves and fell. A few seconds
later what had been aeroplanes were splintered wood
and what had been men a broken mass covered by smoking
rags.</p>

<p>While this was the bravest act I saw in two and a half
years on the firing line, I readily recall the most pathetic.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_123" id="Page_123">[123]</a></span>
It was the second line of men in the Russian trenches.
They were unarmed soldiers. There were no guns for
them. They took their places there expecting that the
man in front might drop, and the second line man could
pick up his gun and take his place. The reports that
some of the Russian soldiers have desperately fought
with switches I have no doubt is true.</p>

<p>I have seen many of the allies die. They all die
bravely. At Dixmude when the fusiliers arrived 8,000
and went out 4,000 there was magnificent courage in
death. The Frenchman dies calling upon his God. The
Englishman says nothing or feebly jests; just turns his
face to the wall and is still. The Russian is mystic and
secretive. The Russian lives behind a veil of reserve.
You never fully know him. In the last moments you
know by his rapt look that his soul is in communion with
his God.</p>

<p>One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the
German power of hatred. It is past measuring. An example
occurred at Dixmude. When we had been there
three days we were driven out. I took my car filled with
the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after
we had crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot
had torn the bridge to pieces. Three weeks later to our
hospital was brought a wounded German.</p>

<p>"I know you," he said. "We nearly got you at the
bridge at Dixmude."</p>

<p>"I remember," I said.</p>

<p>That man's eyes used to follow me in a strange way.
Build no beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing,
or being swallowed up in his gratitude. There
was no such thought in his mind. The eyes said: "I
wish I had killed you. But since I didn't I wish I might
have another chance."</p>

<p>This after I had driven away a group of zouaves who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_124" id="Page_124">[124]</a></span>
had taken everything from him, including his iron cross,
and who were debating whether to toss him into the canal
then or that night.</p>

<p>It is quite true that the Germans fire upon hospitals.
Don't believe any disclaimers of such acts. There have
been many of them. The aeroplanes were circling about
and above a rough hospital we had constructed and we
had to leave it in a hurry. We told the patients of their
danger and hurried them into ambulances to take them
to a safer spot. One of the patients was a German.
Both his arms had been shot away. He was in great
pain. I went to his cot and offered to help him.</p>

<p>"Lean on me," I said. But he turned upon me a baleful
look.</p>

<p>"No," he said, staggering to his feet. His tormented
body reeled as he made his way to the door. "No," he
repeated. "I will take no help from the enemy."</p>

<p>It is true that a shell has burst at my feet. It has
happened dozens of times. That isn't alarming. If it
burst a few feet away I should be killed. Shells glance
down and under the ground. That saves one if he is
near it. A shell bursting near one is a commonplace in
war.</p>

<p>The shells have a disturbing way about them, more disturbing
to your plans than your equanimity. Shells prevented
my having a nice comfortable illness. In southern
Russia one can get little to eat. Coarse black bread
is the chief food. It causes unpleasant disorders. I,
afflicted with one of them, arranged a table in the corner
of my tent. I placed remedies on the table, undressed
and turned in, intending to have a cozy illness of a few
days. But as I lay there came an angry buzzing. A shell
hissed through, carrying away a corner of my tent.
That ended my illness. I had no more time to think
of it.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_125" id="Page_125">[125]</a></span></p>

<p>The greatest peril I encountered was not from shells.
I have said that one becomes used to them. One of the
greatest dangers I faced was on a dark night drive along
a precipice in the Caucasus. It was while the plan to
bring troops through Persia to Russia was expected to be
successful. I went ahead with some ambulances. It
was necessary to take two Russian officers across the
mountain. I offered my services. The road was an
oddly twisting one. On one side was a high wall, on the
other a precipice whose depth no one calculated. But
as I allowed myself to look into it at twilight I could see
no bottom to it. We started on the all night drive at
dusk. The precipice remained with us, a foot away,
most of the distance. Had my car skidded twelve inches
the story would have been different.</p>

<p>Then, too, I wandered once within the Turkish lines,
mistaking them for our own. But amidst a courteous
silence I was allowed to discover my mistake and escape
without harm.</p>

<p>I think I owe my opportunity to do my bit, in the way
I have, to the fact that I arrived in Flanders a few hours
before the fight and the officers were too busy to send
me back. I had seven automobiles, and knew how to
use them. I took them to Dixmude and offered the automobiles
and my services to the cause. I established headquarters
at Furnes, which is seven miles from Nieuport,
eight from Dixmude and twenty from Ypres. I drove
along the Yser Canal to the parts of the field that were
under the heaviest fire, for there, I knew, my cars and
I would be most needed. For a year I worked for the
relief of the wounded of the French armies. Then I
went to Russia, where I found the need of help and the
sacrifice of life because of lack of that help, almost inconceivable.
The French armies have 6,600 ambulances.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_126" id="Page_126">[126]</a></span>
The Germans have 6,200. Russia, with a firing line of
6,000 miles has but 600 motor ambulances.</p>

<p>I established dressing stations in the mountains. Some
of these were 10,000 feet above the sea level. There, on
the canvas stretched between two horses, the wounded
were brought, or so they started. For many of them died
in the long journey, every step of which was torture to
a wounded man.</p>

<p>The most exciting experience I ever had was on the
Galician border. We could approach the battle line only
along the Tranapol road, which ran for fifteen miles
directly under German guns. I was speeding along it
with an ambulance full of wounded soldiers when a
shell struck the roadside and exploded, tearing a great
hole in the earth fifty feet away. The concussion stopped
us. Then we went on. I travel on my luck. Some time,
I suppose, I shall travel too far.</p>

<p>I have given all my fortune to the work. That is what
we should do&mdash;give not what we can afford, but all we
have.</p>


<p>II&mdash;STORY OF THE "SPY-TRAPPERS" OF
ENGLAND WHO CAUGHT CARL LODY</p>

<p>Everybody has heard of the tremendous ramifications
of the German military spy system, which had every
move of England's army and navy under observation,
every gun emplacement mapped out and knew every
order given to the army before it reached the subordinate
officers.</p>

<p>Englishmen were powerless to shake off this spy danger,
which penetrated into every branch of national life,
but English women took up the matter, brought the most
dangerous spies to trial, put the others under armed
guard and in various other ways made the lives of spies
and suspected spies a burden to them.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_127" id="Page_127">[127]</a></span></p>

<p>They have proved that women are the only efficient
"spy trappers." The leaders of the undertaking are
women of title, for they alone would have the authority,
means and prestige to carry out such a difficult and far-reaching
work.</p>

<p>The organizer and "chairman" of the committee that
has been rounding up the spies is Lady Glanusk, wife of
a peer and officer, a woman of keen mind and very determined,
yet tactful personality. Other members are the
Duchess of Wellington, who is president; the Duchess of
Beaufort, the Duchess of Sutherland, the Marchioness of
Sligo, Countess Bathurst, the Countess of Lanesborough,
Viscountess Massereene and Ferrard, Viscountess Combermere,
Viscountess Cobham, Lady Vincent, Lady
Leith of Fyvie, Mrs. Harold Baring and others.</p>

<p>Among them are some of the most notably beautiful
women in English society and others who are distinguished
by their winning personality. Perhaps the most
striking beauty is the Viscountess Massereene and Ferrard,
whose husband is the chief of a celebrated Irish
family. Equally attractive in her way is the young
Duchess of Sutherland, whose husband is the largest
landowner in Scotland and the United Kingdom.</p>

<p>Another member of the committee noted for her
beauty is Mrs. Harold Baring, who was formerly Miss
Marie Churchill, of New York. Her husband belongs
to the famous English banking family that possesses
four peerages. Lady Leith of Fyvie, is another American
born member. She was Miss Marie January, of St.
Louis. Womanly intuition and womanly guile exercised
by these attractive "spy trappers," on many social occasions,
have led many Germans to make admissions they
would never have made to a man.</p>

<p>Before the war thousands of Germans were in positions
of trust in England, ranging from heads of banks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_128" id="Page_128">[128]</a></span>
down to such positions as butlers in prominent English
families and headwaiters in leading hotels. Many people
believe that German butlers in the employ of British
Cabinet ministers and British generals have been the most
important agents for conveying military information to
the enemy. Standing silent and discreet behind their employers
and their guests at the table, they listened to many
military secrets and they also had other opportunities for
gathering information.</p>

<p>One of the fair members of the committee dined one
evening at the house of an English general with a small
party of persons highly placed in military and official
life. When the general joined the ladies in the drawing
room after dinner the fascinating "spy trapper" drew
him aside and said:</p>

<p>"General, before I go, I want you to arrest your butler
and search his belongings. He is a German spy," she
said.</p>

<p>"But Lady &mdash;&mdash;," said the general in amazement, "he
has been with me for ten years. The man is an excellent
butler."</p>

<p>"No doubt," said the lady, "but he is also an excellent
spy. Never speak to me again if I am wrong."</p>

<p>The butler's room was searched and many notes of an
incriminating character were found. The lack of positive
evidence that he had sent information to the German
Government saved his life, but he was sent to prison
with a host of other German spies.</p>

<p>It is generally understood that Carl Hans Lody, the
German spy executed in the Tower of London, was
brought to trial through the efforts of the women's committee,
although the members disclaim the achievement.</p>

<p>Lody was an officer of the German naval reserve who
had resided some years in the United States, married and
deserted his wife there. He was engaged for a time as<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_129" id="Page_129">[129]</a></span>
an agent of an English tourist agency in America, work
which gave him an excellent opportunity for watching
military preparations.</p>

<p>Last August he obtained an American passport from
the American Embassy in Berlin, under the name of
Charles A. Inglis, of New York, American citizen. He
went to England with instructions to obtain information
concerning the movements of the English fleet for
the German Government.</p>

<p>In the disguise of an American tourist, he visited the
principal seaports of the United Kingdom. While he was
viewing the romantic scenery in the vicinity of Edinburgh,
an attractive member of the ladies' committee
made his acquaintance. Under the influence of sympathetic
society Lody became more communicative than
discretion warranted.</p>

<p>Behind the superficial American accent the natural
German accent revealed itself in the warmth of confidence.
A few days later, Lody was arrested and letters,
which he had written to Germany, giving information
concerning English naval movements and which had
been seized in the mails, were produced.</p>

<p>Lody admitted that he was acting as a spy. After a
short trial he was condemned to be shot in the old Tower
of London. He met his fate very bravely.</p>

<p>The "ladies' committee" has hunted down all German
headwaiters and waiters employed in the principal English
hotels and restaurants and caused them to be removed
to detention camps. These men, owing to the
peculiar character of their work, enjoyed an excellent opportunity
for meeting persons of all the important classes
of society, and in the free expansion that ordinarily
takes place at the table all kinds of confidences were exchanged
within their hearing.</p>

<p>Many Germans of high social position and great<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_130" id="Page_130">[130]</a></span>
wealth, some of them naturalized British subjects, have
been pursued by the relentless "ladies' committee." Professor
Arthur Schuster, a born German, but a naturalized
Englishman, was surprised at his luxurious country seat,
when a band of detectives descended on him and seized
his private wireless apparatus.</p>

<p>Lady Glanusk explained to the correspondent of this
newspaper some of the aims and labors of the committee.</p>

<p>She has turned the drawing and reception rooms of
her fine house, at No. 30 Bruton street, Mayfair, into
offices for the committee.</p>

<p>"Owing to the fact," said Lady Glanusk, "that no
serious effort has been made by our menkind to round
up the 73,000 alien enemies in our midst, I felt the call
to start a protest by women, as it is women who are the
greatest sufferers by war. My husband and two sons
are fighting at the front and thousands of women can
say very much the same.</p>

<p>"Ten days after I issued my appeal to the women
of England I had formed my committee with the definite
object that all alien-born enemies, whether German, Austrian
or Turk, of military age, be forthwith interned,
whether naturalized or not. Other alien enemies above
military age or under should be removed at least twenty
miles from the coasts and kept under surveillance.</p>

<p>"I consider that women as spies and decoy ducks are
more dangerous than men.</p>

<p>"To such an extent have the women of England been
roused that in the first couple of weeks more than 200,000
signatures to the petition to be presented to Parliament
were obtained.</p>

<p>"Alien enemies, Germans and Austrians particularly,
were spread all along the coast towns and it was impossible
to know whether or not they were in constant communication<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_131" id="Page_131">[131]</a></span>
with the enemy. For my part, I would like
to see as many as possible of these 'useless non-combatants'
dumped right onto German soil. It would be
amusing to think of the embarrassment of the German
authorities having to find food and shelter for something
like 70,000 fresh mouths. Another trouble is the
shameful favoritism shown to wealthy and highly placed
Anglo-Germans while their humbler compatriots are interned
without ado.</p>

<p>"Out of the petition of protest has grown what we
have named 'the anti-German League,' by which it is
resolved that no member will employ or sanction the
employment of any German or alien enemy. Members
will further refuse to deal with any shops or establishments
selling any German or alien enemy goods. As
the members of our committee are highly influential people
the movement should be effective and will continue
for several years. Further, no pains will be spared to
improve the usefulness of British hotel waiters and other
hotel and restaurant employees.</p>

<p>"If every British woman will realize that it is shameful
and treacherous to give financial help to the Germans
there will be no future need to protect the public from
this alien peril, for the German Empire will never be in
a position to menace us again, for war cannot be waged
except by a commercially flourishing nation."</p>

<p>Lady Glanusk is a typical Englishwoman, full of
energy, go and spirit. She is tall and stately, with a
beautiful complexion. She received the American correspondent
cordially and with a friendly grasp of the
hand.</p>

<p>During the interview Mr. Joynson-Hicks, Member of
Parliament, and just recently appointed Chairman of the
Unionist Parliamentary Committee lately formed to inquire<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_132" id="Page_132">[132]</a></span>
into this alien enemy question, was present, as was
also Lord Euston, heir to the Dukedom of Grafton.</p>


<p>III&mdash;STORY OF DAUGHTERS OF ENGLISH
NOBILITY WHO WORK IN TRENCHES</p>

<p>Many beautiful girls of the most delicate breeding have
gone to the front to nurse the wounded&mdash;to see the worst
horrors of this most horrible of wars.</p>

<p>It must not be assumed that they have merely gone
to the base hospitals to attend to the wounded soldiers
brought to them from the front and carried to them
through the dangerous area. Some at least have gone
right to the trenches into the midst of the inferno of
bullets and shells and poisonous gases, where the air is
filled with the groans of the dying and the stench of the
unburied dead and where the very soil trembles from the
force of the new and devilish explosives that reduce
humanity to a pulp.</p>

<p>The sights that these delicately reared girls must witness
can only be hinted at. Many strong men have turned
sick at the same experience, and even veteran soldiers
are only able to endure their surroundings by smoking
the strongest kind of tobacco. How the spoiled darlings
of society will come through their terrible experience
must be one of the most interesting problems of the war.</p>

<p>One of the most strikingly beautiful girls at the front
is Miss Gladys Nelson, daughter of Sir William and
Lady Nelson, who have a house noted for its art treasures
in Hill Street, Mayfair, the most aristocratic quarter
of London.</p>

<p>Sir William Nelson is a great railroad magnate, having
large enterprises of this character in the colonies and
other parts of the world. He is probably one of the
wealthiest men in the United Kingdom. He has two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_133" id="Page_133">[133]</a></span>
sons in the army, and four daughters married to army
officers. His only unmarried daughter, Miss Gladys, determined
that she would not do less for her country than
any of her family.</p>

<p>Miss Nelson is the purest and most refined type of
English beauty. She is tall, lithe and athletic, with beautiful
golden hair and a very delicate, fair complexion.
This exquisite daughter of millions is actually running a
motor ambulance from the trenches in the North of
France to the base hospital. She helps to carry the poor
wounded soldiers in her car back of the firing line and
then drives them to the base hospital. She has been repeatedly
under fire and runs the risk of being killed
almost daily. She was within the firing zone when the
Germans first began their use of poisonous gases, and it
was only because she had a full load of wounded in her
car that she moved to the rear before the deadly fumes
reached her.</p>

<p>All the risks of death and injury, however, would seem
to be less of an ordeal to a woman of sensitive nerves
than the sights she must constantly witness. The bodies
of dead and wounded have been turned black, green and
yellow, so that they become in many instances a caricature
of humanity.</p>

<p>Then so furious is the fighting and so difficult the
work of attending to the wounded that the dead have
often been left unburied for days. The wounded are
often terribly mangled and sometimes left to lie in the dirt
for hours or even days before the ambulances can find
them. Before they can be relieved at all their clothes and
boots may have to be cut from them, and in this process
very often large masses of flesh come away with the
garments. These and other services are rendered by the
women ambulance workers.</p>

<p>The exquisite Miss Gladys Nelson has been doing her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_134" id="Page_134">[134]</a></span>
share in this terrible work, and, according to last accounts,
doing it very creditably. Will she come through
the ordeal a stronger and nobler character or will she
break down under it?</p>

<p>One of the bravest English nurses is Miss Muriel
Thompson, of the First Aid Yeomanry Corps. She belongs
to a well-known English family. She is a pretty
girl of robust physique. She has been right up to the
trenches in one of the worst centres of carnage in the
whole field of war. Many badly wounded Belgians, who
had no hope of medical attention from their own forces,
were carried by Miss Thompson from the firing line.
King Albert of Belgium presented to her on the battlefield
a medal for bravery.</p>

<p>The beautiful Marchioness of Drogheda, a young
matron of the highest aristocracy, is nursing the wounded
in a houseboat on the Yser River, in Belgium, where
some of the most terrible fighting of the whole war has
occurred. This is the spot where the Germans put forth
their greatest force in the West last October to break
down the allied lines and reach the English Channel.</p>

<p>The Germans in their advance either killed the Belgian
inhabitants or at least drove them out and destroyed their
homes. The allies in their anxiety to stop the Germans
flooded the country and destroyed hundreds more Belgian
homes. The world has never seen a more pitiful and
death-strewn waste than this once very populous and
prosperous region.</p>

<p>The Marchioness of Drogheda and some other English
women are laboring among the wounded and starving
on the Yser, within sound of the guns to relieve some
little part of the unspeakable misery.</p>

<p>Two of the most noted beauties of the British aristocracy
are in training to act as war nurses. One of them
is Lady Diana Manners, daughter of the Duke of Rutland<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_135" id="Page_135">[135]</a></span>
and sister of the former Lady Marjorie Manners,
whose heart affairs have been of so much interest to the
world.</p>

<p>Lady Diana is one of the most charming, dainty and
sprightly girls in the liveliest set of fashionable society.
To think of such a girl amid the blood, dirt and horrors
of trench warfare gives one the greatest shock of all.
It has not yet been decided where Lady Diana will take
up her duties in the war area, but her friends say that
her spirit is so great that she will go to the most dangerous
places that any woman has yet ventured to.</p>

<p>Another beautiful girl of equal social prominence who
has been training as a war nurse is Miss Monica Grenfell,
daughter of Lord Desborough, one of the most
noted sportsmen in England.</p>

<p>In the earlier stages of the war considerable adverse
comment was excited by the numbers of society women
who forced themselves through their influence with high
officials into the fighting area, where they were not fitted
to be of help and were often a serious hindrance.</p>

<p>This evil has now been nearly eliminated. With a
growing sense of the awful seriousness of the war the
most frivolous of society women have become subdued.
Under the direction of such masterful men as General
Kitchener and General Joffre the army officers and other
officials have refused to allow any women, however
highly connected, who were actuated merely by curiosity,
to proceed to the front.</p>

<p>Only women qualified to nurse and belonging to a
recognized war nursing organization are now allowed
to go near the fighting area.</p>

<p>At one time criticism was excited by the sight of Lady
Dorothy Fielding, the twenty-year-old daughter of the
Earl of Denbigh, standing among a group of admiring
French and Belgian officers at the front. It was assumed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_136" id="Page_136">[136]</a></span>
that a girl of such an age and such training could only
be a hindrance among the fighting men, and it was even
hinted that she was addicted to flirting.</p>

<p>Whatever she may have been at first, the young Lady
Dorothy has now changed all opinions of her and become
a real heroine. With training and experience now
lasting for months she has become a most valuable as
well as courageous nurse in rescuing and caring for the
wounded. Naturally a strong girl and accustomed to
athletic sports, she has shown herself peculiarly fitted for
this kind of work.</p>

<p>Many ladies of rank interested in the wounded have
lately shown their good sense by not trying to go to the
fighting area. The handsome and skittish Duchess of
Westminster, who excited some attention at first by bustling
around among the soldiers in France has now gone
to Serbia, where there is the greatest need of Good
Samaritans. The hospital founded by her at Le Touquet,
near Paris, has done good work.</p>

<p>The condition of Serbia is such that any women who
ventures there must see the extremes of human misery.
The whole country has been turned into a charnel house
by the invading Austrians, followed by the still more
terrible typhus fever. Men, women and children are
dying of disease without being able to find a bed to lie
on or a roof to cover them.</p>

<p>One report stated that young Lady Paget had died
while nursing typhus patients in Serbia. Her mother is
the well-known American Lady Paget, wife of General
Sir Arthur Paget, and the daughter is married to a distant
cousin, named Sir Richard Paget, British Minister
to Serbia. Later news came that young Lady Paget had
not died of the fever, but she is passing through scenes
of horror that have not been known in Europe for three
centuries.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_137" id="Page_137">[137]</a></span></p>


<p>IV&mdash;STORY OF A NEW YORK MOTHER WHO
SOUGHT HER SON IN THE TRENCHES</p>

<p>Paul Planet was sailing away from New York and
from the mother he adored to fight under the colors of
France.</p>

<p>Other women&mdash;mothers, wives, sisters, sweethearts&mdash;pressed
forward. They also gazed tearfully after the
slowly receding steamer.</p>

<p>The girlish figure with the great brown eyes and firm,
resolute mouth, stood motionless.</p>

<p>"Paul," she murmured. "He is my only child&mdash;my
boy!"</p>

<p>Weeks passed&mdash;months.</p>

<p>Paul Planet's regiment was at the front. He had
learned what it means to look death in the face, to live
in the trenches, to see the horrors and devastation of
war. He had fought and fought bravely, and experienced
no regrets save one&mdash;that he must be separated
from his mother.</p>

<p>"We have always been more like chums than mother
and son," he confided to his comrades. "Since my earliest
recollection until now we have never been separated."</p>

<p>But when he drew forth a small picture from over his
heart and said it was a likeness of the mother for whose
loneliness he sighed, his friends ridiculed his statement.</p>

<p>"Your sweetheart," they said, "or perhaps your sister.
But never, never ask us to believe that the likeness is of
your mother."</p>

<p>"She is always young&mdash;always beautiful&mdash;to me she
will never grow old," declared the young soldier. But
after that he did not show the picture again.</p>

<p>In far away New York the fair young mother of so
stalwart a son learned, as months rolled by, what it
means to watch and wait, to tremble at the sound of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_138" id="Page_138">[138]</a></span>
postman's ring lest it be the harbinger of ill news; to live,
day by day, in a state of suspense and agony bordering
upon despair, and to envy every mother she saw whose
son walked by her side.</p>

<p>Then she, too, sailed for France.</p>

<p>"I must find my boy," she told those who sought to
dissuade her from undertaking the trip.</p>

<p>For nearly a year had passed and no word had been
received from Paul Planet. His name had not appeared
in the lists of dead and missing, yet of his whereabouts
his mother could learn nothing.</p>

<p>She applied to the officials at the Army Headquarters
in Paris for information or assistance in locating her son.
Her efforts were fruitless. Passports she received to
certain sections of the country where the family name
was known and where she had relatives or friends to
visit or business to transact, but no permission was accorded
her to leave the train at any intermediate point
nor to visit a military camp.</p>

<p>Day after day Mme. Planet planned and schemed how
she might find her boy. She made journey after journey
in the vain hope that chance might bring her near him.
Her aged mother now accompanied her.</p>

<p>"It will be a miracle if you ever find him," declared the
elder woman as they looked forth upon miles of devastated
country through which long lines of trenches intersected.
Everywhere madame's inquiry met with the same
discouraging reply. Paul Planet, the young soldier in the
automobile service, might be in one of any number of
places. Even if located it would be impossible for
madame to visit him.</p>

<p>The train in which madame was travelling drew up at
a siding near the ruins of what had once been a small
village. Several troop trains sped by. Slowly the sidetracked
train pulled forward toward the main tracks<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_139" id="Page_139">[139]</a></span>
again. Madame, restless and anxious, crossed the compartment
and peered from the window. The next instant
a startled exclamation escaped her lips.</p>

<p>"What is it?" asked her mother.</p>

<p>With frantic haste the younger woman turned and
commenced to collect their travelling bags.</p>

<p>"I have found Paul," she whispered. "We must leave
the train at the next station."</p>

<p>Now, all that day Paul Planet, for some strange psychological
reason which he could not have explained, had
felt conscious of his mother's nearness. Yet she was in
New York, he reasoned and fear smote his heart lest
sickness or accident had befallen her.</p>

<p>"Rest&mdash;for two hours."</p>

<p>Down along the marching line of soldiers the order
was repeated. Planet heard it and fell out with alacrity.
He heard himself detailed for temporary duty with a corporal's
guard to unload automobile trucks. A troop
train rushed by and a waiting passenger train pulled
slowly out from a siding.</p>

<p>Planet glanced up. From the window of the latter
train a face looked forth&mdash;a hand waved. Was he
dreaming? Surely that was his mother's face he had
seen! He dashed forward. The face was very distinct
now. Impulsively he laid his finger across his lips as his
mother had been wont to do when, as a child, she had
desired him to remain silent. If the face at the window
was that of his mother they must be discreet or she would
never be permitted to join him.</p>

<p>"My mother was on that train," he confided to the
soldier beside him. The man laughed.</p>

<p>"Impossible," he exclaimed. "You have seen a vision."</p>

<p>But Paul Planet had not seen a vision. Two miles
further on, when the train had come to a halt at the
little village station, Mme. Planet almost pulled her protesting<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_140" id="Page_140">[140]</a></span>
mother of seventy down the steps. The guards
also protested.</p>

<p>"Your passports, madame? Where are your passports?"
they asked.</p>

<p>"My passports?" she repeated. "Oh, monsieur, I am
so excited I do not know. There are passports there&mdash;papers&mdash;anything
you want&mdash;in that bag."</p>

<p>Madame was so charming&mdash;the name of Planet was
so well known&mdash;that the bag remained at the station,
unopened, and the clever French-American mother
hurried off in search of her supposed friends.</p>

<p>She found them down along the railroad. A little
squad of uniformed men unloading automobile trucks.</p>

<p>"Vive la France!" she cried. "Vive la France!" and
all the while her brown eyes were gazing hungrily, eagerly
into the equally brown orbs of her son. It would not do
to single him out from the others. To do so might result
in difficulties for him and for her.</p>

<p>The two hours' rest was lengthened to six. Still the
detachment waited by the roadside. Still madame and her
mother waited.</p>

<p>Again the former's ready wit came to their aid.
Madame was so distressed! The friends she had expected
to find in the village had gone away. There was
no place for herself and her mother to dine. Would the
soldiers be so kind&mdash;so generous&mdash;&mdash;</p>

<p>The soldiers would. They hospitably provided a tent
for madame and her mother. It might be two days, the
officers told them, before another passenger train stopped
at that station. Madame, overjoyed, resigned herself to
Providence and basked in the sunshine of her son's presence.
The ban of secrecy had been lifted now. Their
relationship was made known and pocket kodaks drafted
into service as the troops were breaking camp.</p>

<p>"I will have the pictures developed when I reach<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_141" id="Page_141">[141]</a></span>
Paris," said madame as she once more clasped her boy
in her arms. "I have seen you again and I am content.
That two hours' respite by the roadside that resolved
itself into a two days' encampment was a special dispensation
of Providence."</p>

<p>"It was a miracle, mother," declared the son. "There
have been miracles all through this war. That you found
me was one of them." Then he kissed her and marched
away.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_142" id="Page_142">[142]</a></span></p>




<h2>AN AMERICAN WOMAN'S STORY OF
THE "ANCONA" TRAGEDY</h2>

<p><i>Told by Dr. Cecile Greil, an American Physician</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Dr. Cecile Greil was the only native-born American on the liner
<i>Ancona</i>, which was shelled and sunk by an Austrian submarine.
She tells this intensely graphic account of the terrible event in
the <i>New York Times</i>. She precedes it with a description of the
crowd of passengers, mostly poor Italian women and children,
that had passage on the ship&mdash;the most pathetic gathering, it
seemed to her as they came aboard the ship, that she had ever
seen.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;"WHEN THE TORPEDO STRUCK US"</p>

<p>The bell for luncheon rang at 11:30. As we sat at the
table, still without the Captain, we joked and laughed together,
to hide our lack of ease. We spoke of trivial
things. We were through with lunch now; the others
were going out; I was rising from my seat, at the same
time drinking the remainder of my coffee. Then the
thing came upon us that we had all, strangely enough,
felt coming, in our hearts.</p>

<p>A terrific vibration shook the ship. I was thrown back
into my seat. I knew that the ship must be stopping. I
heard a running and scurrying about the deck outside.
Looking out, I saw, through the dining saloon window,
six or ten stewards in white whirling out of sight around
an angle.</p>

<p>"What could be wrong, Doctor?" I asked one of the
ship's doctors in French.</p>

<p>"Heaven only knows!" he answered, as he carefully
adjusted his military cape, and hurried out. The dining<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_143" id="Page_143">[143]</a></span>
saloon was emptied in an instant; everybody had bolted
as if they were running to a fire.</p>

<p>It was evident that something had gone wrong with
the ship, though, by some queer process of mind, at that
moment nobody thought of a submarine. But hearing
the next moment a sharp, quick crash, as of lightning
that had struck home close by, at the same instant I
both thought of the possibility of a submarine&mdash;and
saw one!</p>

<p>The fog had lifted slightly. There, in full view framed
in the window with a curious, picture-like effect, lay a
submarine with its deck out of the water. It was long
and flat, horribly longer and bigger than the mental
conception I had formed of what such a thing would be
like. There was a gun mounted in front, and another at
back, and both had their muzzles leveled directly at the
<i>Ancona</i>.</p>

<p>The submarine stood out in clear, black outline against
the white background of mist. The fog seemed only to
make it more distinct, as it always does with objects near
by. From a staff in the back broke a red and white
drapeau. Afterward I learned that this was the combination
of colors that made the Austrian flag. I was
ignorant of it, then, though I remembered the exact
colors.</p>

<p>So far, I could find nothing tragic or terrible in the
situation. Possibly we would be in danger of considerable
exposure in open boats, before other ships, summoned
by wireless, would pick us up. I did not rush
out as the others had done. I stood quite still, in order
to calm myself, to give myself time to think what would
better be done. The <i>Ancona</i> had come to a stop. Of that
I was certain. I also knew that the ship was doomed.</p>

<p>But now there came another terrible crash, and another,
and another, in different parts of the ship, followed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_144" id="Page_144">[144]</a></span>
by explosions and the sound of débris falling into
the water and on deck. Well, they were merely destroying
the wireless. Still there was no fear of death.</p>

<p>But now I was aware of a terrible shrieking. Everybody
was in a frightened panic.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"THE HORROR OF WHAT I SAW"</p>

<p>Well, as for myself&mdash;to get excited wouldn't help. I
went to my cabin as calmly as I could, determined to
save what I could of my valuables. I put them in my
lifebelt. I took a receipt for 20,000 lire, which I had
left with the purser. I went toward the bow of the ship.
I descended the staircase to the second cabin, on the way
to the purser's office. A large part of the staircase had
been shot away&mdash;and the horror of what I saw at the
bottom of it made me instantly forget what I was going
for. There lay three or four women, four or five children,
and several men. Some of them were already dead,
all, at least, badly wounded. I made sure two of the
children were dead. The purser sprawled limply across
his desk, inert, like a sack of meal that has been flung
down and stays where it lies. He had been shot in the
head. The blood was running bright like red paint,
freshly spilt, down his back, and his hair was matted
with it.</p>

<p>The first series of shots had wrecked this part of the
ship, breaking through and carrying away whole sections
of the framework. I tried to get back up the stairs. But
in the slight interval of time I had consumed, enough
additional shells had been discharged to finish the wreck
of the staircase.</p>

<p>I saw that this was not what the nations call, ironically
enough, "legitimate warfare," but wholesale and indiscriminate
massacre. Seeing my exit that way cut off,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_145" id="Page_145">[145]</a></span>
I started through the second cabin to go up the central
stairway. The sight that I ran into there was indescribable.
All the passengers from the third cabin had rushed
up into the second. They had altogether lost their wits.
The only thing that was left them was the animal instinct
for self-preservation in its most disastrous and most
idiotic form. Men, women, and children were burrowing
headforemost under chairs and benches and tables.
I saw one man, his face pressed close against the floor
sidewise, heaving a chair up in the air with his back, in
an effort to efface himself.</p>

<p>All the while the detonations, like continuous thunder
and lightning, increased the panic. Women were on their
knees in mental agony, each supplicating the particular
saint of the part of the country from which she came to
save her from death. I pushed and shoved them by the
shoulders. I took them by the legs and arms and clothes,
and urged them, in Italian, to get up, to put on lifebelts,
to get off the ship. I told them that, at least, they would
find no security from shells under chairs and tables.</p>

<p>I found a poor old woman at the foot of the stairs,
huddled in prayer. Her thin, gray hair straggled loose
over her shoulder. I recognized her as a woman I had
got acquainted with in my search for a fellow-citizen
to join me in the first cabin. She was 65 years old, she
had told me. She had seen two sons off to the war, and
was now going to a third who had emigrated to America
and lived in Pennsylvania. It was the first time she had
ever crossed the ocean. She was sick of the thought
of war. In the New World she would find peace and
comfort for her old age, with her "Bambino," as she still
called the grown-up man who was her son. So when
I saw her lying there I was possessed of but one idea&mdash;to
get her off alive. I told her to come with me, that I
would protect her. She acquiesced, but her fright was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_146" id="Page_146">[146]</a></span>
so great that she hung limp as if she had no spine while
I half dragged her to the first cabin deck.</p>

<p>A boat was being lowered. It had been swung out
on the davits. It already seethed full of people. And
more men and women and children were fighting, in a
promiscuous, shrieking mass, to get into it as it swung out
and down. The men, with their superior strength, were,
of course, getting the best of the struggle. Age or sex
had no weight. It was brute strength that prevailed.</p>

<p>At the sight before her the old woman grew frantic
with unexpected strength. She suddenly jerked loose
from me, and before I could prevent her, ran with all the
agility of fear and jumped overboard. Others flung their
bodies pell-mell on the heads of those already in it. Some,
in their frenzy, missed the mark at which they aimed
themselves and fell into the sea. To make the horror
complete, the boat now stuck at one end, tilted downward,
and spilled all its occupants into the sea, ninety
or a hundred at once. They seized each other. Some
swam. Others floundered and sank almost immediately,
dragging each other down. Some drowned themselves
even with lifebelts on, not knowing how to hold their
heads out of the water.</p>

<p>I tried to speak with the passengers still on deck. It
was useless. Everybody was talking in his own particular
dialect. Then I realized the predicament I myself
was in&mdash;an utter foreigner, whom they would sacrifice in
an instant for one of their own nationality. Perhaps if
only I had some of my jewelry I might be able to bribe
my way to safety in some such crisis.</p>


<p>III&mdash;"THE DEAD WERE LYING ON DECK"</p>

<p>I made my way back to my cabin again. There were
people dead and dying on the deck. I saw one man who<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_147" id="Page_147">[147]</a></span>
had started to run up the gangway to the officer's deck
come plunging down again. He had been struck in the
back of the head. Somehow or other, I just felt that
my time had not yet come. This conviction enabled me
to keep my wits about me.</p>

<p>In my cabin I flung up the top of my steamer trunk. As
I was searching for my valuables my chambermaid appeared
in the doorway; half a dozen times I had met her
rushing frantically and aimlessly up and down.</p>

<p>"Oh, madame, madame&mdash;we shall all be killed, we're
all going to get killed!"</p>

<p>"Maria," I advised as quietly and soothingly as I could,
still stooping over my trunk; "don't be so mad, get a
lifebelt on, and get up out of here."</p>

<p>Before she could speak again she was a dead woman.
A shot carried away the port-hole and sheared off the
top of her head. It finished its course by exploding at
the other side of the ship. If I had not been stooping
over at the time I would not have lived to write this
story.</p>

<p>I snatched up my little jewel-basket with a few favorite
trinkets in it. I put on my cap and sweater. When
I got up on deck I saw the submarine carefully circumnavigating
its victims and deliberately shooting toward us
at all angles. I ran along the deck. The sea was full of
deck rails, parts of doors, and other wreckage, and
dotted with human beings, some dead, others alive, and
screaming for help. There was another boat in front
that tilted and dumped out its frantic load into the sea.
Peering over the side of the ship, I saw a boat that had
already been lowered to the water's edge. In it I recognized
the two ship's doctors, and two of the seamen.
There was also an officer in the boat, Carlo Lamberti, the
chief engineer. He sat at the helm. I called out to them
to take me in.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_148" id="Page_148">[148]</a></span></p>

<p>"Jump!" they shouted back.</p>

<p>I threw my basket down. I had a good twenty-foot
drop. I have always been a good swimmer. Furthermore,
I saw that if I jumped into the boat, crowded
with people, sails, water-barrels, and pails for bailing, I
might cause it to capsize. So I told them to push the
boat away and then they could pick me up out of the
water.</p>

<p>I escaped with a ducking.</p>

<p>An immigrant girl who followed me flung herself down
wildly and broke both her legs on the side of the ship.</p>

<p>We were powerless to save any more. The ship might
at any moment receive the final torpedo from the submarine.
The sailors rowed madly to get out of danger.</p>

<p>Then the torpedo was discharged. It whizzed across
the ship, drawing a tail behind it like a comet. It
plunged beneath the <i>Ancona</i> as if guided by a diabolical
intelligence of its own. There followed a terrific explosion.
Huge jets of thick black smoke shot up, with
showers of débris. Our boat rocked and swayed in the
roughened water. The <i>Ancona</i> lurched to the left,
righted herself, shivered a moment&mdash;then her bow shot
high in the air like a struggling, death-stricken animal.
She went under, drawing a huge, funnel-like vortex
after her.</p>

<p>The Captain and some officers were the last to drop
astern, in a small boat. Passengers were still to be seen,
clinging forward, like ants on driftwood, as the ship was
drawn down. There were many people wounded, so that
they could not get off unaided. They were left to die.</p>

<p>The sea now looked absolutely empty, swept smooth.
The ship had drawn everything down with it. The fog
undulating upward, the submarine was seen lying in full
view, as if in quiet Teutonic contemplation of what it
had done. Then it moved off, and was soon merged into<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_149" id="Page_149">[149]</a></span>
the waste of sea and fog. We felt a great relief when
it had departed.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;SURVIVORS DRIFTING ON THE OCEAN</p>

<p>All that afternoon our six surviving boats drifted
within sight of each other. When darkness fell large
yellow lanterns were lit, and from time to time Bengal
lights flared and fell. It looked like a regatta held on the
River Styx, in Hell. The sailors had exhausted themselves
rowing, so the improvised sails were set. The boat-loads
of survivors had run the gamut of every emotion.
They were now mere stocks of insensibility, numb, dumb,
and inert.</p>

<p>At six in the afternoon a boat just behind us began
sending us signals of distress. The men had taken off
their shirts and were waving them to us on oars. Our
sailors objected to turning back, saying that both boats
would be sunk if we tried to relieve them. But Carlo
Lamberti, the chief engineer, with a quiet look in his
blue eyes, with a rather careless, engaging smile, which
was habitual to him all the time, presented his revolver&mdash;and
we went back to see what was wrong.</p>

<p>We found that the boat had been struck by a shell and
was leaking badly. True enough, most of the people in
it tried to make an immediate stampede into our boat.
But again Lamberti presented his eloquent pistol and his
quiet smile, and with order and precision we took aboard
the wounded, the women, and children. Then the leaky
craft was tied to our stern and the men left were easily
able to keep it afloat by bailing.</p>

<p>"We'll save you, or go down with you!" Lamberti reassured
them. This chief engineer was the only man who
showed signal bravery.</p>

<p>One of the first of the wounded rescued from the leaky<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_150" id="Page_150">[150]</a></span>
boat was my former companion, the Marquis Serra Cassano.
He did not wish to join in the incipient stampede.
With four toes of his foot shot away, he rose limpingly
to assist the other wounded into our boat first, before he
himself came in. Then with an air of pathetic aristocracy
he seated himself by me, and wanted to know if any one
had a cigaret to spare. We had four cigarets on the
boat. The men took turns puffing them.</p>

<p>A frantic mother had dropped her baby in the water.
I jumped out and rescued it. Later on, she got separated
from it, and I had it in my charge for several days&mdash;but
that is not in the present story.</p>

<p>We kept close watch on each other's boats till nightfall.
As the other five would appear and disappear, we would
be alternately cheered and frightened.</p>

<p>It must have been nearly midnight when one of our
sailors cried out that he saw a ship's light. But for a
long while nothing appeared but thin threads of light that
filtered through the fog. After some discussion as to
whether it might not be an enemy craft, we approached
the direction of the light, till it burst on us in a powerful,
searching blaze. And we discerned the other boats converging
toward it, mere moving yellow splurges in the
gloom.</p>

<p>The ship that was rescuing us was a French mine layer,
the <i>Pluton</i>. It was hellish-looking, as it beetled over us,
but none the less it looked like heaven, too!</p>

<p>And now our boat-loads of survivors were close together,
and suddenly everybody grew voluble and chatty.
We shouted across the water to each other. I even heard
a voice singing. We were saved! We were saved!</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_151" id="Page_151">[151]</a></span></p>




<h2>THE STRATEGY OF SISTER
MADELEINE</h2>

<p><i>The Story of a French Captain's Escape from
the Germans</i></p>

<p><i>Told by himself, and translated by G. Frederic Lees</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Few men who have succeeded in slipping through the clutching
fingers of the Mailed Fist have such a moving record of adventure
to their credit as Captain X&mdash;&mdash;, who here relates his remarkable
experiences. There is the true Stevensonian flavor in
some of the episodes narrated; and at the same time the story
has real historical value, since it opens with a graphic account of
the Battle of Charleroi, which has not yet been described by
the French Staff, or by any of the unofficial historians of the
war. The officer's name is suppressed in deference to his own
request when he related his experiences in the <i>Wide World
Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;MY EXPERIENCES AT THE BATTLE OF
CHARLEROI</p>

<p>In relating my adventures, extending over more than
fifteen months, I cannot do better than begin with the
starting-point of the whole affair&mdash;the Battle of Charleroi.
To describe the events which grouped themselves around
August 22nd, 23rd, 24th, and 25th, 1914, seems like telling
old news, but, as a matter of fact, the gigantic struggle
named after the Belgian town of ironworks and mines
has yet to be recorded. The French Staff has published
nothing, unofficial historians&mdash;eager to be the first to place
their researches before the public&mdash;have only given general
and often erroneous descriptions of the advance of
Von Kluck, Von Buelow, and Von Hausen against Sir
John French's forces on the Condé-Mons-Binche line and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_152" id="Page_152">[152]</a></span>
the Fifth French Army holding the line of the Sambre,
and the newspaper accounts are sometimes contradictory.</p>

<p>I am not going to weary you with military technicalities;
we will leave questions of strategy and tactics alone
and direct our attention to the battlefield as seen from
two points of view: that of myself, an officer in the
French Army, and that of an inhabitant of Charleroi,
with whom I was later thrown into contact, and by whose
observations, made from the roof of his house, I was
fortunate in benefiting.</p>

<p>Picture to yourself the sinuous Sambre, flowing in its
deep bed through the densely-populated suburbs of
Charleroi and the southern end of this formerly fortified
town. The town itself, imprisoned by its walls, is but a
small place of some thirty thousand inhabitants, but the
population is swelled to five hundred thousand by the
contiguous suburbs of Montigny, Couillet, Marcinelle,
Gilly, Châtelet, Marchiennes, Roux, Jumet, Gosselies, and
others which cluster around the ancient nucleus and
stretch principally northwards. To fight a battle on such
a ground as this was impossible, so the German forces,
descending from the north and the east in unknown hundreds
of thousands, determined to make for the open-wooded
country which lies beyond the southern suburbs
of the town. Two tremendous obstacles stood in
their way&mdash;the closely-packed houses of the suburbs
and the strongly-held river. The inhabitants soon learnt
to their cost how the first of these was to be overcome.
Suddenly, shortly after the appearance of the advance-guard
of the German army, violent explosions were
heard, accompanied by the pop! pop! pop! of machine-guns
and the discharge of musketry. The Huns were
blasting a broad way through the suburbs, setting fire
to the houses, and&mdash;under pretense that they were being
fired upon by civilians&mdash;shooting the people down in their<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_153" id="Page_153">[153]</a></span>
houses and in the streets. Right through the quarters
of Gosselies and Jumet they penetrated; then branched
off to the right and left, one band of incendiaries reaching
the river through Marchiennes, the other cutting its
way through the town and reaching the bridge which connects
Montigny and Couillet. These two points were
where the enemy first succeeded in crossing the Sambre.
Later, when we had begun our retreat southwards, owing
to pressure from Von Hausen's army massed in the
Northern Ardennes, they crossed at two other places,
east of Charleroi. Thus, on Sunday, August 23rd, the
preliminaries of the great battle were carried out.</p>

<p>South of the river the ground rises gently until it
reaches the wooded heights in the neighbourhood of
Beaumont, Thuillies, Nalinnes, and Somzée. I was stationed
at the first of these places&mdash;a little village on high
ground, with a commanding view of the green countryside.
Who would have thought, but for the deafening
roar of cannon, the incessant rattle of the machine-guns,
the occasional whir of an aeroplane overhead, and the
puffs and rings of white smoke high in air, that we were
looking on a battlefield? How empty it was! We could
see from the flashes of the carefully-hidden guns whence
death was springing; but in the early stages of the struggle
only small bodies of the enemy, whose greenish-grey
uniforms mingled well with the verdure, were from time
to time visible. At night, however, it was different. The
red glare of burning villages and farms, set on fire by
shells, lit up the sky and provided a terrifying spectacle,
night after night, for the anxious watchers of Charleroi.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"WE MOWED THEM DOWN WITH
MACHINE GUNS"</p>

<p>As the Germans advanced and the battle raged from<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_154" id="Page_154">[154]</a></span>
morning to night, it became more and more evident that
we were hopelessly outnumbered. Possessing an advantage,
however, in being on high ground, it was clear that
we could hold out for a considerable length of time and
make the enemy pay dearly for every yard of ground we
had to give away. When once the greenish-grey uniforms
began to appear in any considerable number, they
came on in solid masses, which we mowed down, time
after time, by rifle and machine-gun fire and by showers
of shrapnel from our "75's." But others quickly filled
their places, and thus the human tide advanced, until at
last the order had to be given for the retreat. This was
on August 25th, by which date, after the enemy had been
obliged to suspend operations for twenty-four hours to
collect the wounded, they had lost over forty thousand
men.</p>

<p><i>Ah! les gredins!</i> how well they deserved their fate for
the shooting down of peaceful citizens in Charleroi and
the unspeakable crimes committed in the communes on
the wooded heights of Loverval, Acoz, Montigny-le-Tilleul,
and Somzée! With what satisfaction our small
detachments, hidden in the woods, let the German scouts
pass on in order to open fire at close quarters on the
masses of troops which followed! They paid, then, for
the outrages perpetrated by the Uhlans. You ask for an
instance. Here is one which was related to me by my
friend of Charleroi&mdash;he who viewed the battle from his
house-top, and afterwards explored the battlefield to
come face to face with this grim picture. A typical instance
of Teutonic cruelty, I give it in his own words:
"A little way out of the village of Somzée was a small
farm inhabited by a young household, including three
small children. Honest, courageous, and economical folk,
they had toiled season after season to pay by annual instalments
for their property, which they had agreed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_155" id="Page_155">[155]</a></span>
purchase some eight years ago. The last payment had
just been made; the children were growing up; the little
family was happy. But the German monsters came. In
a few minutes this hardly-earned happiness was shattered.
The Boches seized everything&mdash;the few cows, the dearly-loved
horse. They set fire to the farm, shot the farmer,
and drove before them, into the distance, the poor widow
with her four weeping and terrified children. What a
sinister picture it makes! It was at the close of a splendid
August day. The little isolated farm is burning. A few
yards from the door the dead man is lying on his back.
On the side of the hill which descends to the main road
are the silhouettes of the Uhlans disappearing in the gathering
darkness of night. Tongues of flame on the horizon
mark places where similar dramas had been enacted."</p>

<p>"Now, then, boys, let them have it hot. Pick off the
gunners one by one. Marcel, Gustave, François, do you
keep an eye on the officers. <i>Ah, les gredins!</i> we'll teach
them!"</p>

<p>It was the day after the battle of Charleroi, and whilst
our troops were retiring in good order, my men and I,
after the fashion of many other small detachments, were
holding a German battery in check. So near were we to
the enemy that we could hear the harsh, guttural commands
of the artillery officers&mdash;so different from the tone
of <i>camaraderie</i> we adopt towards our men in the truly
democratic army of France&mdash;and could see them, though
indistinctly, urging on their men to the attack. From
our trenches on a wooded knoll on the outskirts of Beaumont,
we kept up a steady fire on those who were serving
the guns, around which the Boches, falling like flies,
quickly began to accumulate in heaps. Fresh men incessantly
replaced those who had fallen, who at last lay in
such numbers that the officers, in order to make room
for the gunners, had the dead dragged away to the rear<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_156" id="Page_156">[156]</a></span>
by the feet. Company after company of men fell in this
way until the German officers, who had either been shot
or had decided to withdraw, could be heard no more. A
lull occurred. Bringing my glasses to bear on the battery,
I could see no sign of life save the convulsive movements
of a few of the prostrate men around the guns.</p>

<p>"It looks as though they had had enough," said I, to
my friend Marcel, a private who comes from the same
place as myself&mdash;Loctudy, in Brittany. "I wonder if we
could capture those guns?"</p>

<p>Before he had time to answer a hurricane of bullets
came from a hidden machine-gun, and one of them found
its billet. My poor friend, shot through the head, fell
into my arms. We laid him gently down, thinking of the
sad news that would have to be broken to a sorrowing
mother at home, and then, anger mingling with regret
in our hearts, once more directed our attention to the
invisible enemy, in whose direction we hastened to send
our compliments in the form of a stream of <i>prunes</i>.
Overhead we could hear the humming of one of our
aeroplanes, and through an opening in the tree-tops momentarily
caught sight of it as it moved over the German
lines, reconnoitering. Rings of smoke from bursting
shrapnel broke far beneath it. Its mission over, it moved
swiftly back to our lines, and within ten minutes Marcel
and many other brave fellows were avenged. Our "75's"
got the range of the battery in front of us with marvellous
exactitude, and for five minutes poured upon it such
a rain of shells as to make it seem impossible that anything
could live within a distance of a hundred yards.
The dead around the guns were scattered like chaff in a
high wind. A great silence followed that series of violent
explosions. For five minutes, in accordance with orders,
the men were busy cutting steps with their entrenching
tools in our trench, so as to spring out of it quickly and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_157" id="Page_157">[157]</a></span>
proceed to capture the guns. Caution prompted another
five minutes' wait, during which there was not a sign of
life before us.</p>

<p>"Now, then, <i>mes gars!</i> time's up," I cried, as loud as
prudence would allow. "Fix bayonets! Out of the
trench as nimbly as you can. Take cover, when in the
open, as much as possible. Are you ready? Forward,
for the sake of France!"</p>


<p>III&mdash;"DEAD ON THE FIELD OF HONOUR"</p>

<p>We advanced towards the guns at the <i>pas de gymnastique</i>
and reached them without mishap. Some were too
shattered by the recent bombardment to be of any further
use, but others were still intact, and these, as it was difficult
if not impossible for us to get them away in a
retreat over a hilly wooded country, we determined to
destroy. Ordering some of my men to do what was
necessary, and as rapidly as possible, the others and I
kept a sharp look-out. The enemy gave not a sign of
life. The fuses having been attached to the breeches of
the guns and lit, we began to retire whither we had come,
but had hardly gone more than fifty yards, and heard the
successive explosions of the guns blowing up, when, on
looking over my shoulder, I saw a body of Germans
emerge at a run from a coppice about two hundred yards
to our right, and heard them open fire upon us. At the
same time I felt a sharp, burning pain in my side; a
curious sensation of intense weakness filled my being;
and, with a vision of men falling to the ground with extended
arms, I, too, bowed down, unconscious, to Mother
Earth.</p>

<p>That night, as I afterwards learnt, I was posted as
"dead on the field of honour." After eleven hours of
oblivion, I came to myself in a German ambulance. My<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_158" id="Page_158">[158]</a></span>
first impression on recovering consciousness was that of
hearing the gruff, peremptory voice of a German Herr
Doktor at my bedside; my second, when he had passed
on to another sufferer, that of seeing a sweet French
face bending over me.</p>

<p>"Where am I?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Hush! the doctor says you must speak as little as possible,"
replied the nurse, in a French which I at once
detected to be that of an educated person. "I will tell
you all that you need know for the present. You are in
our little ambulance at Erquelinnes, on the frontier between
Belgium and France&mdash;a German ambulance. But
fear not"&mdash;this in a lower voice&mdash;"my country is France,
and I am not without influence, or I should not be here.
Your wound, though serious, will get well in time. Only
you must be <i>sage</i>, and obey me. There, now! <i>Cela suffit!</i>
Try to get a little more sleep; the more rest you have the
better."</p>

<p>It needed but the invitation, the sound of her soothing
voice, like that of a tender mother speaking to her child,
and especially those singularly calming words: "Fear
not&mdash;my country is France," which seemed to wrap me
within the protective folds of the tricolour, to send me
back once more into that state of semi-unconsciousness
which appears to transport one to the borderline between
life and death. Loss of blood during those many hours
while I had lain forgotten on the battlefield had, indeed,
brought me to so weak a condition that, as my benefactress
told me later, the doctor had hardly expected to
pull me through. My wound was one of those which
have been encountered so often in this war; it exhibited
the curious vagaries of which bullets are capable. The
projectile entered my right side, travelled along a downward,
curved path, and, avoiding any of the vital organs,
came out at the other side. A millimetre to right or left,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_159" id="Page_159">[159]</a></span>
and it might have either killed or paralyzed me. As it
was, the injury and loss of blood were serious, and could
only be repaired by many weeks of immobility, coupled
with skilled medical aid (and I must do the Herr Doktor
the justice of recognizing that he was highly capable)
and the devoted attention of my nurse. Ah! kindly benefactress
of the ambulance of Erquelinnes, know, should
you ever read my words, that I can never thank you
enough for all you did for me. To have shown my gratitude
too openly amidst the surroundings where your lot
was cast&mdash;under what circumstances I have often tried to
imagine&mdash;would have betrayed you. But, knowing how
one French heart can understand another without the
passing of words, I doubt not that you have long since
comprehended the gratitude of the soldier of the Republic
whom you befriended and saved.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;ON THE ARM OF SISTER MADELEINE</p>

<p>A month in bed brought me the period when I was
declared out of danger, and was allowed to sit up in a
chair near a window overlooking a little garden bright
with hollyhocks and sunflowers. Then came the day
when, leaning on the arm of Sister Madeleine&mdash;the name
under which, she said, I was to know her&mdash;I took my
first walk and descended into that garden, to lie there
for the best hours of the day on a <i>chaise longue</i>, conversing
with her, or, when she was occupied with other
wounded, reading and reflecting. It was Sister Madeleine
who told me of passing events. But, oh! how discreetly
she broke the news of the triumphant march of the German
armies southward to Dinant and westward to Maubeuge!
It required no great psychological insight on my
part to detect where her sympathies lay. Her looks when,
the wind being favourable, the faint sound of cannon<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_160" id="Page_160">[160]</a></span>
reached us, the tone of her voice when France was
named, her significant reticence on certain occasions, told
me much more than actual words. One of these occasions
stands out in my mind with particular prominence, owing
to my having read in her words a warning, and conceived
for the first time the idea of escape.</p>

<p>"The Herr Doktor is immensely pleased with the progress
you are making, Captain X&mdash;&mdash;," said Sister Madeleine,
rising from my side to pluck some Michaelmas
daisies from an adjoining border. "He says you may
be allowed soon to take a little gentle exercise in the garden,
and do a little gardening, too, if you are a flower-lover,
as I doubt not. Are you inclined that way?"</p>

<p>"I shall be delighted to turn my hand to weeding and
planting," I replied. "The garden indeed needs attention!"</p>

<p>"<i>N'est ce pas?</i> Poor Jean, our gardener, now with the
French colours, would be heartbroken if only he could
see the wilderness his little earthly paradise has become.
How grateful he will be to you when he returns&mdash;if he
ever should return after this dreadful war&mdash;and finds
that someone has been tending his beloved chrysanthemums
and dahlias. When the mobilization order reached
him he was in the midst of potting slips of geranium in
the tool and potting shed yonder"&mdash;motioning to a little
wooden construction at the end of the garden&mdash;"and
everything there is just as he left it. A heap of withered
slips lies side by side with rows of empty flower-pots,
whilst in a corner I saw his working-clothes, which he
hastily changed before he came to the house to wish us
good-bye and passed into the unknown."</p>

<p>"I must try to prove myself to be a worthy successor
to the brave fellow," I said. "Don't you think, Sister
Madeleine, that in one respect&mdash;my unkempt appearance&mdash;I
shall not make a bad substitute?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_161" id="Page_161">[161]</a></span></p>

<p>Walking back to me with her bouquet, she gave me a
critical look and laughed. Certainly, no one at home
would have recognized me as I now was, with my long
beard and moustache and uncut hair. All at once her face
became serious, and, without replying to my question,
she said:&mdash;</p>

<p>"There is no reason why you should not start to-morrow.
But don't do too much to begin with. Though I
should like to have you here much longer, it would grieve
me if that were the result of a relapse. You must get
back your strength by degrees. And I fear you will need
every ounce of it in the future. No; do rather too little
than too much. I have no wish to hear that the Kommandatur
at Charleroi, who, I understand, is showing
great severity just now towards French prisoners, should
decide that you have recovered sufficiently to be included
in the next batch to be sent into Germany."</p>

<p>And with these significant words Sister Madeleine left
me, to carry her flowers to the bedsides of her other
patients, and, possibly, to allow me to reflect.</p>

<p>Was it not clear that, indirectly, she had indicated a
means of escape? A feeling of quasi-loyalty towards
those who had enabled her to nurse one of her countrymen
back to health and strength prevented her from
bluntly saying: "There is a tool-shed, in which you will
find a suit of old clothes; disguise yourself in them and
flee." But her meaning was plain. The key to freedom
had been placed in my hands, and it was for me to use
it.</p>


<p>V&mdash;"I PLAN TO ESCAPE DISGUISED AS THE
GARDENER"</p>

<p>I began pottering about the hollyhocks and sunflowers
and dahlias the very next morning, taking care to alternate
my spells of gardening with fairly lengthy rests, on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_162" id="Page_162">[162]</a></span>
the principle laid down by Sister Madeleine. Not that
they were altogether unnecessary in my still weak state.
However, my strength returned with remarkable rapidity,
after the first week of this light work, and every additional
day found me more fit to carry out my plan, the
details of which I had ample opportunity of working out.
The garden was surrounded by a high wall of irregular
construction, thus affording a foothold to a skilful climber,
whose task could be made still easier if he chose&mdash;as
I had determined to do&mdash;that portion of the enclosure
which was masked by the tool-shed, between the back
of which and the wall was a space of about a foot and a
half, providing an additional support for one's body. My
resemblance to Jean, the gardener, had, by the by, become
more and more perfect, thanks to work with spade and
hoe, and perhaps, at times, owing to rather too close contact
with the soil. That it would be perfection itself when
I had donned his garb, at the close of an afternoon's
work just before turning-in time, I felt convinced.</p>

<p>There was another thing of which I was certain: that
Sister Madeleine instinctively knew the day and hour I
had fixed for my flight. For she was so unusually silent
on that day in the last week of October, when, according
to my calculations, there would be no moon until late
in the night, she was so serious in her mien, and she left
me with such suddenness after advising me to come in,
"now that the sun had set and the evenings were getting
chilly," that I felt sure she comprehended.</p>

<p>"Thank you, Sister Madeleine," I replied; and I could
not refrain from adding, in the hope that she would grasp
my double meaning: "You have <i>always</i> given me such
good advice. I shall never forget your kindness. But
before coming in I must put away my tools."</p>

<p>Without daring to look her in the face, I turned down
the path in the direction of the tool-shed. Five minutes<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_163" id="Page_163">[163]</a></span>
later I left it, dressed in the gardener's earth-stained
clothes, passed like a shadow to the rear of the building,
and was over the wall in a trice.</p>

<p>I found myself in a field, and having not the slightest
idea regarding the geography of Erquelinnes, went
straight ahead at full speed. A quarter of an hour's
steeplechasing across ditches and other natural obstacles
brought me to a high road, and confronted me with the
dilemma as to which way to turn. Without losing a
moment's time, for I pictured the hue and cry my disappearance
would soon be causing, I made off to the left.
<i>Fausse route!</i> In five minutes I came within sight of
the lights of the first house of a village, undoubtedly
Erquelinnes itself. With a vague idea at the back of my
head of gaining the Franco-Belgian frontier, and&mdash;avoiding
all small places, where curiosity is most rife&mdash;reaching
Maubeuge, where I might find an asylum among my
own people until an opportunity presented itself of getting
back to the French lines, I struck off to the right,
once more across open country. The dark cloak of night
had now fallen, making my progress necessarily slow. On
and on I crept in the darkness. How long I continued I
cannot say, but it must have been for several hours, for a
great weariness suddenly came over me and impelled me
to seek sleep. What was apparently a small wood lay
in my path at that moment. Groping my way from bole
to bole, I divined, rather than saw, a dry and sheltered
spot under the trees, and, throwing myself down, quickly
fell asleep, amidst the calling of the night-jars.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;"HANDS UP&mdash;OR I SHOOT"</p>

<p>I cannot tell you how long I slumbered&mdash;probably until
two or three o'clock in the morning. But I was awakened
by the sound of the snapping of dry twigs and muffled<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_164" id="Page_164">[164]</a></span>
voices. I sprang to my feet and listened. Nearer and
nearer came the stealthy footsteps. I retired as cautiously
as I could; but though I trod ever so lightly, it
was impossible to avoid the crackling of dead wood,
which seemed to my hypersensitive ears like so many
pistol-shots. Even the thumping of my heart appeared
audible. One curious thing, however, I noticed: whenever,
after a noisy retreat, I stopped to listen, there was
a corresponding stoppage and a long silence on the part
of my pursuers. But, thought I, was it at all certain they
<i>were</i> in pursuit? Would they not, in that case, have
come on with a rush? "Suppose I crouch down and run
the risk of them passing without seeing me?" I thought.
Whilst I was reflecting; with my back to what was apparently
a fairly large tree, those who were advancing,
emboldened by the silence which had intervened, came on
with hastened steps, and got so near that I could hear
their heavy breathing. I stepped quickly behind my tree,
but too late to serve my purpose, for the next moment a
stern voice rapped out an oath almost in my ear and a
flash of light from an electric torch struck me full in
the face.</p>

<p>"Hands up, or I shoot!" said the voice. "Who are
you?"</p>

<p>"A Frenchman," I replied, obeying the command and
deciding, on the spur of the moment, that one who spoke
to me in my native tongue could hardly be an enemy.
"And in need of help."</p>

<p>"Good thing you're not a <i>Pruscot</i>, mate, or you'd have
been a goner. In need of help, are you? So are we.
Aren't we, <i>mes vieuz</i>?"</p>

<p>This last remark was addressed to the speaker's two
companions, whose indistinct forms I could now make
out.</p>

<p>"Very well," continued the speaker, slipping the revolver<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_165" id="Page_165">[165]</a></span>
with which he had covered me into his pocket, "I
take it to be a bargain. One good service deserves another.
You help us with some of these parcels, and we'll
help <i>you</i>. I'm not going to ask you too many questions,
and we don't expect you to be over inquisitive about <i>our</i>
business. <i>C'est compris?</i> But if we're to get there and
back before light we must be off. Come on!"</p>

<p>Taking two of the heavy packages which they were
transporting, I followed them. In a flash, I saw that I
had fallen in with a party of smugglers, who still continued
to ply their calling in the neighbourhood of Erquelinnes
and other villages on the frontier between Belgium
and France. Men of nondescript nationality, though
hating the Teuton with all the ardour of a Frenchman or
a Belgian, and ready, if a favourable opportunity offered,
to rid the world of every Boche who fell into their power,
they made it their business to be on friendly terms with
the Prussian officers who were in authority on the frontier.
Many favours, in the early months of the war,
could they obtain from them, in return for a discreetly-offered
gift, such as a box of cigars, or a pound or two
of tobacco. When taking any important consignment of
goods to and fro between their dépôts on the road from
Maubeuge to Charleroi, they had, of course, to resort to
the traditional methods of their calling; and it was whilst
on one of these nocturnal expeditions that I had encountered
them.</p>


<p>VIII&mdash;THE FORGED PAPERS&mdash;TO SAFETY</p>

<p>They were rough individuals, but loyal to their word.
Feeling that I could not be in safer company, I threw in
my lot with theirs for nearly a fortnight, hiding by day
in the cottage of their leader, on the outskirts of a village
"somewhere in France," but not far from Erquelinnes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_166" id="Page_166">[166]</a></span>
and assisting them at night in carrying their goods along
the little-known paths which intersect the Franco-Belgian
frontier. Bit by bit I told mine host my tale. He was
touched as much as you could expect a hardened smuggler
to be, swore eternal friendship over an excellent
bottle of wine, and promised that on the very next day
he would bring me a surprise.</p>

<p>He was as good as his word. Out of his pocket he
drew a paper&mdash;a duly-signed and stamped pass, obtained
from the Prussian officer at the frontier village of &mdash;&mdash;,
authorizing the bearer to cross into Belgium without let
or hindrance. He did more than this: he gave me the
name and address of a confederate at Charleroi, who
would furnish me with the means of effecting my escape
<i>viâ</i> Holland.</p>

<p>I crossed the frontier, wheeling a barrow belonging to
a friendly peasant, who went daily to a bit of land he
possessed on Belgian territory.</p>

<p>My twenty-mile walk to Charleroi, and a stay of a
week in that city, were uneventful. On leaving, my
smuggler's friend gave me a useful introduction to a person
in Brussels, whence, with a little borrowed money in
my pocket, I set off, towards the end of November. The
train was still running the four miles between Charleroi
and Gosselies. The thirteen miles to Nivelles I covered
on foot; the eighteen miles past Waterloo and over
ground every yard of which recalled memories of Napoleon
and the closing scenes of the Hundred Days I traversed
by train again.</p>

<p>The long sojourn which I was destined to make in
Brussels was uneventful compared to my late experiences.
There I obtained papers certifying that I was a Belgian
commercial traveller, but discretion, you will readily understand,
forbids me going into details. Oh, no; I did
not put those forged papers to too severe a test by use.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_167" id="Page_167">[167]</a></span>
As much as possible, I sought to remain hidden in the terrorized
city, and to slip out of it for Malines and the
villages near the Dutch frontier, without showing my
<i>papiers</i> any more than was absolutely necessary.</p>

<p>The frontier between Belgium and Holland is of so
serrated a nature that at the time of which I am speaking
it was comparatively easy for a hunted man like myself
to cross into neutral territory. To do so now would be
almost impossible, so well do the Germans guard the irregular
line, the configuration of which is such that it is
difficult, in places, to tell whether you are in Holland or
in Belgium. Fortunately, I had come into contact with a
person who was expert in getting young Belgians across
the frontier into Holland, and he agreed to help me.</p>

<p>Here, again, I cannot&mdash;on account of those who risked
their lives in befriending me&mdash;go into too many details.
Suffice it to say, that on the evening of my escape from
the frontier village of A&mdash;&mdash; I was instructed to walk to
a certain milestone, where I should find a man with a
red muffler, sitting on a heap of stones.</p>

<p>There, sure enough, I found him&mdash;an elderly man with
his hands folded over the top of his stick, his chin resting
on his hands, and his eyes gazing innocently into the
gathering dusk.</p>

<p>As I passed him I uttered the word "Belgica," which I
had been told to pronounce, and keep on, without once
turning my head.</p>

<p>Very soon I heard his footsteps and the tap, tap of his
stick. He overtook me with alert step, and on reaching
me, said: "Follow me."</p>

<p>We shot off from the main road into a small winding
pathway, which we followed for some fifty yards. Then,
suddenly stopping, the man in the red muffler exclaimed:
"Holland!"</p>

<p>No word ever before sounded to me so sweet as that.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_168" id="Page_168">[168]</a></span>
Overcome by the thought that once more I was standing
on free ground&mdash;that I had but to follow the pathway on
which I stood to reach a Dutch village&mdash;and that the
journey thence to a port and my beloved France <i>viâ</i>
England, was but a question of time, I remained for a
few seconds lost in reverie. At last, mastering my emotion,
I prepared to set off before darkness completely
enveloped the wild landscape which surrounded me. Before
putting my best foot foremost, however, I was seized
with a desire to thank the man who had guided me there,
so I turned half-round to press his hand. To my surprise,
however, I found that he had disappeared, and that only
the gleam of his red muffler marked his progress down
the path.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_169" id="Page_169">[169]</a></span></p>




<h2>TALES OF THE SPIES AND THEIR
DANGEROUS MISSIONS</h2>

<p><i>Revelations of Methods and Daring Adventures</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Secret Service Men of Several Countries</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>It is estimated that more than a hundred thousand spies and
agents have been in the service of the various countries during
the War. Several thousand have been captured and several
hundred have been executed. The German spy system in the
United States alone was a powerful organization at the beginning
of the war. But the American Secret Service, one of the
greatest organizations of its kind in existence, thwarted their
plots, interned them in large numbers, and drove such men as
Boy-Ed and von Papen from our shores. The interception of
the Zimmerman note to Mexico, the revelations of the Swedish
duplicity in Argentine, the discovery of Bolo, the French financier,
the plots in India&mdash;and hundreds of others have been exposed
by the genius of the United Secret Service. Most of
these stories cannot be told until long after the War, but a few
of them, gathered from American and European sources, are
told here.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;HOW THE SPIES WORK IN EUROPE</p>

<p>The extraordinary ingenuity shown by spies in securing
the plans of other countries' fortifications has been
amply illustrated in the war, although, of course, we
know but a little part of what the spies have accomplished.</p>

<p>A woman was caught at the French frontier seeking
to enter Switzerland and presumably intending to return
to Germany or Austria. She was thoroughly searched
by a matron, as is customary in such cases, but nothing
was found.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_170" id="Page_170">[170]</a></span></p>

<p>Certain actions of hers, however, had given rise to serious
suspicions, and one of the cleverest officers of the
French Secret Service was detailed to examine her. He
applied several tests to her. He finally obtained what he
wanted by seating her, in an undraped condition, tied to
a chair, before a warm fire.</p>

<p>"Brutes, you are going to burn me alive!" she shrieked
as she was forced into a chair.</p>

<p>"Be calm, madame," said the officer. "We only want
to admire your beautiful back."</p>

<p>There appeared on the ample back of this fair-haired
lady an elaborate design. To the experienced eye of the
officer it represented a plan of one of the most important
French fortresses. The number of guns, their sizes and
positions were shown. The angles, sallies and extent of
the fortifications were clearly indicated. The weak spots
in the defense were made clear. This fortress had been
entirely made over since the outbreak of the war, and it
was of vital importance to the Germans to know its present
arrangements.</p>

<p>A German spy in France, evidently a man with military
knowledge, had obtained access to the fortress, but
there was but slight chance of his getting home with his
knowledge. He had, therefore, used the young woman
as an innocent looking agent.</p>

<p>The master spy had traced the plans on her back with
sulphate of copper. This liquid leaves no mark on the
skin under normal conditions, but when exposed to considerable
heat it shows up dark blue. For further secrecy,
it is stated, the plan of the fortress was concealed within
another design in the manner described by General Sir
Robert Baden-Powell. He carried with him an illustrated
book on butterflies and from this he made what
would appear to be specimens of butterflies seen in the
surrounding country. Then when he had obtained the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_171" id="Page_171">[171]</a></span>
details of a fortress he drew them in among the complicated
markings on the wings of the butterfly. There
they would escape notice by any but the most expert
"spy trappers."</p>

<p>Miss Sari Petrass, the beautiful Hungarian dancer,
who was for some time a great favorite in London, is
reported to have been shot in Budapest as a spy. She
is supposed to have been engaged in gathering military
information in her native country for the benefit of England,
where she made her greatest artistic success.</p>

<p>When war began, the actress was starring in "The
Marriage Market," a Hungarian operetta, at Daly's
Theatre in London. She immediately returned to Budapest,
but instead of continuing on the stage began a round
of social activities.</p>

<p>She wrote letters to the British army authorities, it is
charged, which were sent by way of Switzerland in the
in the care of young Austrian officers, who had been
beguiled by her charms. It is said she was betrayed by
one of her dupes in a fit of jealousy. Although an
actress, she had a high social position and was a niece
of the Countess Ilka Kinsky, one of the most prominent
members of the Austro-Hungarian nobility.</p>

<p>Miss Petrass, according to the report which reached her
friends in Cleveland, Ohio, was put to death immediately
her acts were discovered. When taken to the place of
execution she fainted and was unconscious when shot.
The announcement of her execution was the first news
her family had of the charges against her.</p>

<p>The method of concealing plans of fortifications on the
skin of a spy, already referred to, has been employed
with many variations. In time of war or when suspicion
of spies is very keen, it is likely to be very useful. Then,
again, women are usually called upon to carry this kind<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_172" id="Page_172">[172]</a></span>
of information, because they are less subject to suspicion
and watchfulness.</p>

<p>Tattooing plans on a woman's skin has often been resorted
to in past wars, but the anti-spy officers are now
so keen that this way is no longer reliable. Various
forms of writing on the skin, which only become visible
under certain conditions, have, therefore, been tried. One
form of this has already been mentioned. Plans and
messages are also written in nitrate of silver, which
becomes visible and black on exposure to sunlight. The
writing is also done with phosphorus, so that it is only
visible in the dark, but that lasts a few hours only.</p>

<p>Women have shown extraordinary ingenuity in carrying
information during the present war. One wore a
large pair of pearl earrings, which, when examined,
proved to be stuffed with long messages. Another had
a little woolly pet dog, whose tail was found to be artificial
and filled with military plans. Another carried a
message scratched on the plate of her false teeth.</p>

<p>When it has been found impossible for a human spy to
reach a fortress, birds have been employed. Carrier
pigeons are fitted with miniature cameras fastened across
their breasts by exceedingly fine wires. These are fitted
with a time lock which ensures their exposure at a
certain time.</p>

<p>The pigeons are released by spies at a place from
which they will be sure to fly over the fortress on their
way home. A pigeon flies in circles on its journey, and
it is certain that during part of its flight over the fortress
the camera shutter will be released. A series of pictures
taken in this way will give a very complete plan of the
defenses to the enemy.</p>

<p>Although immediate execution follows the discovery of
a spy or perhaps even the suspicion of espionage, thousands
of persons are found willing to undertake the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_173" id="Page_173">[173]</a></span>
work during this war. It has been truly said that the
highest form of heroism is to undertake spy duty for
one's country. Nothing can be more awful than the fate
of the spy caught and executed amid the hate and fear
of the thousands who surround him. Many photographs
sent from the seat of war show how the European armies
make the death of the spy terrible.</p>

<p>The Germans are universally admitted to be more skilful
spies than the British, and yet Gen. Baden-Powell
performed some remarkable spying tricks. He tells how
he got into a new German dockyard and made observations
under the nose of several policemen:</p>

<p>"Inside a great, high wall lay a dockyard, in which, it
was rumored, a new power house was being erected, and
possibly a dry dock was in course of preparation.</p>

<p>"The scaffolding of the new house towered above me,
and a ladder led upward on to it. Up this I went like a
lamplighter, keeping one eye on the corner of the building
lest I should be followed.</p>

<p>"Presently I found a short ladder leading from my
platform to the stage below, but it did not go to the
ground. Peering quietly over the scaffolding, I saw my
friend the policeman below, still at fault. I blessed my
stars that he was no tracker, and therefore had not seen
my footmarks leading to the foot of the ladder.</p>

<p>"Then I proceeded to take note of my surroundings
and to gather information. Judging from the design of
the building, its great chimneys, etc., I was actually on
the new power-house. From my post I had an excellent
view over the dockyard, and within one hundred feet
of me were the excavation works of the new dock, whose
dimensions I could easily estimate.</p>

<p>"All these duties (of espionage) are subdivided among
agents of every grade, from Ambassadors and their
attachés downward. Naval and military officers are sent<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_174" id="Page_174">[174]</a></span>
to carry out special investigations by all countries, and
paid detectives are stationed in likely centres to gather
information."</p>

<p>The General further says that the military information
that a country voluntarily gives to a foreign attaché
is usually of little value, and therefore he must take
secret means to inform himself.&mdash;(Told in <i>New York
American</i>.)</p>


<p>II&mdash;STORY OF MLLE. MATA HARI, DUTCH-JAVANESE
DANCER</p>

<p>The story of Mata Hari, the beautiful dancing girl,
who as a German spy discovered the information about
the British "tanks" before they arrived at the Battle of
the Somme, is one of the most romantic of the War.
She was found guilty of espionage and condemned to
death by a military court martial presided over by Col.
Sempron.</p>

<p>"Accused did wilfully and maliciously, and against the
interest of la Patrie, communicate information of military
value to the enemy concerning our offensive of the summer
of 1916," read the verdict that sent her to a cell in
Saint Lazare Prison awaiting the dawn which means her
death.</p>

<p>"Eye-of-the-Morning" is English for the Javanese pet
name "Mata-Hari"&mdash;the stage name of Mme. Marguerite
Gertrude Zelle Macleod, first known in Paris, and latterly
all over Europe, as a dancer whose specialty was
the representing of Far-Eastern legends and fables according
to the terpsichorean art....</p>

<p>One of the most important and spectacular events of
the only Allied offensive of 1916 was the appearance in
action of the newest engine of war&mdash;the so-called tank.
As with any innovation, the success of the tank depended<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_175" id="Page_175">[175]</a></span>
largely on the element of surprise attaching to its debut.
Therefore, the strictest secrecy marked the planning, the
construction, and the shipment of tanks to the Somme,
where they first went into action. But of course a certain
number of people in England and in France knew about
the tanks&mdash;or "creme-de-menthes" as they were first
called in Paris because each one is named like a ship and
one called after the famous green liqueur. It took a
good many months to construct the first fleet, and a good
many weeks to train the first crews to stand the jerky,
rolling, pitching, lumbering gait of the mobile forts.
During that period the circle of people "in the know"
increased, and Mata-Hari was one of those who heard
about the curious landships.</p>

<p>Where Mata-Hari obtained her first tip on the tanks
has not yet been disclosed. And that is one reason why
the "memoirs" which she is writing in her cell at Saint
Lazare prison are being awaited with fear and anxiety
by at least one person, and with the liveliest interest by
the world at large.</p>

<p>It is rumored that a Deputy inadvertently gave her the
first information about tanks. And the rumor is
strengthened by the fact that Mata-Hari had plenty of
coal for her apartment during the fuel famine in winter.
That in itself is proof enough to everybody of her intimacy
with some high official, as few people short of
Deputies had influence enough to obtain a hundredweight
of coal during the bitter months of January,
February and March.</p>

<p>In any event, Mara-Hari learned vaguely of tanks
early in 1916, when the Krupp guns of the Crown Prince
were daily booming nearer and nearer to Verdun in that
terrific struggle which was to mark the turning point of
the war. Mata-Hari also learned that the tanks were
being constructed in England and would be shipped to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_176" id="Page_176">[176]</a></span>
France <i>viâ</i> certain ports&mdash;and she got the names of the
ports.</p>

<p>Then Mata-Hari decided she must return to her native
country, Holland. For, with all her Javanese appellation,
she was born near Rotterdam, although it is true she went
to the Dutch East Indies when a tiny child. She gave as
reason for going to Holland the fact that she had married
a Dutch army officer with a Scotch name&mdash;Capt.
Macleod, that they had divorced, and she wished to
arrange a settlement of their common property.</p>

<p>Her passports were made out, and safe conducts granted
for a trip to Holland, <i>viâ</i> England, of course, as that is
the only way to get into the Low Countries from the
Allied side.</p>

<p>Mata-Hari went to England. But before she proceeded
to Holland, as Secret Service agents of the British and
French Governments ascertained, she visited a certain
English manufacturing city, where, it so happened, the
tanks were being constructed.</p>

<p>Evidently Mata-Hari did not find out much about the
tanks there, as not a man connected with their construction
ever passed through the gates of the high brick
wall which surrounded the factory during the six months
that the first "fleet" was building. The men were boarded,
entertained and employed here continually. Every letter
they sent out or received was subjected to the most
rigorous censorship.</p>

<p>The dancer proceeded to Rotterdam. Investigation
there has since proved that she had no "communal rights
property" to settle with any one, and further that Capt.
Macleod of the Dutch Army was known among his
fellow officers as pronouncedly pro-German.</p>

<p>Soon Mata-Hari returned to Paris. She was seen at
the Café de Paris and at Maxim's, and at Armenonville
in the Bois with an English officer who wore on the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_177" id="Page_177">[177]</a></span>
lapel of his collar, an insignia denoting his branch of
service, a little twisted brass dragon. Months later, when
more of these badges were seen on British officers passing
through Paris, it became known that the dragon was
of the official insignia denoting service with the tanks.</p>

<p>Mata-Hari sported a new bauble soon after taking up
with the Englishman&mdash;a jewelled replica of his gold insignia&mdash;her
dragon had real emeralds for eyes, and a
carrot-shaped ruby for a tongue darting from its opened
fangs.</p>

<p>In May, 1916, a little more than a month before the
Somme offensive opened and tanks were first used, Mata-Hari
appeared before the police magistrate of her district
and requested a safe conduct to visit a certain port
in France. The reason she gave was that her fiance, an
English officer, was seriously wounded and in hospital
there. He had sent for her to come to see him. Perhaps
they would be married at his deathbed if he could not
recover, she volunteered, dabbing at her eyes with a lace
handkerchief.</p>

<p>The safe conduct was made out, and Mata-Hari arrived
at a certain French port almost simultaneously with
the first consignment of tanks shipped over from England.</p>

<p>Now a tank of the early type was 35 feet long, 12 feet
wide and 9 feet high, and the caterpillar tractors rumbling
under it and over it and around it made a terrible
din, attracting the attention of people for great distances
around. And because of the weight of the tanks they
could not be moved by rail, but had to travel under their
own power. It was impossible, therefore, to wholly hide
the monsters from inhabitants of that particular French
port, and from the townspeople in the French villages
through which they passed on the way to the Somme
front. Of course most of the travelling was done by<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_178" id="Page_178">[178]</a></span>
night, and tarpaulins were always draped over the armed
and armored behemoths.</p>

<p>But there did not seem to be much necessity for precautions,
as nearly all of the inhabitants of the districts
through which the tanks passed remained stolidly right
there where they were. Few indeed were as lucky as
Mata-Hari and able to get safe conducts to travel about.
But then few were as beautiful and alluring as the dancer.</p>

<p>Mata-Hari remained in the French port for a week.
She strolled about the town at night and explained to the
hotel clerks that she could not sleep without taking a
certain amount of exercise before retiring, and that after
being accustomed to gay life in Paris, she was not tired
until after midnight.</p>

<p>It was on June 1, exactly a month before Gens. Haig
and Foch began their drive astride the Somme, that
Mata-Hari returned to Paris. And the first thing she did
was to apply for a visé on her passport permitting her
to go to Spain. San Sebastian was the place she mentioned,
as she explained she wished to attend the horse
races there. Her papers were stamped and sealed and
she left almost immediately for the fashionable winter
resort in the south.</p>

<p>Madrid, Spain, and Nauen, Germany, are in constant
wireless communication. There are other radio stations,
privately owned in Spain, which can flash messages to
Germany, according to Allied intelligence officers who
have investigated. And of course there are innumerable
German agents, spies and propaganda disseminators infesting
the land of the Dons.</p>

<p>Secret Service reports disclose the fact that Mata-Hari
was seen much in company at San Sebastian race track
with a man long looked upon with suspicion by the French
Government. He was a frequent caller upon her at the
hotel where she stopped, and it was reported that he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_179" id="Page_179">[179]</a></span>
made good many of the big bets she placed on horses that
did not materialize as winners.</p>

<p>Soon Mata-Hari came back to Paris and the apartment
near the Bois de Bologne. And once more the limousine
owned by the individual whom rumor has branded a
Deputy, began rolling up to her door twice a week and
sometimes oftener.</p>

<p>Then came the simultaneous Franco-British offensive
at the Somme. Tanks went into action for the first time,
and according to Gen. Haig's official communique his
"land ships achieved satisfactory results."</p>

<p>The tanks did achieve satisfactory results. More than
that, they revolutionized offensive tactics on favorable
terrain by advancing immune against rifle and machine
gun bullets, or even against light trench mortars whose
shells exploded at a touch. They smashed by sheer
weight strong points and machine gun emplacements.
They straddled trenches, enfilading the occupants and
crushed in entrances to dugouts.</p>

<p>But several of the tanks were put out of action&mdash;and
not by stray shells hurtling forward from far behind the
German lines. They were knocked out by small calibre
<i>PENETRATION</i> shells, fired from 37 millimetre trench
cannons&mdash;the largest guns that can be handled from
advanced positions. Guns specially built and rifled, and
fired at high velocity and flat trajectory, so that, unlike
any shell ever coughed up by a mortar, they penetrated
the object struck&mdash;even though it were steel&mdash;before exploding.</p>

<p>Instantly it became evident that the enemy had become
aware of what was in store for him and had constructed
an "anti-tank" gun. And when the booty in the captured
German positions was examined, the British found they
had several good specimens of Krupp's newest weapon.
Several German officers of higher rank taken prisoners<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_180" id="Page_180">[180]</a></span>
confirmed suspicions, by explaining they had received
description of the tanks several weeks before, and had
been instructed how to combat them.</p>

<p>Now Mata-Hari is awaiting death and writing as she
waits. She is penning her memoirs rapidly, filling scores
of pages a day in a polyglot of French, German, Dutch,
Javanese, Japanese and even English, according to the
mood she is in, says the prison warder.</p>

<p>And because she fears her history will not be finished
before that unannounced daybreak when she will be
placed blindfolded before the high stone wall facing a
firing squad of French soldiers, she has ordered her
lawyer, M. Edouard Clunet, to plead for a stay of execution.</p>

<p>So Mata-Hari writes feverishly, and all Paris waits
eagerly&mdash;except the one who waits apprehensively&mdash;to
see if she will name the "ami" who gave her the first
inkling of the tanks.</p>

<p>Pinned to the corsage of the Empire-cut black silk dress
which Mata-Hari wears in her narrow cell in Saint Lazare
Prison is a curious gold brooch. It is shaped like a
twisted dragon, and its eyes are emeralds and its darting
tongue a carrot-shaped ruby.</p>

<p>"It will be there&mdash;right over my heart&mdash;when I go
away&mdash;when I stand before those men with guns aimed to
kill me," says Mata-Hari. (Told in the <i>New York
World</i>.)</p>

<p>(Since these stories were written Mata-Hari has gone
to her death blindfolded before the firing squad. She met
her execution stoically.)</p>


<p>III&mdash;ADVENTUROUS LIFE OF MATA-HARI</p>

<p>This is told by a man who for obvious reasons will not
allow his name to be used:</p>

<p>"I knew Mata-Hari in Paris. I called on her at her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_181" id="Page_181">[181]</a></span>
home at Nieully-sur-Seine. The sinister character in
Dumas' great romance was not more cunning or adventurous
nor played for higher stakes than did Mlle. Mata-Hari.
In many respects their histories should be printed
in parallel columns. But I believe that for adventure,
for cunning, for her great influence over the destiny of
those with whom she came in contact, Mlle. Mata-Hari
was more dreadful than 'Miladi.'</p>

<p>"Her father was a subject of the Netherlands and her
mother was a Javanese. He died when she was an infant,
and in order to protect her from the dangers which
beset a young girl of mixed blood in the East her mother
fled from Java with her when she was three years old
and entered Burma. There, to further protect her, she
pledged her to celibacy and placed her in a Buddhist
temple to learn dancing. Then it appeared that her destiny
would be not unlike that of thousands of other young
girls in that country and similar in many respects to that
of the old vestals of ancient Greece. In Burma these
dancers are called bayadère.</p>

<p>"She told me that when she was twelve years old she
was disgusted with life and was determined to change
it or end it. After a dance at a great Buddhist festival
in Burma, when she was about fourteen years old, she
saw a British officer and fell in love with him. It was
her first love affair. She managed to escape from the
temple and joined him. This man was a baronet and
loved her. Finally they married. Two children, a boy
and a girl, were born of their union.</p>

<p>"I do not believe that she ever loved any man. It is
certain that she did not love her husband. At any event,
the monotonous life of a British official's wife was more
than she could stand. The climax came when a maid
whom she had beaten and discharged caused one of her
gardeners to poison her infant son.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_182" id="Page_182">[182]</a></span></p>

<p>"The tragic sequence and scandal which followed the
death of her son still is remembered by old timers in
India. She started an investigation of the killing independent
of the British authorities, and finally, in her own
mind, fixed the guilt on one of her gardeners. She
took a revolver, and, walking into the garden where the
man was working, shot him dead.</p>

<p>"She was arrested, but owing to the high position occupied
by her husband everything possible was done to
suppress the scandal. Finally she was told that she would
have to leave British India. It was just what she wanted
to do. She left her home in the night, stealing her
daughter from her husband. She made her way to Marseilles
and thence to Holland, where she placed her
daughter in a convent. Then she went straight to Paris,
where she learned that she was penniless, the small fortune
which her father had left her having, under the
Dutch law, passed to her child. Then she set about to
captivate Paris. Not satisfied with her conquest, she
went to Berlin, to Petrograd, to Vienna&mdash;she travelled
over all Europe&mdash;and became one of the most talked of
women on the Continent.</p>

<p>"She met many men. One of them was a wealthy
German, who was a high official of the Berlin government.
He bought a home for her at Nieully-sur-Seine
and furnished it in a style that was representative of
what was most truly Oriental splendor. There the two
of them lived. It was there that I first saw her.</p>

<p>"Soon she tired of this German. He was extremely
jealous of her. Always her art&mdash;her dancing&mdash;called to
her. He would not let her dance. There were many
'scenes' at home. Her life was not happy, despite the
wealth at her disposal.</p>

<p>"Then she met a one-time Minister of Finance, of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_183" id="Page_183">[183]</a></span>
France, and, through him, his brother-in-law. He fell
in love with her and she with him.</p>

<p>"This man was at that time the managing director of
a great Paris bank. He deserted his wife and bought a
magnificent château in Touraine. For two years they
lived there. Then, one day, the police entered the bank
and arrested the managing director. He was charged with
embezzling the funds of the institution. He was tried
and convicted and sentenced to two years at hard labor.
The woman then went back to the German official at
Neuilly-sur-Seine. They were living there when I left
France four years ago." (Told in the <i>New York Herald</i>.)</p>


<p>IV&mdash;STORY OF EXECUTION OF SUSANNA
RAYNAL</p>

<p>This is the story of a French young woman who was
executed by the French military authorities in Bellegarde,
the little Franco-Swiss frontier village.... Women
have figured prominently as spies in every war. In this
war their rôle has also been conspicuous. Some have
betrayed their country for money, others have betrayed
it for the love of adventure, and still others have betrayed
it for the sake of love&mdash;following blindly the men who
lead them astray along the fascinating and dangerous
path of crime. This young woman was a victim of love.</p>

<p>Not a word has been written about her death. Not a
sigh, not a tear, not a prayer from her friends and relatives.
For they did not know what had become of her.
The French newspapers did not record the end of this
woman, who paid with her life for her daring, mad
desire to help her Austrian lover, who sought to secure
French military secrets.</p>

<p>Her name was Susanna Raynal. She was the wife of
Louis Raynal, a lieutenant in the artillery of the French<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_184" id="Page_184">[184]</a></span>
army. She was twenty-eight years old when she was
put to death. The husband, twelve years her senior, was
at the front when she was shot. Her lover was shot with
her. He broke down, quivering and crying hysterically
while she kept bracing him up, repeating: "Have no
fear! Have no fear!"</p>

<p>She begged the officers to have them shot together, not
separately. She declined to be blindfolded, held her lover
by the hand and kept murmuring "Have no fear! Have
no fear!"...</p>

<p>Several weeks ago I met in Paris a distinguished French
diplomatist with whom I discussed many incidents of the
war. Our conversation turned to the many varieties of
spies and provocateurs and to the motives that prompted
them to betray their country.</p>

<p>Then he told me the story of this young woman who
met her end so bravely at the French-Swiss frontier.
There were tears in his voice as he related the details.
For he knew the woman and he knew her husband.</p>

<p>"I was returning from London to Paris a few weeks
ago," he said. "Just as we were reaching Boulogne, on
the boat crossing the Channel, while I was in line in the
dining room of the boat where the passports were being
examined by the military officers, I heard behind me a
familiar voice, whispering in German, 'Furchte doch
nicht!' (Don't be afraid!)</p>

<p>"I turned and saw the wife of my friend, a French
lieutenant who was at the front. She felt somewhat embarrassed
when she noticed me, but immediately advanced
toward me and introduced to me a tall young man of
rather anti-pathetic appearance.</p>

<p>"'This is my husband's friend,' she said to me. 'He
was kind enough to help me arrange my business affairs
in London. Louis is at the front....'</p>

<p>"Upon our arrival in Paris she asked me to visit her<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_185" id="Page_185">[185]</a></span>
soon. She said she wanted me to advise her in a certain
important matter, that she was alone now, that I could
help her with letters of introduction, for which she would
be most grateful. She urged me to visit her the following
evening. I promised to call on her and bade her
farewell.</p>

<p>"On the following evening, when I came to her house,
her maid met me at the door and said that madam was
expecting me for dinner an hour later. I asked her to
tell Mme. Raynal that I had another engagement for
dinner.</p>

<p>"A few minutes later Mme. Raynal came out. As I
mentioned before, she was a beautiful young woman of
about twenty-eight. She was most charmingly dressed.
She greeted me warmly and begged me to stay for dinner.
I told her I had another important engagement. She
implored me to stay. She said she was alone, and that
she wished to talk with me about a matter of great importance,
in which she desired to enlist my aid. I said
that I would call on her some other evening.</p>

<p>"Then she told me that she wished to visit friends in
Switzerland, that she had some manuscripts of a literary
character she wanted to take to them, and that she wished
me to give her letters of introduction to several people,
among them the Minister of War. I promised to call
on her the following evening.</p>

<p>"As I bade her good night, she kissed me and begged
me to break my other engagement and take dinner with
her. I repeated that it was impossible. Then I left her.
As I walked down the stairs, I noticed the tall young
man I had met with her at Boulogne, going up in the
elevator to her apartment. That seemed more than
strange to me.</p>

<p>"The next morning I chanced to be lunching in a café
where I occasionally met my friend, the head of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_186" id="Page_186">[186]</a></span>
secret police department. In the course of my conversation
I told the peculiar story of the woman and the
young man, without mentioning her name. The police
chief listened intently and then said:</p>

<p>"'I think I know the woman. We are watching her.
We are also watching the man closely. He is an Austrian.
They seem to be engaged in a serious political
conspiracy.'</p>

<p>"About two weeks later I met the head of the secret
police department in the same café. He said to me:</p>

<p>"'Do you know what has happened to that woman&mdash;Susanna
Raynal?'</p>

<p>"'I haven't seen her since then,' I replied.</p>

<p>"'You will never see her again,' he said. 'She has
been shot.'</p>

<p>"And then he told me how the police had shadowed
her and her lover, how some one who had made her
acquaintance recently gave her a letter of introduction
to the Ministry of War. She wanted to help the Austrian
carry certain documents out of France and wished to get
a special letter from the Minister of War permitting her
to take what she called 'manuscripts' to her friends in
Switzerland.</p>

<p>"She came to the Ministry of War with her lover.
They were taken to a room, where they met an officer
who told her that he would be glad to arrange the matter
for her. Then the police did what is usually done in
such cases. The officer walked out of the room for a
short time, leaving on the table near them a number of
important-looking documents. The man took some of
these documents, and after the officer had returned and
had given them the letter they asked for they went away.</p>

<p>"On the following day they reached Bellegarde, the
Franco-Swiss frontier. They were searched, and the
papers taken from the War Department were found on<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_187" id="Page_187">[187]</a></span>
the woman. Within one hour both were shot. She met
her death bravely. She held the man by the hand and
tried to brace him up. He was crying helplessly and
hysterically....</p>

<p>"A few days ago I received information that Lieutenant
Louis Raynal, the husband of the woman who was
executed in Bellegarde, fell on the battlefield recently.
He passed away without learning of the tragedy that
had befallen his home.</p>

<p>"He died in defense of his fatherland, which his wife,
through her blind love for a spy, had endeavored to
betray. Perhaps as he was dying of his wounds, his last
thoughts and prayers were for his home and for his
wife." (Told by Herman Bernstein in the <i>New York
American</i>.)</p>


<p>V&mdash;STORIES OF THE MILITARY SECRETS</p>

<p>The Paris papers contained a brief paragraph telling
of a young girl, a milliner, in the neighborhood of Grenoble,
who had been caught playing the spy for the Germans
and sentenced to a long term of imprisonment.</p>

<p>"We don't shoot women spies any more," said a soldier
from the Somme front to whom I spoke of the story.
"There have been no women shot for a long time. They
generally get about twelve years at hard labor."</p>

<p>"Are you as much troubled as ever by spies?" I asked.</p>

<p>He laughed. "As long as there is war there will be
spies," he replied. "You can't stamp them out. The
only thing you can do is to try to catch them. It was
only a few weeks ago that we caught a woman spy on
the Somme.</p>

<p>"You remember when we took Bouchavesnes? Well,
there was not much left of the village when we got it.
Our artillery had knocked it pretty well to pieces, but<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_188" id="Page_188">[188]</a></span>
we found an old woman there. She had remained all
through the German occupation, and had even managed
to hide and stay behind when all the rest of the civil
population had evacuated. She was in a cellar during
our bombardment, and when we went into the town she
came out to welcome us, the only one of the original
French inhabitants of the village remaining. As it was
French again, she insisted on remaining. It was her
home and she had succeeded in clinging on all the time
the Germans were there. She saw no reason why she
should go when the French came back into occupation.</p>

<p>"She stayed and did our washing for us. She was
busy all the time, and every morning she would take the
wet clothes out and spread them on the ground to dry.
You could see soldiers' shirts and underwear all around
the cellar where she lived, and hanging on all the posts
and pieces of wall.</p>

<p>"The old woman pottered around and worked most
industriously at her tubs. She always came out when
there were troops going through the village and she would
talk to the men, find out where they were going, where
they came from and how long they expected to be there.
And whenever she came out from her tubs she would
go to her wash, lying out to dry, examine it, turn it over,
rearrange it. She was a wonderful washwoman. It was
a mania with her, having everything just right for the
French soldiers, who had won back her home for her
in France.</p>

<p>"But the Germans seemed to know every concentration
of troops we made in that region. Their shells received
us every time. We could not make a move that
they did not know all about. We set three men to the
special duty of finding out how the Germans got their
information. The first thing they found out was that
there were more air fights over Bouchavesnes than at any<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_189" id="Page_189">[189]</a></span>
other part of the line. There seemed to be always a
Boche aeroplane hovering over the ruins. They decided
that there must be something about Bouchavesnes which
made it a particularly good observation point. As the
old woman was the only thing that distinguished the
place from any other ruined village, they arrested her.</p>

<p>"At first she denied everything, but the German accuracy
in bombarding our concentrations ceased with her
arrest. It does not take a long argument to convince a
drumhead court-martial, and the old woman saw that
the game was up. She then claimed to be French, and
said that she had consented to spy for the Germans partly
under threats, partly because her life had been spared by
them, and partly because they had paid her well, and she
had no other way of getting any money to live. Finally,
she acknowledged that she was German and had been purposely
left behind to spy when the Germans got out.
She got twelve years at hard labor."</p>

<hr class="tb" />

<p>"Spies work all kinds of tricks. There was the old
fellow who came back to his farm just behind the lines
and started to do his fall ploughing with three horses,
a red, a white and a black. He did his signalling by
changing the position of the white horse in the team.
He was easy to catch, as a team, especially a plough team,
always works in the same order. Some of our men who
were farmers noticed how he was constantly changing his
horses about. They talked about it among themselves a
bit and at last one of them spoke of it to an officer. The
alleged farmer was investigated and shot.</p>

<p>"Spies are almost sure to get a certain length of time
to do their work before they are caught. We ran across
a blacksmith who was one of the most congenial fellows
you ever met. He had his shop right beside one of
the main roads used by the troops in going back and forth<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_190" id="Page_190">[190]</a></span>
to the trenches and he always had a stock of wine and
something to eat. His shop did not keep him very busy
and he was nearly always at his door. He would talk
to the soldiers, give them a drink, ask where they were
going and want to know how long they would be gone,
so that he would be waiting to give them another glass
of wine when they came back. He was very popular
with the soldiers, because he was such a good fellow,
always ready with a joke and a glass of wine.</p>

<p>"But our concentrations were known to the Boches.
Our men were being shot down. We never could prepare
anything in advance and bring it off successfully, because
the Boches knew just where we were getting ready to do
something. Some of our spy catchers got to work to find
the leak. They hunted through the sector for the best
place to pick up news about troop movements and they
found, of course, that all the soldiers were friendly with
the blacksmith. His shop was raided one day. He had
been left behind by the Germans. He had a three months'
store of wine and food in his cellar. Of course, he could
give our men wine. But he had, also, direct telephonic
communication from his cellar with the German lines.
He was shot.</p>

<p>"The worst case that I ever knew of&mdash;but it was not
the only one of the kind&mdash;was an officer in the French
army who was a German spy. You can see from that
how thorough the Boches are. That man had been sent
from Germany to France when he was a boy. He had
been educated in France and had gone to the French
military schools. He was an artillery officer and one of
the best. He was a lieutenant at the beginning of the
war, but when the Somme offensive began he was a captain
in command of a battery. For all that time he had
done his work without being suspected.</p>

<p>"On the Somme he was in charge of his battery, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_191" id="Page_191">[191]</a></span>
was firing ahead of our men during an advance. The
battery got a signal that their range was too short and
they were firing into our own men. The sergeant told
the captain, but he said they were firing according to
orders and not to change the range. The battery fired
another round and got another signal from the infantry
that they were firing short. The sergeant spoke to the
captain again and the captain lost his temper and swore
at the sergeant. He ordered another round at the same
range and the sergeant refused. The captain tried to fire
one of the guns himself.</p>

<p>"It was very important for the Germans to stop our
advance at that point. It might have saved Combles.
But the sergeant knew as much about the situation as the
captain. He knew what it meant to have our troops
stopped there. We might have lost a brigade. We might
have lost a division. He threatened the captain with a
rifle and arrested him. It is something to arrest your
own captain, but the sergeant did it, and there was a
drumhead court-martial and the captain was shot. He
confessed, when he saw it was all up with him, and
bragged of the two years he had escaped being caught
and of what he had done. He was brave enough, but&mdash;Well,
think of it! Educated in France, an officer in the
French Army, living at the expense of France, living a lie
for ten years, waiting for 'the day' to betray those who
trusted him. It takes a German to do that." (Told by
Fred B. Pitney in the <i>New York Tribune</i>.)</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_192" id="Page_192">[192]</a></span></p>




<h2>WHAT HAPPENED TO THE
"GLENHOLME"</h2>

<p><i>Adventures with Submarines in the Mediterranean
Sea</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The merchant seamen whose voyages take him through the
war-zone lives a hazardous life nowadays, but he treats it as
"all in the day's work." The 'Glenholme' was sunk by a
German submarine in the Mediterranean, and her crew underwent
quite a lot of adventures before they were finally rescued.
This tale was first told in the <i>Wide World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;SUBMARINED OFF COAST OF MALTA</p>

<p>These are chancy times for sailormen, both those who
man our fighting ships and the crews of merchant vessels,
but they must all take the sea as they find it and do their
best while their country is at war. Many of them have
faced death cheerfully in the execution of their duty.
Some have gone under, while others have endured wounds
and privation, as did the men of the British steamer
<i>Glenholme</i>.</p>

<p>This staunch ship, steering wide of the land, cleared
the southern shores of Malta and stuck her blunt nose
into the long smooth swell that rolled up from the eastward.
A ten-knot cargo-boat, deep-laden with steel rails
for Alexandria, she forged steadily onward through the
murky night. From stem to stern her hull lay shrouded
in darkness; not a single light gleamed from any of her
portholes, and even the lamp in her steering compass was
veiled, for those on board knew right well that hostile
submarines were operating in various parts of the Mediterranean.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_193" id="Page_193">[193]</a></span></p>

<p>Captain John Groome leaned his elbows on the bridge-rail
and gazed into the gloom ahead.</p>

<p>"We're all right so far," he said; "and from what I
can hear of things it seems that these beastly submarines
are operating quite a bit to the northward of our track.
All the same, a sharp look-out must be kept or we may
fall foul of some other craft running, like ourselves,
without lights. I don't want to bump any of them."</p>

<p>"The ocean is a wide place, sir," cheerfully remarked
the chief officer. "We'll keep clear of collision easy
enough."</p>

<p>"I hope so," replied the skipper. "And now, Mr. Bolt,
I'm going to lie down in the chart-room for a couple of
hours, and I want you to call me at daybreak. That's
the time when submarines poke up their periscopes for a
morning look around."</p>

<p>The mists of dawn hung like grey curtains over the
northern horizon when Captain Groome, in answer to a
call from the chief officer, again ascended the bridge
ladder.</p>

<p>"Anything in sight?" he queried.</p>

<p>"Nothing at all," replied Mr. Bolt. "It's a bit hazy
to the northward," he added, "but the skyline is quite
clear ahead."</p>

<p>Hardly had the chief officer finished speaking when a
shot&mdash;apparently coming from nowhere&mdash;shrieked overhead
between the <i>Glenholme's</i> masts. A moment later
the report of a gun came rolling down the wind. Groome
hurriedly snatched up his binocular glasses and peered
into the haze out abeam.</p>

<p>"Great Scot!" he exclaimed. "A submarine! Hard-a-port,
my son. Let her go off to south."</p>

<p>The helmsman ground his wheel over, and not a moment
too soon, for a white line, like the trail of a shooting
star, streaked athwart the surface of the waters. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_194" id="Page_194">[194]</a></span>
torpedo had been discharged at the <i>Glenholme</i>, but as
she swerved and swung from her course the deadly missile
passed harmlessly ahead.</p>

<p>"Murderous devils!" ejaculated Mr. Bolt. "Attacking
an unarmed ship with both gunfire and torpedoes."</p>

<p>"Pass the word to the engineer to give her every pound
of steam," shouted Groome.</p>

<p>As the morning haze lifted the submarine came into
clear view&mdash;a dark, sinister shape. She gave chase while
the <i>Glenholme</i> made off at her topmost speed. Engineers
and stokers did their best, and steam hissed from her
safety-valve as, on a zigzag course, she fled. Meanwhile
the pursuing craft hung doggedly in her track. The submarine,
however, discharged no more torpedoes; probably
the German commander did not wish to deplete his stock
of these expensive weapons.</p>

<p>Gradually the pursuer closed with her quarry, until
she was not more than a mile distant, and then her twelve-pounder
gun began to bark viciously. Having found the
range, the Germans fairly pounded the <i>Glenholme</i> with
bursting shell, battering her deck-houses and funnel into
masses of twisted steel.</p>

<p>Groome and his crew did their duty well. They were
game, quite game, to the finish. The captain, alert and
watchful, stood beside the helmsman and directed the
steering in such a manner as to keep the hostile craft
dead astern. Presently a flying splinter of shell gashed
his leg below the knee, and blood trickled into his boot as
he bound up the wound. Nevertheless, he kept his vessel
going at top speed, for he knew that British warships
were patrolling the Mediterranean, and while the chase
lasted there still remained the chance that a swift destroyer
might suddenly loom up on the skyline and rush
to the assistance of his stricken and harrassed vessel.</p>

<p>No help came, however, and it was not long ere a shell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_195" id="Page_195">[195]</a></span>
struck the rudder-head. With steering gear completely
wrecked, the steamer became unmanageable, and swung
round at right angles to her course. Then, seeing escape
was impossible, Captain Groome reluctantly rang his engines
astern and signalled to the enemy that he was
bringing his vessel to a standstill.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"THE PIRATES LOOTED OUR SHIP"</p>

<p>It must not be supposed that the Germans thereupon
ceased fire. By no means. An unarmed and unmanageable
British steamer wallowing helplessly in the swell
presented a fine opportunity for a display of "frightfulness";
therefore, on general principles, they let drive a
couple of shots at close range. These shells hulled the
<i>Glenholme</i> forward on the waterline, and she commenced
to sink slowly by the head.</p>

<p>Having accomplished her work, the submarine came
close alongside and stopped, with her gun trained point-blank
on the stricken vessel. The German commander,
a stout-built man with bristly hair, emerged from his
conning-tower. He was evidently very angry.</p>

<p>"Vy didn't you stop before?" he yelled. "I haf used
plenty of petrol to catch you."</p>

<p>"I'm sorry about your petrol," suavely replied Groome.</p>

<p>"Vell now, hurry up and get your boats lowered!"
shouted the Teuton. "I gif you ten minutes to leave&mdash;no
more."</p>

<p>The crew of the submarine, armed with rifles, stood on
their foredeck and watched the <i>Glenholme's</i> men abandon
ship. Some ten minutes later three boats containing all
hands&mdash;thirty-four all told&mdash;had shoved clear of the sinking
craft.</p>

<p>"Now," said the submarine commander to Mr. Bolt,
who was in charge of Number Three lifeboat, "I vant<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_196" id="Page_196">[196]</a></span>
to make use of your boat for a little time. So crowd your
men into the other two boats, and shove Number Three
alongside my craft. Hurry up, now, or I gif the order
to fire."</p>

<p>There being no help for it, Mr. Bolt and his men had
perforce to do as they were told. When the empty boat
was pushed alongside the submarine half-a-dozen Germans
sprang into her and boarded the <i>Glenholme</i>, which
vessel was now deep down by the head, but still sinking
slowly.</p>

<p>The Germans looted from their prize whatever took
their fancy, while that vessel's crew sat in the other two
lifeboats and watched the piratical proceedings with considerable
displeasure. One man in particular, a stoker
who hailed from Limehouse, became extremely indignant.
Like the rest of the <i>Glenholme's</i> men, he had hurried
to the boats with little beside the clothes he stood
in. His other belongings had been left in the forecastle,
and he had to some extent resigned himself to their
loss; but when he saw some of his property in the hands
of the Huns he could not restrain his anger.</p>

<p>"The dirty thieves!" he yelled. "They've got me brand-new
bowler 'at and me gramophone." Then, outspoken
and fluent, the Londoner stood upright in the boat and
gave the enemy his kind wishes.</p>

<p>"I don't wish yer no harm, blow yer!" said he. "I
don't want yer to get sunk, nor even captured by a British
cruiser. Oh, no. I only wants yer blighted ole submarine
to fall foul of a steamer's bow some dark night
and get capsized. Then I hopes she'll float around for
a month bottom up, with the whole crowd of yer standin'
on yer bloomin' heads and yellin' 'Gott strafe England'
until you choke."</p>

<p>Undoubtedly there were several Germans on board the
submarine who understood English well enough to gather<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_197" id="Page_197">[197]</a></span>
the gist of the irate stoker's remarks. They looked very
ugly as they fingered their rifles and glanced towards
their officer for instructions; most probably the Londoner
ran a grave risk of paying for his temerity with his
life. It happened, however, that at this moment smoke
was descried in the distance. The German commander
levelled his binocular glasses and took a long look at it.
Apparently this column of grey smoke caused him some
uneasiness. Full well he knew the rapidity with which,
during the hazy weather, a destroyer could appear on the
scene and open fire. He was evidently a cautious Teuton,
for he gave a short, guttural order, he and his men descended
into the submarine, and she dived below the
surface, and so out of this story. How and when the
piratical career of this particular U-boat came to a sudden
end cannot now be chronicled.</p>


<p>III&mdash;THEY WATCHED THE VESSEL SINK</p>

<p>Meanwhile the <i>Glenholme's</i> crew sat in their boats and
watched their vessel sink. Her bows were by this time
below the surface; she was going fast. Her stern rose
high in air, and for about a minute the stricken and
abandoned craft hung poised in this position&mdash;her fore
part submerged, her rudder and propeller a hundred feet
in air. Then, with a slow, slanting dive, she vanished
from sight. Down she sank, like many a good ship before
her, to rust and rot on the sandy-tide-swept floor of the
Mediterranean.</p>

<p>The smoke which had been sighted previously was no
longer visible. Captain Groome and his crew in their
three open boats had now to face the chances of a wide
and lonely sea. Each boat was well equipped, and stocked
with ten days' provisions; nevertheless, the weather indications
were not encouraging. Wind and sea were gradually<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_198" id="Page_198">[198]</a></span>
increasing, while a heavy bank of clouds in the
north-west foretold a coming storm. The captain shouted
a few words of advice and instruction to the officers in
charge of the two other boats.</p>

<p>"It's no use trying for Malta against this northerly
gale that's coming. We'll just have to 'up stick' and run
for Tripoli. You're quite right, Mr. Bolt; the boats may
get separated. If the sea becomes very heavy we must
lie to our sea-anchors until it moderates, or until we get
picked up."</p>

<p>The storm came. Black, rain-laden squalls drove
across the restless waters, which a strong and rising wind
soon lashed into white-crested ridges and dark green
hollows. It was not safe to carry sail and run before
the gale; so, tethered by their painters to the canvas drags,
or sea-anchors, the boats rode head-on, lifting bravely
to the charging seas. Before nightfall they had drifted
far apart and were lost to one another's sight in the
shrouding rain-squalls.</p>

<p>It must be mentioned that next day two of the boats
were picked up by a French steamer and their crews
safely landed. This narrative will now deal, therefore,
with what befell Captain Groome and the twelve men
who were with him.</p>

<p>For the next three days these poor castaways suffered
considerably from cold and exposure; moreover, the captain
had to endure great pain, his wounded leg being stiff
and swollen. However, on the third morning after they
had abandoned the sinking <i>Glenholme</i> the wind and sea
abated, and the sun rose in a cloudless sky that gave
promise of a long spell of fine weather. Captain Groome
gave orders to hoist the sail; and, impelled by a westerly
breeze, they steered for the northern coast of Africa.</p>

<p>Soon after sunrise land was sighted right ahead&mdash;a
sandy beach with low and slightly undulating country<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_199" id="Page_199">[199]</a></span>
in the background. Groome ran the boat close inshore
and then consulted a torn and sea-stained chart.</p>

<p>"Now, men," said he; "what with the gale and strong
currents I figure out that we've been driven a long way
east of Tripoli. The breeze is dying away, so we'll just
have to get out the oars and pull to the westward."</p>

<p>"How far is it to the nearest port, captain?" inquired
one of the sailors.</p>

<p>"Oh, about seventy to eighty miles."</p>

<p>"That's a long pull on short allowance of water," remarked
the sailor, with a rueful glance at their water-keg,
which by this time was three-parts empty. "Is there
any fresh water around these parts, sir?"</p>

<p>The skipper gazed attentively along the shore before
making answer. "Well," said he at length, "it's a barren-looking
coast, and no mistake, but I see a clump of trees
just beyond that point. Perhaps we can find water there,
and refill our keg. Anyhow, we'll go and see."</p>


<p>IV&mdash;THE CASTAWAYS AND THE ARAB HORSEMEN</p>

<p>They beached their boat in a little curving bay that lay
between two rocky points. Here, not more than a couple
of hundred yards inland, stood the clump of trees that
Groome had noted. They found, to their great satisfaction,
that these trees grew around the brink of a cup-shaped
hollow, at the bottom of which bubbled a spring
of clear fresh water.</p>

<p>The overjoyed castaways drank their fill; then, with
tin cups, they baled up the water and refilled their ten-gallon
keg. While this job was in progress Captain
Groome, accompanied by the bo'sun, clambered up the
sides of the waterhole to take a look around before returning
to the boat. On reaching level ground, to their
astonishing and dismay, they found themselves confronted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_200" id="Page_200">[200]</a></span>
by a band of about fifty Arab horsemen. These men
were Bedouins of the Senussi tribe&mdash;swarthy ruffians of
the desert, fierce and ruthless, who lived chiefly by murder
and pillage.</p>

<p>They were all armed, some with old-fashioned long-barrelled
guns, and a few with modern rifles, while each
man had long knives stuck around his girdle. These
fierce nomads saw plainly that the white men were unarmed
and helpless. Nevertheless, their chief&mdash;a tall
Arab who was mounted on a white horse&mdash;pointed at the
two castaways and shouted aloud to his followers. Evidently
he gave the order to kill, for several of the swarthy
miscreants levelled their rifles and fired point-blank. The
bo'sun dropped, stone dead, with a bullet in his brain,
while Captain Groome, shot through the shoulder, fell to
earth and lay there unconscious and apparently lifeless.
For more than an hour the unfortunate ship-captain remained
senseless and inert. The wonder is that he did
not bleed to death; however, he lay so still that, luckily
for him, the blood congealed and caked over his wounds.
When at length his consciousness returned he found that
in the meantime events had been happening with startling
rapidity.</p>

<p>It might be supposed that, after shooting Groome and
the bo'sun, the Arabs would have murdered the remainder
of the castaways out of hand, yet it transpired that
they did not do so. Most probably it occurred to these
desert nomads that it would be more profitable to carry
the white men inland and hold them for ransom, therefore
they took them as prisoners. Next, the Bedouins
looted the boat that lay drawn up on the beach, taking all
her portable equipment, such as provisions, rope, and
canvas. Then, apparently quite satisfied with their day's
work, they watered their horses and camped, to rest
awhile beside the spring.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_201" id="Page_201">[201]</a></span></p>

<p>Half-a-dozen armed Bedouins kept guard on the prisoners,
who sat in a dejected group. Things were looking
very black indeed for these poor seamen when suddenly&mdash;almost
by magic it seemed&mdash;deliverance came in the
form of a patrol steamer flying the British flag.</p>

<p>Steaming quite close inshore, she glided into view
from behind an adjacent point. So close was the vessel
when she rounded the headland that those on board could
hear the shout of delight raised by the surviving castaways.</p>

<p>The lieutenant in charge of the patrol boat&mdash;a keen
and alert young officer&mdash;was not long in grasping the situation.
He saw the boat drawn up on the beach, and
heard the prisoners shouting for aid. Therefore, when
the startled Bedouins hastily mounted and made off, this
capable young naval officer knew just what to do&mdash;and
he did it.</p>

<p>A band of badly-scared Arab horsemen started off
inland, using whip and spur in desperate efforts to escape,
but at that moment the patrol steamer's machine-gun
took a glad hand in the game. The gun rattled briskly,
streams of lead whistled shoreward, and the tall Arab
chief who rode the white horse pitched headlong from his
mount to the earth; then he lay quite still. He was as
dead as salted herring; to use colloquial English, he had
got "all that was coming to him."</p>

<p>The remaining miscreants rode hard for safety, but the
machine-gun did good work, and during the following
few minutes at least a dozen desert marauders finished
altogether with the joys and sorrows of this world. Those
who managed to escape disappeared, together with a
number of riderless horses, behind a distant sand-hill.</p>

<p>Captain Groome and his men were promptly taken on
board the patrol vessel. The bo'sun, poor fellow, was
buried where he lay. The skipper's wounds were dressed<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_202" id="Page_202">[202]</a></span>
by the ship's surgeon, and under kind and skillful treatment
he soon began to mend.</p>

<p>The writer saw Groome about six weeks later. He
moved stiffly, like a man whose wounds have but recently
healed; nevertheless, he looked well, and was certainly
very cheerful.</p>

<p>"How do I feel?" said he, in answer to my query.
"Oh, my shoulder is still a bit sore, but otherwise I'm
feeling first class. Another week or so, and I'll be fit
and ready to join another ship."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_203" id="Page_203">[203]</a></span></p>




<h2>WHAT THE KAISER'S SON SAW ON
THE BATTLEFIELD</h2>

<p><i>Personal Experiences of a German Prince</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Prince Oscar of Prussia, Fifth Son of
Emperor William</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>His Royal Highness Prince Oscar of Prussia, fifth of Kaiser
Wilhelm's six sons, has written a little book called "The Winter
Battle," a translation of which is printed herewith. In this he
describes the terrific fighting of the Third German Army, which
formed an important part of the battle front in Champagne and
had to meet a particularly desperate attack by the French. The
Prince was an officer on the staff of the commanding General.
As a result of his experiences he was laid up with an attack of
heart failure. It is interesting to note that "Hill 196," which is
one of the places particularly mentioned in the Prince's narrative
as being defended by the Germans last Winter, was captured
by the French on October 25, 1915, and became once more
the centre of prolonged fighting. The Prince is twenty-seven
years old, and was married morganatically on the day war was
declared to Countess Ina von Bassewitz Levetzow, a young
noblewoman not of royal birth. The proceeds of the sale of
his book are given to the widows and orphans of German
soldiers who fell in the Champagne. Translation for the
<i>New York American</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;PRINCE OSCAR TELLS ABOUT BATTLE OF
CHAMPAGNE</p>

<p>The great Winter battle in the Champagne in 1915
resulted in a brilliant victory, which I witnessed with my
own eyes.</p>

<p>The past has already begun busily to weave her heavy
veil, and side by side with the past walks her sister&mdash;oblivion!<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_204" id="Page_204">[204]</a></span>
But we&mdash;we must not, we dare not forget.
Not only because the war in the Champagne was the
greatest and longest defensive battle in the history of
the world and resulted in a magnificent victory for ourselves;
not only out of gratitude for our heroic leaders
and soldiers who accomplished the superhuman, endured
the unspeakable, and yet, undaunted, fought on to victory;
there is another deeper, more salient reason why
we must not forget. I refer to our hero dead, who, with
incomparable self-abnegation, gave their lives for king
and country, for Emperor and empire, for home and
nation.</p>

<p>As a child which one of us has not stood at the grave
of some unknown hero of forgotten days, thrilling with
rapturous, fearsome awe? On the heights north of le
Mesnil in the Champagne there is now a grave of this
sort which should be dear to every German heart, but
it is not the grave of an unknown hero of bygone days.
Many brave men of our own glorious army, much noble
blood of our beloved German nation have found their
last resting place there on French soil. Our own brothers,
sons and husbands are interred there. Many thousands
of heroes, who have entered the last long silence,
slumbering there under the very sod which they themselves,
dauntless, fearless, reckless of danger, defended
to the last breath, cry to us from beyond the grave, "Do
not forget the cause for which we died, for which we
gladly and willingly gave our lives."</p>

<p>We, the living, who know what these dead heroes accomplished
and how they furthered our cause, lower
the sword in memory of them, and, in spirit, lay a laurel
wreath upon that hill, vowing that we will go and do
likewise.</p>

<p>In order to comprehend thoroughly the significance of
the war in the Champagne and to appreciate the magnitude<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_205" id="Page_205">[205]</a></span>
of the achievements of our troops we must briefly
summarize the circumstances which made the campaign
imperative, the end which it was intended the titanic
struggle should compass, and the conditions which made
this victory such an important one to us. A few sentences
will suffice to make all this clear. It was necessary
to crush the first large aggressive movement on the
part of the French, who, by hurling their finest army
corps and an enormous artillery force against us in the
Champagne, tried for weeks and months, at whatever
cost, to force a wedge into our lines in order to break one
link in the steel chain with which the German army had
encircled their land.</p>

<p>If, as intended, they had succeeded in breaking through
our lines with a strong contingent, it can readily be seen
how disastrous this would have been for us. As regards
consequences, our success in the Champagne was at least
of as great importance as the victories of Tannenberg,
the Masurian Lakes, near Augustow and on the San; but
when we take into consideration the demands which were
made upon individual endurance and courage in the face
of the most harrowing conditions imaginable, it is doubtful
whether the work done in the Champagne by our
troops has ever been equalled.</p>


<p>II&mdash;THE PRINCE PRAISES HIS TROOPS</p>

<p>In order thoroughly to appreciate the heroic steadfastness
and the patient endurance shown by our troops,
which transcended all praise, and to appraise properly
the difficulties which beset leaders and men alike during
the long, bitter weeks of the battle, we must remember
certain facts.</p>

<p>When the French offensive was begun on a large scale
on February 16, our troops had already seen months of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_206" id="Page_206">[206]</a></span>
the hardest sort of service in repulsing the French First
and Seventeenth Army Corps, with only a few very short
intervals of rest&mdash;our Eighth Army Corps having been
engaged in this region since December 8, and the Eighth
Reserve Corps since December 19, 1914.</p>

<p>Our regiments, therefore, were far from unfatigued at
a moment when they were called upon to enter the severest
phase of a struggle into which our foes hurled the
flower of their troops. Moreover, the French had at
their command an almost inexhaustible supply of ammunition,
and were able, therefore, in a steadily ascending
scale, gradually to reach the full amplitude of their fighting
capacity in their efforts to break through our lines.
If we fully visualize this fact then we must realize that
an almost incredible glory accrues to the work done by
our troops. Only an iron will, a discipline which had
become second nature and utter forgetfulness of self
could lead to victory in the face of such odds. That
these qualities did ultimately assure us the victory will
redound to the undying glory of all the troops which did
active service in this great engagement.</p>

<p>The prodigious masses of iron and humanity which
our foes hurled against us day and night, their marvellous
ingenuity in making attacks, their doggedness in
defense, all this was admirably calculated to crush larger
numbers than those of our Third Army. It was a struggle
between iron and steel. It is true that a heavy
mass of iron can through sheer weight bend and indent
a narrow band of steel, but it cannot break the steel.
Thus, through continually renewing their attacks and by
training upon us an artillery fire the violence of which
beggars all description, the French succeeded in bending
back our lines here and there. Sometimes at one part,
sometimes at another they took several hundred mètres
of intrenchments; but they paid a horrible, a ghastly<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_207" id="Page_207">[207]</a></span>
price in blood for these minor and valueless successes,
which profited them nothing save that they taught them
the bitter lesson that German will power and German
discipline can be broken by nothing. The French had
scornfully proclaimed that they had broken the backbone
of our resistance, but we broke their attack and
imposed upon them our own. In the end the French
attempt to break through our lines was utterly foiled, and
the Third Army was victorious.</p>

<p>During this time the French attacks were directed principally
against the left, i. e., the eastern half of the
Third Army, so that the Eighth Army Corps and the
Eighth Reserve Corps bore the brunt of the attacks, most
of which took place along the line between the position of
Perthes and Beausejour.</p>

<p>This is a rolling, open country, in which narrow fields
alternate with small patches of woodland, covered with
pine trees. The country is not dissimilar in character
to the country near Jueterberg and Doeberitz, in Germany,
and instead of soil or sand the surface of the
earth is covered with white chalk. It is a desolate,
barren country. The French themselves call it the "louse
Champagne" country, and never was a name more aptly
given. It boasted of only a few settlements, and these
have now been destroyed by the artillery fire.</p>

<p>During the entire time that the battle lasted the
weather was vile. For weeks it rained day and night,
so that the chalky soil was transformed into a grayish,
soapy, slimy mire. In consequence the by-roads became
almost impassable for vehicles and the main roads, connecting
our trenches and camps, owing to the continuous
use to which they were put by marching troops and rolling
provision wagons, were soon in a condition which
was almost as bad. The work of our munition and commissary
columns, upon which this battle, which lasted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_208" id="Page_208">[208]</a></span>
for months, entailed particularly difficult service, was
thereby rendered exasperatingly hard. The horses also
suffered severely through the long enforced marches, the
dreadful roads, the general wetness and the insufficient
food.</p>


<p>III&mdash;"HOW WE FOUGHT THE BATTLE&mdash;A
LIVING HELL"</p>

<p>It is, however, the duty of the good soldier to derive
some advantage from even the most unpromising conditions,
and we were able to turn the frightful condition of
the roads to good account in the following way. The
roads which the French commanded were less numerous
and in even worse condition than our own. As they
expended a tremendous amount of ammunition every
day in "drum-fire," as continuous systematic artillery fire
is called in the army, they were forced to bring up large
supplies every night, which was not the case with us. As
has been said before, only the main roads could be traversed
by the ammunition wagons, because the other
roads had turned into a sort of morass, and we therefore
trained our long-range guns upon their main roads at
night, knowing that we must be doing damage to them.
This circumstance probably accounted for the unusually
long pauses which they allowed to occur in their "drum-fire"
on the ensuing days.</p>

<p>In this way we gained brief periods of respite for our
infantry, which was thus enabled to patch up the badly
damaged intrenchments, so that the French, when they
had been supplied with new ammunition, had to begin
all over again.</p>

<p>The continuous rainfall created cruel conditions for
the housing of our troops. As has been said, the few
sparse settlements had been literally shot to pieces, and
our troops were therefore forced to construct their own<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_209" id="Page_209">[209]</a></span>
huts and cave shelters. That such poor quarters, during
an incessant downpour of rain, were bound to have an
injurious effect upon the strength of the troops, is abundantly
plain. Nevertheless, our men never complained.
With admirable patience, even good humour, they endured
the greatest privations and hardships which were
the result of the inclement weather and the inadequate
quarters, and how great these privations and hardships
were can only be understood by some one who himself
has lived through a rainy Winter in the "louse Champagne"
country. Nevertheless, miraculously, the health
of the troops remained remarkably good.</p>

<p>Originally only the First and the Seventeenth French
Army Corps had been intrenched opposite to our Eighth
Army Corps and our Eighth Reserve Corps. Both of
the French army corps had suffered severely during their
continuous attacks around Christmas, in January and
the beginning of February. But they had been reinforced
continually. Before beginning their great drive
against our lines the French had gathered together materially
larger forces. To cope with our two army corps
gradually, in addition to the First and the Seventeenth
Corps, two colonial divisions and half a territorial
division&mdash;all in all almost seven and a half army corps
were massed in a comparatively small territory.</p>

<p>Furthermore, they had greatly strengthened their artillery.
On the other hand, our two army corps had been
strengthened solely by the addition of individual battalions
of the Fifth and Seventh Armies, as well as by
the Sixth Army Corps and the Twelfth Reserve Corps
(which at this time belonged to the Third Army). The
Eighth Army Corps comprised the Bavarian "Landwehr"
Brigade and the Hessian "Landwehr" as well.
Then, finally, there was the First Guard Infantry Division,
destined to play a prominent part in this battle.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_210" id="Page_210">[210]</a></span></p>

<p>In this terrific battle sons from every principality and
kingdom of the Fatherland fought shoulder to shoulder,
and vied with each other in the display of courage and
endurance. Prussians and Bavarians, Saxons and Hessians,
men from the North and the South, from East and
West, stood side by side, cheek by jowl, forming an impregnable
wall against which the furious, despairing,
fanatic attacks of the French were doomed to futilely
spend themselves.</p>

<p>The French fought with marvellous valour, with reckless
courage and nerve, climbing up and on over the
bodies of their fallen comrades. They were excellent
fighters, were these Frenchmen. But our men were
better fighters, as the outcome of the battle taught us.</p>

<p>It was, however, not the attacks of their infantry
which made this battle so hideous for us, nor was it the
hand-to-hand struggle in the trenches, man against man,
where the German, possessing greater physical strength,
was easily the match of the individual Frenchman.
What made the battle a living hell was the work of the
French artillery, enormous in strength, with huge supplies
of ammunition which was spent lavishly. Life in
the trenches became a perpetual nightmare and stamped
as unforgettable heroes the men who went through with
it without flinching.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"IT SEEMED IMPOSSIBLE ANY LIVING
CREATURE COULD SURVIVE"</p>

<p>Onto a comparatively small area the French on one
day threw a hundred thousand shells! We found a
French document in which the commanding officer calculated
that eighteen bombs must be the allowance per
metre of German trench, these eighteen bombs to be used
not in a day, but within one or two hours! The rapidity<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_211" id="Page_211">[211]</a></span>
of the artillery fire was therefore as great as that of an
ordinary machine gun, but the shells hurled against us
were not infantry shells, but grenades of every calibre.
"Drum-fire" is the name for this sort of artillery fire, and
its effects were simply dreadful&mdash;unspeakable. The
barbed wire was completely annihilated, was clean wiped
out of existence; the trenches were flattened into
mounds, their foundations crumbled away. No known
sort of earthworks were able to withstand such fire for
even a short time. But German discipline, loyalty and
heroism held out.</p>

<p>When such "drum-fire" began, a huge wall of smoke
and chalk particles rose over our trenches, cutting off
the men from the rest of the world. The horror of the
scene was augmented by the ceaseless rumbling, thundering
and crashing which filled the air, and which, even
miles away, sounded like a heavy thunderstorm. It
seemed impossible that any living creature should survive
such a hellish turmoil. When the firing ceased
abruptly, or when its direction was changed to give the
French infantry a chance to attack us, then our brave
fusiliers, musketeers, grenadiers crawled out of the funnels
and pockets into which the enemy's grenades had
ploughed the earth, made their way from among broken
foundations, crumbling cement, trickling sand bags, and,
grabbing their guns and wiping the dirt from their eyes,
they repulsed the French attack.</p>

<p>And this was done not once, but dozens of times.</p>

<p>Occasionally our men were ordered to abandon a
trench which was suffering particularly from "drum-fire"
in order to avoid unnecessary loss of life, and the
crew from such an abandoned trench was then placed in
our second line of intrenchments. It sometimes happened
that French infantrymen, under protection of their
artillery fire, reached and took such an empty trench,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_212" id="Page_212">[212]</a></span>
succeeding the more readily because they encountered no
obstacles. Our soldiers then sprang forth from their
cover and attacked the French with hand grenades and
bayonets. Invariably we were successful in repulsing the
enemy, causing them heavy loss of life.</p>

<p>If for some reason or other this counter-attack was
not made at once, but was postponed for an hour or two,
we were not so sure of success, and it was then never
secured by us without heavy casualties, for the few hours
that had elapsed had amply sufficed the French, who are
exceedingly clever at every sort of intrenchment work,
to change and remodel the trench for their purposes, to
install machine guns, to place sandbag barriers along
both sides and to make sundry other changes. This
done, the "Frenchmen's nest" was complete.</p>

<p>The difficult task of ousting the French from their
"nest" then devolved upon our regiments, and in some
instances many weeks of hard, cruel fighting were required
to accomplish this end. For this work we employed
underground mines, artillery, bombs and hand
grenades. When the time was ripe for attack, columns
of volunteers were formed, which were led by officers,
who, in turn, were preceded by groups of pioneers with
hand grenades and intrenchment tools, to be used in demolishing
the sandbag barriers. The assault was begun
simultaneously from both sides. These attacks were
usually conducted at night, and it will readily be seen
what cool, unshakable courage was required for work
of this kind. Immediately after the hand grenades were
exploded our men advanced and a furious hand-to-hand
fight ensued, in which not only bayonet and pick-axe,
but shovel and booted foot were used to expel the enemy,
to kill him or force him to surrender.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_213" id="Page_213">[213]</a></span></p>


<p>V&mdash;BRAVERY OF THE GRENADIERS</p>

<p>As an example of the tremendous fury with which
such a hand-to-hand fight raged I will cite one instance.
A grenadier of one of our Rhenish regiments, who carried
a pick-axe, had the thumb of his right hand, which
carried the weapon, bitten right off by a Frenchman.
The German soldier, writhing with pain, contrived to
change the pick-axe to his left hand, killed both the
Frenchman who had maimed him and his comrade.</p>

<p>In another regiment three men had discovered that
in making these nocturnal attacks they could work together
to splendid advantage. The strongest man of the
three took the centre. In his left hand he carried two
steel shields from machine guns lashed together. In his
right hand he held his weapon, bayonet or pick-axe. His
two companions kept to either side of him, as closely as
possible. One carried as many hand grenades as he
could manage, the other was equipped with a bayonet.
Thus accoutred, this strange trio proceeded, striking,
thrusting and throwing grenades, and literally hacking
its way through the ranks of the enemy and striking terror
to the hearts of the foe.</p>

<p>Excellent service these three men rendered. Evening
after evening the man who carried the steel shields volunteered
for the difficult and hazardous task. He was asked
if he did not feel the necessity for resting up, or if he
did not prefer to serve the hand grenades or to wield
the bayonet for a change. He replied that less powerful
men than he could not as easily carry the steel shields
and the pick-axe as well, while the bayonet work and the
throwing of hand grenades could be done readily by
the others.</p>

<p>The sharpshooters of the Imperial Guard had formed
an entire company of volunteers, who, led by officers,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_214" id="Page_214">[214]</a></span>
were always sent to perform particularly dangerous and
difficult tasks. They performed deeds of incredible
valour, and the "Tschakos," as Germans call this picked
corps, will not soon be forgotten by the French.</p>

<p>The men of the Saxon Reserve Infantry Regiment No.
107 were adepts in taking French prisoners. They had
a system of their own and found it infallible.</p>

<p>Thus, at night, our brave fellows had to engage in
hand-to-hand encounters, at day had to endure the
frightful fire of the French artillery, and when the firing
ceased there was still not a moment's rest for them, for
they then had to repulse the onslaughts of the French
infantrymen.</p>

<p>Nor was that all. The positions which had been shot
to pieces by the enemy by day in the field, had to be
rebuilt, as far as was possible, at night. The reserves
were requisitioned to assist in this work, although they
had really been sent back of the firing line to rest up.
The Reserves were also frequently called upon at night
to help defend with the bayonet any menaced point.
Thus their supposed "resting-up" in the protected zone
was somewhat problematical in nature, not alone because
they were frequently called upon to help out, but
because the French had a pretty trick of training their
heavy artillery fire, night and day, upon these outlying
points, positions and roads. Unbelievable as it seems,
the men in the trenches actually suffered less from the
artillery fire at night than did the men in the rear.</p>

<p>Alternately fighting and working by day and by night,
our brave men performed the work of supermen. Each
man was actuated by one thought only&mdash;to defend his
position to the last, to overcome the enemy, to endure
through it all, no matter what happened. Each leader,
each division, conceived it to be a task of honour to
hold the position, or, if it had been lost, to regain it.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_215" id="Page_215">[215]</a></span></p>


<p>VI&mdash;THE PRINCE GIVES HIS OPINION OF HIS
ADVERSARY</p>

<p>Let us now consider the method which our foe employed
in preparing the attacks.</p>

<p>The French attacks must be classified as partial
attacks and as attacks en masse. The former invariably
preceded the latter. The numerical strength of the
troops thus employed varied from a company to a division.
They were never an end in themselves, but a mere
link in the chain of a general, comprehensive plan. A
destructive "drum-fire" was followed up by an attack
upon a particular trench. Having secured the trench,
they did one of two things. Either they used every
effort to secure a second trench, several hundred meters
further along the line, so that, working and fighting
toward each other, they might reasonably expect to unite
the two trenches; or, using the captured trench as a
base for an attack en masse, they sought to indent our
line and to break it, a thing which was never attempted
when a partial attack was made.</p>

<p>In conducting these attacks en masse, the French always
adhered to their well-known scheme. A compact
line of sharpshooters at the front was followed at a distance
of one hundred meters by densely packed masses
of company and battalion columns.</p>

<p>This method, of attack, from which they never
swerved, occasioned them a shocking loss of life. The
losses sustained by a French regiment in storming a
position may be estimated conservatively at forty to fifty
per cent. French prisoners confirmed this estimate. To
this wholesale slaughter to which they condemn their
men the fact is probably due that the French rarely use
the same regiment twice for purposes of attack. Surely
they must reckon with the demoralizing effect sustained<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_216" id="Page_216">[216]</a></span>
by men who have been forced to climb over hillocks of
their own dead in order to reach the enemy!</p>

<p>A French officer, whom we took prisoner, told us that
the havoc wrought by the German artillery fire upon the
closed columns of the French had been frightful. He
added:</p>

<p>"These attacks constitute an insane slaughter; strictly
speaking, they are not attacks, but a mad dancing in
shambles, through a charnel-house, upon a cemetery.
And yet we will be forced to continue this way until the
French Government sees fit to recognize the futility of
our method, or until we contrive to break through."</p>

<p>Not enough can be said in praise of our artillery.
Heavy and light artillery as well performed wonders.
Their co-operation with our infantry was wonderful&mdash;could
not have been improved upon. Often, our well-directed
artillery fire nipped in the bud French efforts at
attack. Truly, the artillery which took part in the battle
of the Champagne has every reason to be proud of its
record.</p>

<p>At the beginning of the period of which I am writing,
the French attacks were directed principally against our
positions near Perthes (the centre and left wing of the
Eighth Army Corps). Then the French concentrated
their attacks upon the outer left wing of the Eighth
Army Corps and the right wing of the Eighth Reserve
Corps (16th Reserve-Division). Finally the French
offensive degenerated into a desperate, mad, wild struggle
for the now famous Hill 196 (two kilometers north
of le Mesnil-les-Hurlus). At first they were probably
obsessed by the idea that the hill was valuable because
of the outlook which it afforded. Later, the government,
or the War Ministry, seems to have issued an order that
the hill must be taken at whatever cost. They paid the
cost&mdash;paid horribly, suffered overwhelming losses, offered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_217" id="Page_217">[217]</a></span>
hecatombs of victims, and still did not gain the Hill&mdash;thanks
to the heroism of the defending regiments.</p>

<p>This&mdash;Hill 196&mdash;was the most seriously menaced
point, and accordingly the Guard was installed there,
which, together with the Rhenish, Silesian and Saxon
regiments, performed deeds of great valour. True to the
traditions of their race, they withstood the terrific onslaughts
made by the French hordes, onslaughts for the
making of which the French continually sent out fresh
regiments. Attack after attack failed. Those who escaped
the fire of the artillery and the machine guns fell
under the butts and blades of the German bayonets.</p>

<p>Just as the interest and action of a drama continues
to ascend until the end of the last act, so the Battle of
Champagne reached its culmination and conclusion in the
mad struggle that raged around Hill 196.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;"MAD STRUGGLE AT HILL 196"</p>

<p>In the last days of the frantic struggle, we had perceived
that the French were gathering in largely increased
numbers in their trenches. Then to our surprise
the attack which we expected to follow did not
occur. We therefore deemed it reasonable to conclude
from this that the enemy no longer considered it expedient
to push on, and that the fire of our artillery was
holding them to their trenches. Therefore, on March 18,
we were not expecting that any serious attack would be
attempted. But the French apparently were not willing
to admit defeat without one final, desperate effort.</p>

<p>Suddenly, on the afternoon of March 18, the attack
was begun by densely massed troops, their objective
being Hill 196 and the position directly east of the hill.
The position of the Guards Reserve Infantry Regiment
No. 133 and other troops, who received the main shock<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_218" id="Page_218">[218]</a></span>
of the impact, was not to be shaken, however. The
Fourth Turcos Regiment and others of the French army
attacked in five lines, advancing one by one, with some of
their officers on horseback. We received them with a
shower of hand grenades, which tore hundreds of them
limb from limb and blew to atoms the first two lines.</p>

<p>Succeeding lines fared no better. Those who miraculously
escaped the hand grenades were felled by our
furious men with blows of pick-axe and bayonet. In
spite of their dauntless courage, their reckless contempt
of death, their marvellous persistence, the French were
forced back. Front and flank of this writhing maelstrom
of densely packed humanity rolling along in a disorderly
retreat was swept by our heavy artillery fire from 21-centimetre
mortars, heavy field howitzers, 10-centimetre
cannon. The losses which the French sustained were
inhuman and sickening.</p>

<p>With this last valiant attempt to take the Hill 196
ended the Winter battle of the Champagne. After
months of frantic fighting, after paying a frightful toll
in blood, the French were forced to abandon their effort
to break through our lines. Their finest troops, the very
flower of their army, who had fought persistently with
all the dare-devil gallantry for which the French are
famous, had, in the end, not only failed to win a victory,
but had sustained a crushing defeat. For the fact must
not be overlooked that their failure to force their way
through our lines was tantamount to a very serious
defeat.</p>


<p>VIII&mdash;WHAT THE GERMAN PRINCE CLAIMS
FOR HIS ARMY</p>

<p>The battle of the Champagne is over. The unexampled
heroism, the superhuman endurance of our troops<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_219" id="Page_219">[219]</a></span>
have already become things of the past. But we, the
great German nation, will do well to heed the warning
that was sounded in the bitter days when the frenzied
battle raged in the Champagne.</p>

<p>What lesson shall we extract from this titanic struggle?
What moral is pointed by Hill 196, whose every
inch of ground was ploughed by bullets and soaked with
our dearest blood? What were the underlying causes
that contributed to our victory? What was it that made
every beardless boy a hero, made the oldest man in the
"Landwehr" forget his age and the privations he was
enduring?</p>

<p>Let us briefly review the principal factors that made
for success.</p>

<p>The value of iron discipline was overwhelmingly
demonstrated. It is safe to assert that the most highly
disciplined regiment will be the most successful in action.
Youthful enthusiasm may be undermined, patriotism
may be forced into temporary abeyance by hours of continual,
cruel shelling; worse than that, the very power to
think becomes inhibited in the witches' cauldron of
"drum-fire." It is then that discipline asserts itself.
Nothing else gives the same moral stamina, and in difficult
positions discipline is bound to be the determining
factor.</p>

<p>Before the war began the voices of many people were
raised who, from false sentimentality, from undue softness,
from ill-will or from sheer stupidity, were eager
to have an end put for all time to the unconditional
obedience and rigid drill of our army; in brief, to our
entire military training, the value of which has been
tested and proven throughout centuries. Many of our
so-called comic papers made it their chief business to
ridicule military training and discipline, to spatter with
mud the very foundation and bulwark of our military<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_220" id="Page_220">[220]</a></span>
efficiency. I think the battle of the Champagne must
have taught them to amend their way of thinking.</p>

<p>"The iron rock upon which Germany rests more securely
than the earth upon the shoulders of Atlas is our
glorious army." That this army has reached this glorious
summit is due primarily to its splendid training,
and the fundamentals of this training are to be found in
the latterly much-laughed-at and sneered-at detail work
done in years of peace. The standing-at-attention, the
the clock-like precision, the manual of arms, the goose-step&mdash;to
all of these we owe the efficiency displayed by
our troops in resisting French "drum-fire," in repulsing
French drives, in withstanding with iron might French
alertness, in circumventing French enthusiasm and gallantry.</p>

<p>For instance, our Guard went through the attacks at
Ypres. During the bitter month of February this same
First Guard Infantry Brigade rendered futile and vain
all the science and gallantry manifested by the French
troops at Perthes, and won new laurels in the frantic
struggle for Hill 196. Yet this crack regiment did not
disdain, when ordered to the rear for a brief, much-needed
rest, to continue its exercises and drills from the
very first day of its holiday. In battle, even, when under
cover, this regiment went through the manual of arms,
practised positions and stood at attention.</p>

<p>One thing more. Let us educate our young men to be
strong and hard. Let us guard against influences that
tend to soften or make for effeminacy, so that, when future
need arises, the coming generation may be able successfully
to cope with conditions similar to those which
confronted our troops in the Champagne. Let us weed
out the poison which is eating into the marrow of our
national life&mdash;the cry for pleasure or youthful liberties.</p>

<p>Then, too, let us instil in the youth of our nation simple<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_221" id="Page_221">[221]</a></span>
faith, a firm belief in the Lord God, whose will
directs the destinies of mankind. Those who went
through the battle of the Champagne agree in saying that
without a firm belief in God they never would have been
able to live through those harrowing days, and to the
handful, who lacked faith, faith came amid shower of
shells, during attacks of bayonets.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_222" id="Page_222">[222]</a></span></p>




<h2>A DAY'S WORK WITH A FRENCH
SUBMARINE</h2>

<p><i>An American s Experience under the Sea</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Fred B. Pitney, by Authority of the French
Minister of Marine</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This story is told from "a certain formidable naval base on the
coast of France." The American who relates it went out on
scout duty on a submarine&mdash;for a single day. He tells how it
feels to dive, the sensation of being shot at&mdash;not "unpleasant or
trying on the nerves." Mr. Pitney is one of the war correspondents
for the <i>New York Tribune</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;"WE FIRED NINE SHOTS AND SUNK BENEATH
THE SEA"</p>

<p>To appear on the surface, fire nine shots at an enemy
vessel and disappear in safety, untouched, below the
surface, all in the space of forty-five seconds&mdash;this, I
believe, constitutes a submarine record. Yet, this feat
I witnessed as an observer on board a French submarine
in active service.</p>

<p>Before this I was a passenger on a vessel that was
attacked by a submarine. A torpedo was launched at us
from below the surface, while we were anxiously trying
to pick up the periscope of the submerged vessel, for we
were in dangerous waters. We had just discovered the
periscope when the torpedo was sent at us. Five minutes
later the submarine came to the surface and fired
a round at us from the gun abaft the turret we lay to
and the passengers were transferred in a small boat from
the passenger vessel to the submarine. It was then that<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_223" id="Page_223">[223]</a></span>
I was on board the submarine while it attacked another
vessel.</p>

<p>Thus, on the afternoon in question I participated in all
the phases of submarine warfare, including entering a
harbor protected with net and floating mines, filled with
warships and surrounded with land batteries. Possibly
the most exciting moment of all in an afternoon filled
with thrills was when one land battery, uncertain of our
identity, fired three shots across our bows and we had to
lie to and prove who we were with a string of signal
flags before we could proceed on our tortuous path among
the mines.</p>

<p>Our little vessel, put at our disposal by the French
Ministry of Marine to view the defences of a certain
formidable naval base on the coast of France, was calmly
traversing the waters near the mouth of the harbor, when
a young officer, standing beside me on the bridge said:
"We must look out for submarines near here."</p>

<p>"Germans?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he replied, "Germans, of course."</p>

<p>We had already passed through the net that protects
the mouth of the harbor and had been warned that we
were going through a mine field, and that sometimes,
especially in bad weather, the mines got loose and drifted
about casually, getting in most anybody's way. Now we
had the added pleasure of a possible encounter with a
German submarine.</p>

<p>"How many German submarines are there in the Mediterranean?"
I asked.</p>

<p>"About thirty-five," he said.</p>

<p>Recalling my geography, it seemed we had a pretty
good chance of being seen.</p>

<p>"Are you a submarine officer?" I asked.</p>

<p>He told me that he was, and added that he would not
change his work for any other branch of the service. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_224" id="Page_224">[224]</a></span>
told him that I had always understood submarine service
was particularly unpleasant and trying on the nerves.</p>

<p>"Oh, no. On the contrary, it is very restful," he said,
"and extremely interesting and great sport."</p>

<p>"How old are you?" I asked.</p>

<p>He was thirty-two and unmarried.</p>

<p>"Perhaps that accounts for it," I said.</p>

<p>"Perhaps," he agreed. "I don't know. But it is the
sporting interest that makes the submarine service so
fine."</p>

<p>He told of cruising in the North Sea, watching for
German torpedo boats, of weeks on guard duty in the
Channel, assuring the service between France and England,
and of other weeks submerged in the Adriatic,
blockading the Austrian ports.</p>

<p>"We had to pick our way through the mine fields submerged,"
he said, "and then lie forty hours submerged on
blockade duty. When our turn ended, we would pick
our way back through the mines for a rest."</p>

<p>"But surely that was trying on the nerves," I said.</p>

<p>"Oh, no," he declared. "Not at all. We had a good
rest there. There was nothing to do but sleep and
watch."</p>

<p>"What was the worst part of that service?" I asked.</p>

<p>"The hydroplanes," he answered readily. "They were
always flying over the harbor looking for us, and there
was always the possibility that one of them would discover
us and drop a bomb."</p>

<p>"In that event what would happen to you?" I asked.</p>

<p>"No one would ever know," he replied, "unless we
sank in shallow enough water to be raised."</p>

<p>He said it in the most casual manner.</p>

<p>"Has there ever been a fight between two submarines?"
was my next question.</p>

<p>He had been in two in the North Sea, he told me. "If<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_225" id="Page_225">[225]</a></span>
you are on the surface, you fight with your guns," he
said, "but, if you are under the surface, you go at it with
torpedoes; there is not much chance with torpedoes,
because you can only see the periscope and you have no
idea which way the other fellow is going. Nothing happened
in either fight I had. We both got off safely."</p>

<p>During this conversation both of us and four of the
ship's officers had our glasses on the sea, watching for
submarines. One of the ship's officers now announced a
suspicious looking white wave on the port bow. It was
suspicious because it moved, but it was a very tiny little
wave, only about three feet long and the breadth of a
carpenter's hand. No one would ever have suspected
it without expert advice.</p>


<p>II&mdash;ON A SUBMARINE IN A ROUGH SEA</p>

<p>That, as I learned, is one of the greatest dangers of
the submarine. Of course, we have all been told it many
times, but when the thing is once experienced it is truly
appreciated, and not until then. The approach of the
submarine is more insidious than the taste for absinthe.</p>

<p>There is merely that little white wave only occasionally
to be seen&mdash;the white water curling around the periscope&mdash;and
with the sea running at all high there would be no
white wave that could be distinguished from the white
tops of the other waves. Then, if the submarine chooses
to remain near the surface one can after a long time of
very close study make out the periscope as a very small
stick, like a piece of lath, poking up out of the water.
But it only sticks up a little more than a foot when it is
the most willing to be seen, while if, as in our case, it is
not willing to be seen, the submarine, having located its
prey, dives deeper and all trace of it is lost, the next thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_226" id="Page_226">[226]</a></span>
being a torpedo coming from an entirely different point
on the horizon.</p>

<p>Our officers were experts at watching for submarines,
and though the little white wave made by the periscope
disappeared, they caught the white wake of the torpedo
coming toward the port quarter and sheered off to escape
it. The torpedo passed harmlessly by our stern, but the
adventure was not ended, for hardly a minute later we
heard a shot from off the starboard quarter and, turning
in that direction, saw that the submarine had come to the
surface and was busily firing at us to bring us to.</p>

<p>We stopped without any foolish waste of time in argument.
I asked if a boat would be sent to us, or if we
would have to get our boat.</p>

<p>"They carry a small folding boat," said the officer to
whom I had been talking, "but we will have to send our
boat."</p>

<p>While we were getting our boat over the side, the
submarine moved closer in, keeping her gun bearing on
us all the time, most uncomfortably. The gun stood
uncovered on the deck, just abaft the turret. It was
thickly coated with grease to protect it when the vessel
submerged. It is only the very latest type of submarines
that have disappearing guns which go under cover when
the vessel submerges and are fired from within the ship,
which makes all the more surprising the speed with which
a submarine can come to the surface, the men get out on
deck, fire the gun, get in again and the vessel once more
submerge.</p>


<p>III&mdash;IN THE SECRET CHAMBERS OF A
SUBMARINE</p>

<p>I was in the first boatload that went over to the submarine.
From a distance it looked like nothing so much<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_227" id="Page_227">[227]</a></span>
as a rather long piece of 4 x 8 floating on the water,
with another block set on top of it and a length of lath
nailed on the block. It lost none of these characteristics
as we neared it. It only gained a couple of ropes along
the sides of the 4 x 8, while men kept coming mysteriously
out of the block until a round dozen were waiting
to receive us. The really surprising thing was that the
men turned out to be perfectly good French sailors, with
a most exceedingly polite French lieutenant to help us
aboard the little craft.</p>

<p>It was a little surprise the admiral of the port had
prepared for us, and nothing could have been better prepared
to give us the true flavor of submarine warfare.
We had had all the sensation of being chased, fired on and
captured&mdash;everything except being sunk in mid-ocean.
Now we were to have the other experience of chasing
and capturing the enemy.</p>

<p>The vessel we were in was a 500-ton cruising submarine.
It had just come from eight months' guarding
the Channel, and showed all the battering of eight
months of a very rough and stormy career with no time
for a lie-up for repairs. It was interesting to see the
commander hand the depth gauge a wallop to start it
working and find out if the centre of the boat was really
nine feet higher than either end. We were fifty-four feet
under water and diving when the commander performed
that little experiment and we continued to dive while the
gauge spun around and finally stopped at a place which
indicated approximately that our back was not broken.
I suppose that was one of the things my friend the lieutenant
referred to when he said life on a submarine was
such a sporting proposition.</p>

<p>We boarded the submarine over the tail end and balanced
our way up the long narrow block, like walking
a tight rope, to the turret, where we descended through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_228" id="Page_228">[228]</a></span>
a hole like the opening into a gas main into a small round
compartment about six feet in diameter exactly in the
midship section, which was the largest compartment in
the ship. Running each way from it the length of the
vessel were long corridors, some two feet wide. On each
side of the corridors were rows of tiny compartments,
which were the living and working rooms of the ship.
Naturally, most of the space was given up to the working
rooms.</p>

<p>The officers' quarters consisted of four tiny compartments,
two on each side of the after corridor. The first
two were the mess room and chart room, and the second
pair were the cabins of the commander&mdash;a lieutenant&mdash;and
his second in command, an ensign. Behind them was
an electric kitchen, and next came the engines, first two
sets of Diesel engines, one on each side of the corridor,
each of 400 horsepower. These were for running on
the surface. Then came four bunks for the quartermasters
and last the electric motors for running under
the surface. The motors were run from storage batteries
and were half the power of the Diesel engines.
The quarters of the crew were along the sides of the
forward corridor. The floors of the corridor were an
unbroken series of trap doors, covering the storage tanks
for drinking water, food and the ship's supplies. The
torpedo tubes were forward of the men's quarters. Ten
torpedoes were carried. The ammunition for the deck
gun was stored immediately beneath the gun, which was
mounted between the turret and the first batch, abaft the
turret. Besides the turret there were three hatches in
the deck, one forward and two aft.</p>

<p>There were thirty-four men in the crew. Each quartermaster
was directly responsible for six men, while
the commander and his second were responsible for five
each. The men are counted every two hours, as there is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_229" id="Page_229">[229]</a></span>
great danger of men being lost overboard when running
on the surface, and in bad weather they are sometimes
counted as often as every half hour.</p>

<p>The turret was divided in two sections. In the after
part was the main hatch and behind it a stationary periscope,
standing about thirty inches above the surface of
the water when the deck was submerged and only the
periscope showing. There was no opening in the forward
section of the turret, but the fighting periscope, which
could be drawn down into the interior or pushed up to
ten feet above the surface when the vessel was completely
submerged, extended through the top.</p>

<p>It is with this periscope that the vessel is navigated.
The submarine sails at a depth at which the fighting periscope
shows about eighteen inches above the surface,
while the commander, standing on two iron grips, with
his head, shoulders and body in the turret and his legs
sticking down into the cabin, keeps his eyes glued to the
sights of the periscope, which he constantly turns from
side to side to take in all points of the limited horizon.
The part of the fighting periscope that extends above
the water is a brass rod about two and one-half inches in
diameter, while its eye is only three-quarters of an inch
in diameter. It is on this tiny opening that both the
safety and fighting ability of the vessel depend.</p>

<p>For two hours, turn and turn about, the commander
and his second stand watch on the iron grips in the
turret, one eye on the periscope, the other on the compass.
And this goes on for weeks on end. It is only
when they lie for a few hours fifty to seventy-five feet
below the surface that they can get some rest. And
even then there is no real rest, for one or the other of
them must be constantly on duty, testing pipes and
gauges, air pressure, water pressure and a thousand
other things.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_230" id="Page_230">[230]</a></span></p>

<p>I met the next day another officer whose mustache
and eyebrows were black as jet, but whose hair was
silver white. He was thirty-eight years old. For six
years and a half he had been a submarine officer, he
told me.</p>

<p>"Why did you quit it?" I asked him.</p>

<p>"Too old," he said.</p>

<p>"Is there an age limit?" I asked.</p>

<p>"No," he replied, "but a man knows when he is too old
for the work."</p>

<p>Yet nothing would induce those who have not yet
found themselves too old to leave it. One would think
the sailors, at any rate, would find the life tiresome or
too dangerous. I talked to several of them about it, but
they all agreed that they would not change.</p>

<p>"Is this life better than on a battleship?" I asked one
sailor.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes," he replied. "I would not go back to a battleship."</p>

<p>"What makes it better?" I asked.</p>

<p>"It is more tranquil," he answered.</p>

<p>Tranquil, sixty feet under water and your life hanging
on a gauge that needs a good heavy wallop to make it
work.</p>

<p>When we dropped through the hatch into the interior
of the submarine and the cover was clamped down over
our heads the commander at once ordered me back into
the turret.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"WE RAN SUBMERGED THROUGH A
MINE FIELD"</p>

<p>"Hurry, if you want to see her dive," he said.</p>

<p>I climbed into the after section of the turret and fastened
my eye to the periscope. Around the top of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_231" id="Page_231">[231]</a></span>
turret was a circle of bulls' eyes and I was conscious of
the water dashing against them while the spray washed
over the glass of the periscope. The little vessel rolled
very slightly on the surface, though there was quite a
bit of sea running. I watched the horizon through the
periscope and watched for the dive, expecting a distinct
sensation, but the first thing I noticed was that even the
slight roll had ceased and I was surprised to see that
the bulls' eyes were completely under water. The next
thing there was no more horizon. The periscope also
was covered and we were completely beneath the surface.</p>

<p>"Did it make you sick?" the commander asked, when
I climbed down from the turret, and when I told him no
he was surprised, for he said most men were made sick
by their first dive.</p>

<p>The thing most astonishing to me about that experience
was how a submerged submarine can thread its way
through a mine field. For though the water is luminous
and translucent one can hardly make out the black hull
of the boat under the turret and a mine would have
to be on top of you before you could see it. The men
who watch for mines must have a sense for them as
well as particularly powerful sight.</p>

<p>We continued to dive until we were sixty-eight feet
below the surface, too deep to strike any mine, and there
we ran tranquilly on our electric engines, while the
commander navigated the vessel and the second in command
opened champagne in the two by four mess room.
After half an hour of under-water work we came near
enough the surface for our fighting periscope to stick
twenty inches out of the water and searched the lonely
horizon for a ship to attack.</p>

<p>It was not long before we sighted a mine trawler,
steaming for the harbor, and speeded up to overtake her.</p>

<p>"Pikers!" said our commander, as we circled twice<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_232" id="Page_232">[232]</a></span>
around the mine trawler; "they can't find us."</p>

<p>Five men on the trawler were scanning the sea with
glasses, looking for submarines. We could follow all
their motions, could tell when they thought they had
found us and see their disappointment at their mistakes,
but though we were never more than five hundred yards
from them I did not think they were pikers because they
did not find us. I had tried that hunt for the tiny wave
of a periscope.</p>

<p>"No use wasting a torpedo on those fellows," said our
commander. "We will use the gun on them."</p>

<p>"How far away can you use a torpedo?" I asked.</p>

<p>"Two hundred yards is the best distance," he said.
"Never more than five hundred. A torpedo is pure
guesswork at more than five hundred yards."</p>

<p>We crossed the bow of the trawler, circled around to
her starboard quarter and came to the surface, fired nine
shots and submerged again in forty-five seconds.</p>

<p>The prey secured, we ran submerged through the mine
field and past the net barrier to come to the surface well
within the harbor and proceed peacefully to our mooring
under the shelter of the guns of the land forts.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_233" id="Page_233">[233]</a></span></p>




<h2>TALE OF THE CHILD OF TERBEEKE</h2>

<p><i>How It Saved a British Battalion</i></p>

<p><i>By Oliver Madox Hueffer</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>In this little story the author sets down the facts of a very
remarkable affair&mdash;how a child saved a British battalion from
annihilation, thereby giving rise to yet more legends of the
"Angels of Mons" description. A true story from the <i>Wide
World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;THE STORY OF HIPPOLYTE</p>

<p>In the days to come the historian will find fruitful scope
for a work on faith, as shown in the Great War. And
among the "Angels of Mons" and other celestial visitants
I hope he will find a niche for the "Child of Terbeeke."</p>

<p>I came across the story&mdash;and the child himself, for that
matter&mdash;when I was billeted with my battalion at Durdegem.
Durdegem is as ugly a little Walloon village as you
need look for, but, internationally speaking, it is as interesting
as ugly. It stands on French soil; you could
almost throw a tin of bully-beef, if you were so unpatriotically
wasteful, into Belgium; what is, for all practical
purposes, temporarily Germany is not more than
three miles away; yet English is almost the only language
you will hear in the streets. Even the children, those who
are left of them, speak English; they say "Na poo" or
"No bon," and sometimes, it is to be feared, a swearword,
as patly as a bombardier. This is really less surprising
than that there should be any children at all,
with the German lines so close; but things have been
comparatively quiet thereabouts for months past, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_234" id="Page_234">[234]</a></span>
though some of the houses are still ruinous and others
have had their windows blocked with sandbags so long
that already the grass is beginning to grow upon them,
the inhabitants have settled down to the not unprofitable
task of selling comforts to the British soldiers who are
always passing and repassing.</p>

<p>I was billeted upon Madame Tavernier, who owned the
Blanchisserie du Cygne and was rapidly making her fortune
out of the laundry bills she rendered to British officers,
who are notoriously millionaires and well able to
pay for the privilege of defending Northern France. With
Madame Tavernier there was also staying&mdash;while other
arrangements were being made for him&mdash;Hippolyte, otherwise
famous as the Child of Terbeeke.</p>

<p>Hippolyte was not yet six, but already he could say
"Slee-o-pums" and "Stunt-ease" and "Fum-fers" so
plainly that any drill-sergeant would have wept with
pride to hear him. Also he wore the full uniform of a
British sergeant-major, with puttees and a walking-stick
and the badge of a famous Line regiment, all specially
made and presented to him for his very own. Also,
although he was temporarily the paying-guest of Madame
Tavernier and allowed himself to be petted by a whole
serial-story of British officers, he had a service-battalion
to act as his father and to fight for him any battles he
might wish fought. It is to be feared that a precocious
understanding of these facts had made him rather conceited,
and I do not think I should have liked him very
much had I remained with Madame Tavernier longer
than three days. Anyhow, this was his story, as related
to me by that excellent lady and vouched for by a cloud
of witnesses.</p>

<p>Hippolyte came from Terbeeke, which is in the south
of flat Flanders. Madame declared that he was the son
of a professor at Louvain University, and added that the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_235" id="Page_235">[235]</a></span>
professor quarrelled with his wife soon after the birth of
Hippolyte, and that the wife thereupon returned to her
native village.</p>

<p>Hippolyte, therefore, at a very early age indeed, went
to live at Terbeeke. Terbeeke, I understand&mdash;for I was
never there&mdash;lies just at the southward edge of the Flemish
flats. Northwards the country is as flat as a drawing-board,
criss-crossed with dykes and little canals; to the
east is a wide State forest, and to the south a range of
low hills. Between the little town and the hills lies what
in pre-war days was Terbeeke's one claim to fame&mdash;the
Terbeeke mere or marsh, forming a crescent to the south
and west. I do not know how broad or wide it is, but it
has been famous for centuries as bottomless, and a whole
cycle of legend has grown up round it, dealing with the
notabilities of one kind or another who have been drowned
in its brown, oozy depths. Perhaps because of this
evil fame it has never been drained, and is to-day as
darkly ominous as in the times of fairies and lubber-fiends.</p>

<p>The mother of Hippolyte lived in a small and lonely
house at the other side of the marsh from the town of
Terbeeke. She must have possessed some private means,
for she seems to have carried on no business of any
kind, but to have devoted most of her time to religion,
crossing the marsh-arm several times daily to the
parish church, which stood in the centre of the town.
Otherwise her days were passed in solitude, for she lived
quite alone with the child, their only companion being a
large dog. She passed the time not taken up by religion
in wandering about the marsh, for she had few friends,
and the people of Terbeeke often saw the three moving
about the surface of the quagmire in places where there
was no known track.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_236" id="Page_236">[236]</a></span></p>


<p>II&mdash;IN PATH OF PRUSSIAN INVADERS</p>

<p>Time passed, and the war broke out. Terbeeke was
not in the direct path of the invaders, and, sheltered behind
the forest, it almost seemed to the townspeople as
though they might escape the fate of the rest of Belgium.
But the respite was not for long. The low muttering of
distant guns grew every day louder; the stream of fugitives
hurrying through the forest and past the town towards
the French frontier grew always denser; at last
the climax came. A British officer dashed into the town
at three o'clock in the morning and hurried into the
Mairie. The civilian population, it was announced, must
evacuate their houses instantly.</p>

<p>There followed the usual scenes of frantic terror and
chaotic haste that happened so often during the opening
chapters of the Great War. The one road out of the town
was blocked with every kind of conveyance, from bicycle
to dog-carts; there were blocks at every corner; precious
minutes were wasted in useless recriminations; and long
before the last civilian had left, the turmoil of desperate
fighting was heard coming always nearer through the dim
mystery of the forest.</p>

<p>It was one of the incidents of the Great Retreat. A
flank battalion of British infantry, by some mishap, lost
direction. Cut off from the main body, and fighting desperately,
it was driven always further from the path
along which safety lay, until at last, flinging itself into
the forest of Terbeeke, for a whole day and night it held
off the furious attacks of a brigade of Prussians.</p>

<p>But the odds were too great. Slowly but surely the
battalion was forced back through the forest to the very
outskirts. Back from there, after another frantic assault,
it reeled, reduced now to two sparse companies&mdash;some<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_237" id="Page_237">[237]</a></span>
three hundred men in all&mdash;-across the little edging of
cornfields into the stricken streets of Terbeeke.</p>

<p>There, at last, it found some respite. The Prussians,
having learnt by bitter experience the fighting value of
the "contemptible" little force arrayed against them,
jibbed at the open frontal attack across bare plough-land,
and remained hidden within the forest, awaiting reinforcements.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the British remnant fought desperately to
establish themselves within the village and turn every
house into a citadel; while their commander, a lieutenant
of something under twenty-one, racked his brain for
some way of escape. At one time it might have been
possible to skirt the northern edge of the marsh, but
already the attacking Prussians had pushed forward, and
the British were now enclosed within a triangle, formed
as to its sides by the overwhelming Prussian force, and
as to its base by the impassable fastnesses of the mere.</p>

<p>"Unless something happens pretty quick," said the
C.O. to his second-in-command, a boy of nineteen, "things
are pretty considerably all U-P." (He said something to
that effect, I mean. Madame Tavernier's narrative did
not, of course, fill in such details.)</p>

<p>They were standing in the porch of the old church,
gazing disconsolately over the flat stretches of marshland.
The Boche fire had temporarily ceased, and they
devoted the respite to seeking some way by which the
marsh might be crossed even at the eleventh hour. But
there was none, or none which they could discern.</p>

<p>"Wonder what they are waiting for?" said the boy,
lighting a cigarette.</p>

<p>"Bringing up the guns, of course. It will be dark in
an hour." The young C.O. gazed hopelessly to where
the sun was already dropping to the cloud-capped western<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_238" id="Page_238">[238]</a></span>
horizon, straining with ominous red the reedy pools
before them.</p>

<p>"Moon will be up, though."</p>

<p>"All the better for them. I should give the village another
two hours. And then&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>"You aren't going to surrender, surely?" There was
the quiver of horror in the young voice.</p>

<p>They were interrupted by the C.S.M. of B Company.</p>

<p>"Not more than ten rounds a man, sir," he reported.
"Machine-gun out of order." He made his report with
the tranquil woodenness of his kind, without a quiver of
voice or muscle. (If you say that it is impossible for me
to know what these men said, or how they behaved, I
can only reply that I have been through the same sort of
thing myself.)</p>

<p>"Thanks, major. Men come in that were sounding the
marsh?"</p>

<p>"Report there is no way across, sir."</p>

<p>"They certainly won't find one now it's getting dark.
Better get back to your posts. They will begin again
soon."</p>

<p>Even as he spoke there came the complaining whine of
a four-inch shell high overhead.</p>


<p>III&mdash;THE BABE ON THE BATTLEFIELD WITH
HIS DOG</p>

<p>Possibly it was the new sound that woke Hippolyte,
or perhaps Casper, the mongrel wolf-hound, took it for
the challenge of some ancestral enemy. At least, some
half-hour later No. 21687 Private John Smith, of C
Company, had a vision. He was not naturally an imaginative
man, but he hastened to report it to the C.S.M.</p>

<p>"Lummy, sir," he said, "if there ain't a bloomin' angel
comin' across the bloomin' marsh!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_239" id="Page_239">[239]</a></span></p>

<p>And, sure enough, across the very centre of the shivering
quag came a small figure, clothed in a long white
robe very like those attributed to mediæval angels, and
with a golden aureole about its head, cast by the last rays
of the dying sun. Actually it was no angel, but little
Hippolyte, looking for his mother. She had left him,
very early in the morning, to go to Mass, trusting him,
as often before, to the care of Casper. Usually she was
not gone for more than half an hour or so. On that day,
however, she had not returned in one hour or in three.
She never <i>would</i> return, for before the third hour she
was lying dead in the little square before the church-door&mdash;one
of a group of six, men and women, who had
been caught leaving the building when the Germans, in
their first assault, enfiladed the main street with machine-gun
fire. They lay side by side, very peacefully, just as
they fell, for the hard-pressed defenders of the village
had found no leisure to remove them.</p>

<p>Hippolyte waited very patiently&mdash;as was his wont. He
cried a little from loneliness at first, but his mother,
before she left him, had set out the little portion of milk
and bread that was to be his breakfast. Growing hungry,
he sought for it in its accustomed place, ate it, and fell
asleep again. It was the dog at last that disturbed him,
later in the afternoon, by whimpering and scratching at
the door, and gave him the great idea of starting out to
find the mother who was so long in returning.</p>

<p>Child and dog set out together along the imperceptible
track of safety that crept and twisted across the marsh.
Alone Hippolyte would almost certainly have strayed
from it, but the dog's surer instinct guarded him until,
just at the moment when hope was at an end, he came as
a vision of hope to the spent company of Englishmen.</p>

<p>That is practically the end of the story, for you can
imagine the rest, except, perhaps, that the child, when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_240" id="Page_240">[240]</a></span>
had almost reached the hard ground, grew afraid of the
sound of firing, the noise overhead, and the gaunt, stark
men staring at him in wondering silence. So he turned
homeward again, Casper stalking beside him, sacrificing
his lust for battle to his duty as foster-father. But they
went slowly, the child often turning back to stare with
wondering eyes at the increasing chaos behind him and,
as the more impressionable among the soldiers would
have it, beckoning them to follow him towards safety.</p>

<p>Follow they did, but as unbeaten soldiers should, in
good order and with due precautions&mdash;and so escaped.
The Germans lost time before they entered the deserted
village, for they feared an ambush. When they <i>did</i> enter,
it was long past sunset and the night was too dark to do
anything before dawn. Even then they had no guide to
show them the track across the marsh, and they were
forced to skirt it, losing so much time that the British
battalion&mdash;if you can call less than three hundred men a
battalion&mdash;got clear away, and in due course picked up the
main body, taking with them Hippolyte and Casper.</p>

<p>You would say, if you did not know human nature,
that there was no room for a legend of celestial intervention.
But you would be wrong. Even in the rescued
battalion&mdash;long since brought up to strength and upholding
its laurels elsewhere in the line&mdash;the story holds good
that somewhere unspecified on the Belgian frontier an
angel, mediæval in every detail down to aureole, wings,
and celestial robes, did actually intervene and rescue it
from under the very noses of the baffled Boches. And
this although Hippolyte, adopted child of the regiment,
sports his sergeant-major's uniform for everyone to see,
and Casper, brilliantly caparisoned, stalks as a mascot
should behind the drums. Elsewhere the legend has assumed
new details, as I realized when a very excellent
clergyman assured me that it was ... George himself,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_241" id="Page_241">[241]</a></span>
mounted upon a white horse (so transmogrified, I take it,
was black Casper), who rode up and down the line before
the 2nd Battalion of the West Loamshires, shaking his
sword at the advancing Prussian Guard, who not unnaturally
fled in disorder. Perhaps, in Terbeeke, he has by
this time become Ste. Gudule, or some other patron saint
of the Belgians, with a fiery dragon or whatever be her
saintly attributes. I don't know, because, as I say, I was
never in Terbeeke, but here at least you have what really
happened, as Madame Tavernier told it to me in the front
room of her Blanchisserie du Cygne, in the village of
Durdegem, and in the presence of Hippolyte himself,
who afterwards begged shamelessly for <i>sous</i>.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_242" id="Page_242">[242]</a></span></p>




<h2>A HERO TALE OF THE RED CROSS</h2>

<p><i>Told by G. S. Petroff, War Correspondent of the
"Russkoye Slovo," Moscow</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The following incident is narrated in M. Petroff's account of a
battle on the eastern front. Translated for <i>Current History</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;STORY OF THE WOUNDED GERMAN</p>

<p>One of our soldiers brought with him a German
officer, who could hardly stand on his feet. His leg had
been pierced by a bayonet, his shoulder was bleeding
from a bullet, and his arm had been bruised by the butt
end of a rifle. He was losing consciousness from pain
and loss of blood. As soon as the soldier led him to our
place he dropped with his whole weight to the ground.
The doctor bandaged him, exclaiming: "What luck!
Three wounds, and in spite of all of them he will be
well soon. The wound in the leg is only a flesh wound,
his arm is badly bruised but not broken, and only his
collarbone at his shoulder is broken. In a month he will
be all right again. Just look! what a handsome fellow,
and what expensive underwear!"</p>

<p>The bandaged officer came to himself, looked around
the yard, and, seeing the farmhouse in the background on
fire, he sharply seated himself.</p>

<p>"Now be quiet, calm yourself," said the doctor, speaking
in German and taking the man gently by the
shoulders.</p>

<p>"My wife, my wife!" cried the German, tearing himself
forward.</p>

<p>"Where is the wife?"</p>

<p>"There, in the house, in the fire!" He made an effort<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_243" id="Page_243">[243]</a></span>
to get off the stretcher from under the doctor's hands.</p>

<p>"Is he delirious or what?" muttered the doctor in
Russian. "There is no one in the house," he added soothingly
in German. "Your German wounded were there,
but they were saved in time."</p>

<p>"But my wife? My wife!" cried the captive in terror.</p>

<p>"What wife? How did she come here?"</p>

<p>"She is a nurse. She was here with the wounded.
We loved each other, we married only a year ago. She
became a nurse. Our regiment happened to be near
their hospital. Your offensive was unexpected. There
was no time to remove the hospital. The other nurses
left, but she would not leave when I was so near. Where
is she? My wife!"</p>

<p>"Did any one see a German nurse in the house or
yard?" asked the doctor, turning to the Russian soldiers
and telling them briefly what the prisoner had said:</p>

<p>"There was no woman," came the response. "The
house was empty. Look at the fire within. Even mice
would have run out by now."</p>

<p>At this moment something metallic shrilled through
the air. A heavy German shell flew over us.</p>

<p>"Scoundrels!" cursed the doctor. "They are firing on
us&mdash;and their own wounded! We must get out of this.
Two or three more shells and they will begin dropping
in the yard. Carry our wounded first, then theirs.
Hurry, or we shall remain here for eternity!"</p>


<p>II&mdash;A WOMAN'S FIGURE AT WINDOW OF
BURNING HOUSE</p>

<p>The captive officer, apparently powerless, could not rise
from the stretcher, where he was lying with one of his
soldiers who had been wounded before him. He gazed
devouringly at the blazing house. Suddenly he shouted<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_244" id="Page_244">[244]</a></span>
savagely: "There, at the window, under the roof!
Look, she is breaking the window&mdash;where the smoke is
pouring out!"</p>

<p>We looked at the roof of the blazing house, and, in
truth, there was a woman's figure in white, with a red
cross on her breast. The doctor shouted: "Eh, fellows,
it is true! A woman was left in the house&mdash;a nurse&mdash;his
wife!"</p>

<p>"What can be done?" asked the stunned soldiers.
"The whole house is on fire, and she is not strong enough
to break through the window frame. She must be weak
from fright. But why did she go up? Why not down?"</p>

<p>"There's no use guessing!" shouted a bearded fellow,
evidently from the reserves, throwing off his overcoat.</p>

<p>"Where are you going?" cried the soldiers.</p>

<p>But he was already out of reach of their voices. He
rushed into the house. All were stupefied, fearing to
breathe. A minute passed, another, a third. Then at
the window appeared the bearded face of the Russian
soldier. There came the sound of broken glass and
wood. Above our heads something was shrilling, but
no one paid attention to the German shells. The soldier
broke the window, dragged the woman into the open air.
She was unconscious.</p>

<p>"Catch!" rang from above, and a big white parcel
came down. The soldiers caught it successfully on the
hero's outspread overcoat. Only one of them was hurt
in the eye by the heel of her shoe.</p>

<p>"How will our chap get back to us now?" asked the
soldiers of one another. "It is hell inside."</p>

<p>"Oh, he will get out, all right," said some one. "It
is easier to get out than to get in. He knows the way.
And if he burns some of his beard, no harm; he has a
large one."</p>

<p>"Carry her to her husband!" ordered the doctor, "and<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_245" id="Page_245">[245]</a></span>
get out from here immediately. The Germans are shelling
us. Take away the rest, and don't forget the couple,"
remarked jokingly the doctor, happy over the incident.
"I will wait for our hero. He may be burned."</p>

<p>The soldiers caught the remaining stretchers, and
nearly ran out of the yard. At that moment a big German
shell struck the burning house. A deafening explosion
shook the air. The walls trembled, shook, and
fell. The heroic soldier had not had time to get out.
He remained buried under the ruins.</p>

<p>When the woman recovered consciousness near her
wounded husband she did not understand where she was.
She murmured in perplexity: "Dream, death? Otto, is
that you? Are we together in heaven?"</p>

<p>"On earth and both alive," calmed the doctor.</p>

<p>"How did you get to the upper story?" asked the
husband.</p>

<p>"I saw Russian soldiers run into the house. I feared
violence, so I ran upstairs. I thought I would run down
later, but then came the fire.... A soldier appeared behind
me and I was terrified to death."</p>

<p>"But that soldier saved you!" sighed the doctor.</p>

<p>"How? Where is he?"</p>

<p>"In heaven, if there is such a place for heroes." The
doctor then told them all. The German officer and his
wife both cried.</p>

<p>"But how was it that your guns were firing at a farm
which you were occupying?" asked the prisoner.</p>

<p>"Our guns?" exclaimed the doctor, who was already
bandaging a new victim. "It was your guns that were
shelling a house over which flew a German Red Cross
flag. Our soldiers were saving the lives of your
wounded, and your guns were firing at both ours and
yours. They killed the man who saved you. That's the
way the Kaiser makes war."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_246" id="Page_246">[246]</a></span></p>




<h2>LIFE STORY OF "GRANDMOTHER
OF THE RUSSIAN REVOLUTION"</h2>

<p><i>Triumphant Return from Forty-four Years in
Siberian Exile</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Catherine Breshkovskaya, the Russian
Revolutionist</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This life story of the "Grandmother of the Revolution," Catherine
Breshkovskaya, is the living symbol of the Russian people's
long and hard struggle for freedom. Of her seventy-three years
forty-four have been spent in prison and Siberian exile. But
neither the wilderness of Siberia nor the severity of convict
labor has broken the spirit of this little woman. Entering the
struggle against Czarism while still in its infancy, she lived to
see its complete overthrow, and the Russian people remembered
their loving "Babushka." They made her journey from Siberia
to Petrograd after the revolution a continuous triumphal procession,
such as no Czar or King has ever been accorded. Mme.
Breshkovskaya, upon her arrival home, began touring Russia in
the interests of Kerensky's policies. Her love for the common
people, her influence on the peasantry, her faith in the stability
of the New Russia, made her a great power. She has told the
story of her life in the Petrograd weekly, "<i>Niva</i>," which has
been translated by Isaac Don Levine for the <i>New York Tribune</i>.
Here she tells for the first time how she journeyed afoot over
Russia to preach "freedom from ignorance and political tyranny"
to the peasants; how she was sentenced to Siberia; how she
escaped, was captured, reimprisoned and flogged; and how on
the news of the Czar's downfall she began her journey home on
a sledge over the snow and ice to join her people in the establishment
of the republic.</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_247" id="Page_247">[247]</a></span></p>


<p>I&mdash;"I ALWAYS PITIED THE SERFS"</p>

<p>I was born in 1844. I passed my childhood and youth
in the province of Tchernigoff, and all my life I remained
grateful to my parents for the good and wise training and
schooling which they gave me. They pitied the serfs
and never oppressed them. Nevertheless there was a
sharp difference between our life, the life of landlords,
and that of the peasants in their cabins, such a shocking
difference that my childish soul suffered greatly from the
contradiction between the reality and the teaching of
Christ. My mother would often read to us the New
Testament and biographies of the great apostles of truth
and love for humanity.</p>

<p>All my life I thought so much and ceaselessly about
the needs of the people, the suffering of the people, that
all my sorrows and joys are bound up with the people.
And I always made it my duty to serve the people and
do all that is necessary to open the people's eyes to its
own life and wants.</p>

<p>My own life was entirely composed of love and devotion
to my country and people and of a passionate desire
to serve them with all the powers in my possession up to
the very hour of my death.</p>

<p>I am asked: "How did I arrive at the firm resolution
to live only for the people?" I think that this resolution
was always present in me, from my youngest years, from
the very beginning of my conscious life.</p>

<p>When I turn back in my mind to review my past life,
I see myself, first of all, a little five-year-old lassie, who
suffered at heart for somebody: for the coachman, or
the chambermaid, or the day laborer, or the oppressed
peasants (at that time serfdom still existed in Russia).</p>

<p>The impressions of the people's suffering sank so deeply<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_248" id="Page_248">[248]</a></span>
into my childish soul that they never deserted me afterward
in all my life.</p>

<p>I was seventeen when, in 1861, the peasants were
freed of the violence of the landlords, but were so badly
supplied with land that the laboring masses were again
forced to go into slavery to the wealthy. The agitations
among the peasants provoked terrible executions. Their
torture was taking place before my very eyes, strengthening
my aspiration to serve the people with all my might,
so as to lighten their bitter lot.</p>

<p>No revolutionary circles and organizations were known
to exist at that time in the provinces, but there soon came
the activity of the Zemstvos, and I applied to it all my
efforts. Ten years I labored in the peasant school and
the village, organizing credit-savings banks, mutual aid,
co-operative shops and campaigns on the eve of the elections
of judges and rural boards. My work was progressing,
the confidence of the peasants in me was helping
it along, but against me and my assistants the nobility
arose, reporting us to the ministers, and the labor of
many years was swept away as if with a broom.</p>

<p>The schools and banks were closed, all the honest people
of our county and the whole province of Tchernigoff
were placed under police surveillance, many were exiled
to the northern provinces and me they began to persecute.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"I DECIDED TO START A REVOLUTION"</p>

<p>I clearly perceived then that the government of Alexander
II introduced reforms only on paper, only seeking
to create the impression that it desired to better the life
of the population. Actually, however, the government
wickedly persecuted every attempt to help the laboring
people to emerge from the darkness into light, to approach
knowledge, to proclaim its own rights.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_249" id="Page_249">[249]</a></span></p>

<p>It was clearly evident, not only in our locality but
throughout the whole of Russia, that the government
feared knowledge in the people and endeavored to keep
it in a state of rightless slavery. This compelled me to
seek another path, another way of working in the interest
of my beloved people, and toward the end of the '60s
I decided to go to Russia in search of men with whom
to start an illegal struggle, i.e., a movement forbidden
under the Czar's laws.</p>

<p>For more than two years I wandered about Russia,
ever looking for some revolutionary centre, which could
exist only as an underground organization. Gradually,
by changing one kind of work for another, I penetrated
into a rather large organization, which had decided to get
personally in contact with the people, not through books
and proclamations.</p>

<p>At that time the difference between the sea of peasants
and the little lake of intellectuals was so great that
they were, entirely ignorant of one another. Besides, the
moujik's suspicion of any person bearing the appearance
of a "gentleman" was so deeply rooted that it was impossible
to carry to the peasant and labor midst any message
and retain the dress of the gentry. It was necessary to
change the appearance from foot to head, to look a perfect
plebeian.</p>

<p>I put on a peasant dress, threw a bag across my shoulder,
obtained a stick and set out to tramp. Although
I did not tramp the country long, only one summer, yet
I succeeded in visiting many villages, and nowhere did I
meet with distrust. The peasants eagerly listened to my
talks and those of my comrades. We told them that the
land ought not belong to the few; that it should be placed
in possession of all the people, of all those who wish to
toil on it; that there ought not be such a system which
permits the selling, mortgaging, buying and renting of<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_250" id="Page_250">[250]</a></span>
thousands of acres by a few hands, while people were
starving nearby because they lacked the land from which
to obtain bread. The peasants would agree with us and
also say that the land ought to belong to those who labor
on it, who till it.</p>

<p>We would also tell them that the landlords were oppressing
the people; that they had seized all the government
in their hands; that the bureaucracy was fraternizing
with the landlords, hindering the people from living
a free life. In this the peasants would also agree with us.</p>

<p>We had difficulty only talking about one subject, the
Czar. We tried to explain to the peasants that the Czar
was acting concertedly with the nobility and bureaucracy,
that he it was who was the chief oppressor of the people.
But the peasants would not want to believe it. They
were so distant in those days from understanding state
affairs, being unable to read, because of general illiteracy,
and lacking fundamental knowledge, that they had no
idea how much evil the Czarist form of government had
done to the nation.</p>

<p>The peasants trusted the Czar; they were convinced
that the Czar was a kind master of Russia who had to
maintain an army to defend her from enemies, and that
the peasants had to till the land, pay taxes, for the maintenance
of the army. They thought that the Czar loved
his people and took care of them, and, if officials did
oppress the people sometimes, it was due to the fact that
they deceived the Czar. And if the Czar were only to
learn the whole truth he would drive out the officials and
again become a loving father to his people.</p>


<p>III&mdash;"I TOLD THE PEASANTS THE TRUTH
ABOUT THE CZAR"</p>

<p>Such were the beliefs of the peasants about the Czar.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_251" id="Page_251">[251]</a></span>
In spite of it all, I continued to tell them the real truth
about the Czar, explaining to them that the Czar knows
of all the oppressions and is in charge of every one of
the oppressors. The peasants would say that I was mistaken,
but, nevertheless, listened to my arguments, and
not one of them insulted me with vulgar language.</p>

<p>I was not alone in the tramp from village to village.
Three thousand youths went to the people at that time,
spreading all over the thirty-six provinces of Russia, and
we all talked to the people on the same subject; we all
endeavored to arouse the people to a good, free life.
However, the government soon discovered our activities
and began to arrest many, imprisoning, exiling to hard-labor
settlements and to Siberia.</p>

<p>I was arrested entirely by accident in 1874. I was
"covering" the provinces of Kieff, Podolia, Tchernigoff
and Kherson, and had in my bag detailed maps of these
localities, in order to know my way and avoid arousing
suspicion by questions. Whenever I stopped in the village
cabins no peasant would ever look into my bag, and
thus no one could ever find out who I was.</p>

<p>But once, while stopping in Tulchin, the Province of
Podolia, the woman-laborer of the peasant who gave
shelter to me looked into my bag and discovered the maps
there. To an illiterate person every printed word was
a rarity, especially in those days. It will be understood,
of course, that the laborer was shocked by her discovery.
The same day she went to do some gardening for the
sheriff and told him everything. The sheriff became
alarmed and hurried off to look for me.</p>

<p>And I, without suspecting anything, was at the time
returning from the market, where I purchased a couple
of apples, some pork and bread.</p>

<p>Suddenly I saw the sheriff racing toward me in a
carriage, shouting: "Get into the carriage!"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_252" id="Page_252">[252]</a></span></p>

<p>Well, I understood immediately what the trouble was.
I got into the carriage and kept still.</p>

<p>We arrived at the cabin. "Where is the luggage of this
woman?" The peasant replied: "She has no luggage,
but she has a bag."</p>

<p>The bag was examined and what could they find in it
but maps and proclamations? Clearly, my case was
closed.</p>

<p>The sheriff was rather inexperienced, simple-minded,
so he unfolded the proclamations and started to read
them aloud, before the whole crowd. The peasants, after
listening to them, said:</p>

<p>"These are the real words. The whole truth is written
there. This is the very truth which the nobles have
hidden from us."</p>

<p>In the meantime the examining officer arrived, and
there both of them began to read the proclamation aloud.
Meanwhile a multitude of peasants gathered, listening
even under the windows. They learned my proclamation
by heart. The county police chief was notified. He
arrived, immediately perceived the meaning of it all, and
ordered me to prison.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"I WAS HANDCUFFED AND LOCKED IN A
DARK CELL"</p>

<p>In those days a woman propagandist was something
unheard of and unseen. In fear of this new phenomenon
the warden of the Bratzlau jail thought it necessary to
incarcerate me immediately in a dark cell and handcuff
me. A month passed in wandering about country prisons,
till gendarmes came, took me away from the police and
dragged me first to a Kieff jail, then to Moscow, and
finally to Petrograd, where I was tried with other offenders
after being kept in prison for four years in solitary<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_253" id="Page_253">[253]</a></span>
confinement. The condition of the imprisonment was
serious. Of the 300 prisoners held for total only 193 survived,
among whom there were 37 women. During all
of my imprisonment I made no explanation to the judicial
authorities, and I was condemned to five years of convict
labor. But it was not dreadful. Nothing was dreadful
when one had faith in one's righteousness.</p>

<p>My healthy organism and ripe age helped me endure
the many years' torments at a time when the young,
tender lives fell sick quickly and were carried off one
after another by death, leaving a feeling of atrocious pain
and indelible bitterness.</p>

<p>But we all retained our eagerness for activity, so early
interrupted by an evil hand. The thought of returning
to the party, to revolutionary work, lived in our minds
in the form of a red-hot nail, and aroused all our abilities,
all our power to seek a means to escape. There, to
the fighters, to the bright populists, our spiritual vision
was directed.</p>

<p>I was already in on the rights of a settler, beyond the
Baikal, in Barguzin, when, together with three men comrades,
I moved into the hilly taiga, with its thousands of
impediments and dangers. Our daring escape, which
ended in our capture while wandering about unfathomed
abysses and rocks, has been described by Tiutchev. I, as
a former hard-labor criminal, was condemned to four
years more of penal servitude and forty whips, which,
however, the authorities did not dare to apply, "in order
to arouse against the administration the political exiles,"
as the Military Governor of the Outer Baikal said in his
report.</p>

<p>I was thus forced to go, in 1882, after another year
of imprisonment, to the same old Kara mines, at that
time full of prisons for convicts and politicals. Both
the first and the second perished there of scurvy, typhus,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_254" id="Page_254">[254]</a></span>
endless tuberculosis, but mostly the convicts, as the officials
disregarded them entirely and kept them in the most
shameful conditions.</p>

<p>My second arrival at Kara was for me rather a joyous
occasion. When I first came there I was the only woman
doing hard labor; it was not fashionable yet to send
women to mines. But now I found already sixteen or
eighteen feminine comrades, and all of my second term
I passed in the best society in the world. The annual
term of convict labor consisted of eight months and my
term flew past me unnoticed. Only one thing was aggravating,
and that was to see how the frailer among us in
health gradually sank and surely neared their graves, in
the blossom of their lives.</p>


<p>V&mdash;"I LANGUISHED FOR EIGHT YEARS IN A
DEAD CITY"</p>

<p>In 1885 I was again sent on the rights of a settler
beyond the Baikal, in the dead city of Selenginsk, where
I spent eight of the most sad years of my life. The
naked steppe, the nailed-up cabins and the tireless trailing
of the police became my lot. I was given neither the
rights of a peasant nor a passport for travel in Siberia.
And the heart burned with a passionate desire to escape,
to renew the struggle with the enraged foe and take revenge
for the innocently destroyed powers for good&mdash;the
daughters and sons of our motherland. I sought,
attempted, fought against obstacles, but all in vain. The
steppe beyond the Baikal, the moundless Mongolian
steppe, and, on the north, the inaccessible Baikal were the
severe allies of the guard with which the authorities had
surrounded me. There was no railroad nor steamship
connection with the outside world. Right there then, in
lifeless Selenginsk, I languished for eight whole years,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_255" id="Page_255">[255]</a></span>
languished like a hawk in a cage. All alone, ever yearning,
I would go out into the steppe and in a loud voice
pour my tempestuous heart, longing for freedom, into space.</p>

<p>There was not a day on which I did not think of escaping,
and I was always ready for any risk and peril, clinging
to the littlest possibility to get away, but all in vain.
No one, absolutely no one, promised any help. All those
in whom it was possible to confide considered any attempt
to escape foredoomed. My soul ached. And only the
thought of my comrades&mdash;convicts who were sent to the
Yakutsk huts, only the thought of their suffering made
me forget my own. The eight empty years of my life in
Selenginsk have remained all through my life a gray void,
eating up the warm feelings of a warm heart. I filled my
time with work, so as to be able to send my earnings to
the dark prisons, snowbound wastes, to the hungry, forgotten
comrades. I read, studied, in order to know how
mankind lived, and how far or near was the possibility
of transforming it into that "intelligent being" with whom
it would be joyful to live. "Have patience," I would
tell myself in the moments of keen grief; "be patient,
endure to the end; you will get what you are waiting
for."</p>

<p>In 1890, after living for four years on the rights of a
peasant, I finally received a passport to travel all over
Siberia, and on the same day I departed from the suffocating
place so as to gradually approach the boundary
of European Russia as my term was nearing its end.
My health was much undermined by the severe trials I
had undergone in solitariness. Anæmia and strong neuralgia
had tormented me in Selenginsk. But the inherited
vigor of the organism soon returned to me, and the
last four years of my life in Siberia, spent in journeying
from town to town, I succeeded in having many conversations<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_256" id="Page_256">[256]</a></span>
with young and mature people&mdash;succeeded in making
allies of some of the leading citizens of Siberia. And
when in September, 1896, I returned to Russia I found
there many students of both sexes whom I taught in
Siberia the theories and the urgency of regenerating the
old watchwords. They soon tackled the work of liberation,
and many of them remain loyal to this date to our
principles.</p>


<p>VI&mdash;"WHEN I CAME BACK FROM SIBERIA"</p>

<p>Again I arrived in Russia in September. But upon
my arrival I encountered a new movement, which was
rapidly conquering a place for itself. Marxism was taking
hold of, capturing, the minds of the youth, and the
old fighters were regarded as dead forces. But faith in
the force of personality, faith in the healthy strength of
the people, a knowledge of their aims and needs lent so
much firm confidence to my energy that, without hesitating
a moment, I began to do some practical work, which
had ripened in my mind as long before as the celebrated
trial, in 1878, when I declared to my judges that "I have
the honor of belonging to the Russian socialistic and
revolutionary party, and consequently do not recognize
the authority of the Czar's courts over me."</p>

<p>Eighteen years passed after that, and my adherence to
the party of socialism and revolutionism lived in me as
freshly and ardently as in the days of my arrest and trial.
Confidence that the peasant masses, these pillars of the
state government, will obey the voice of their friends
and will not be slow to follow their leaders&mdash;this confidence
urged me to hasten the consolidation of the various
forces likely to join the Social Revolutionary party,
as it has been christened from its very beginning.</p>

<p>It is necessary to bear in mind that from Siberia I<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_257" id="Page_257">[257]</a></span>
came back to Russia all alone. I did not even have the
addresses of the old comrades who remained in safety
in the gloomy folds of Alexander III's reign. And it took
considerable time, care and patience before my tireless but
modest little journeys about Russia netted definite results
as to acquaintance with people and opportunities. The
readiness of the peasants to join the party became ever
clearer, and on the fourth year of endeavor the party
loudly proclaimed its existence, and in the fifth year all
the separate committees recognized one centre. Both the
increase in membership and growth in activity attracted
the savage attention of the Czar's government.</p>

<p>In 1903 the party suffered an enormous wreck. Wholesale
arrests and searches robbed it of many of its leading
workers, of its best printing shops and stores of literature.
It was necessary to replace all that. By this time
the work of the party had developed and grown strong
abroad, thanks to our talented and zealous emigrants,
who bent all their energies for the publication of party
organs and popular books and pamphlets.</p>

<p>In order to recall this youth to immediate activities at
home, in Russia, I went abroad for the first time. In
May, 1903, I boarded a steamer in Odessa and accompanied
by an experienced contrabandist-intellectual,
went, by way of Rumania, Hungary and Vienna to
Geneva, Switzerland, where there centred the group of
the party workers who were scattered in Paris, London
and Switzerland. At this conference we were fully
joined by the old fighters of the past '70s, Shishko, Volkhovskoy,
Lazaroff, Tchaikovsky.</p>

<p>The youth, which frequented all our lectures and debates,
listened attentively to the voices of our speakers.
Victor Tchernoff, the editor-in-chief of our central organs
(and Minister of Agriculture in Kerensky's first Cabinet),
victoriously defended the position of the party<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_258" id="Page_258">[258]</a></span>
against the attacks of our opponents. At the same time
I persistently spoke of the necessity to tackle the real
task, to propagate our ideas among the peasants and workmen,
to organize all the forces capable of and ready to
enter into a battle with the old régime, ready to sacrifice
their lives for a free Russia. And thus it was that a
stream of young people of both sexes began to flow back
to Russia, carrying with them Social Revolutionary literature,
and the booklets "In Battle Shalt Thou Obtain Thy
Rights" were lavishly spread on all the roads of the
Fatherland.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;"I VISITED AMERICA&mdash;MY FRIENDS OF
FREEDOM"</p>

<p>This task, the labor, of directing the forces of young
Russia occupied two whole years of my life. It is true I
succeeded in the meantime in visiting America, where I
was urgently called by the friends of freedom. I sent
out from there considerable sums of money to cover the
expenses of the organization, mainly for literature, the
import of which into Russia was very expensive. In the
United States I acquired many genuine friends, who have
remained faithful to me ever since. They proved it by
profuse attention to all my needs during the last years of
my exile and imprisonment, and from 1907 to 1917 they
never ceased even for a week to take care of me.</p>

<p>When the blows of the open struggle of 1905 had
reached me I again crossed the boundary into my country,
but this time I passed it on foot, running across in the
company of two "contrabandists" and a comrade who
carried with him a supply of dynamite.</p>

<p>That was the Russian revolution marching, challenging
all Russia to an unequal combat.</p>

<p>Everybody knows the events of 1905, 1906 and 1907.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_259" id="Page_259">[259]</a></span>
The efforts of the revolutionists of all parties were unable
to withstand the physical force of the evil government,
but they have not only shaken up the paralyzed mind of
the great people, but enticed them into demonstrating
their power and seeing themselves as a victor, though
temporarily. The combat was already nearing its end;
the banners were already lowered and hidden for the
next spiritual and physical upheaval; already the executioners
were hanging and slaughtering, shooting and torturing
the best champions of freedom; but my spirit was
yet far from submission, my heart was still heaving with
hope, and with head forward I threw myself into the
thick of events. After the wreck of the second Duma I
anticipated a new outburst of indignation on the part of
the people. But apparently the cup of doubts had not
yet been exhausted, and the people ponderingly looked
into the future, not risking to sacrifice their remaining
feeble forces.</p>


<p>VIII&mdash;"THE HANGMAN'S ROPE WAS AT MY
THROAT"</p>

<p>It was in the days of such oppression on one side and
vain strainings of all energies, on the other that I was
arrested in Samara in 1907, again in the month of September.</p>

<p>It seemed to me that this time I would be unable to
escape alive from the hands of the hangmen. This was
what I thought. But I felt otherwise. Two years and
nine months I was kept in the fortress of Peter and
Paul, thinking not of that, but of the time when Russia,
after the inevitable victorious and triumphant second
revolution, would take up the work of construction and
transform our powerless country, our almost illiterate
people, into an exemplary state, which could serve as a<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_260" id="Page_260">[260]</a></span>
model to other peoples in culture as well as in social
reform.</p>

<p>Faith in the possibility of seeing my country free, my
people developing in material and spiritual plenty, gave
me strength, exalted my powers. I found myself still
able to work with the people and for the people and
was grieved to waste time in exile, in the listlessness of
the Siberian taiga. I again made preparations for an
escape, aiming to join my party comrades, who called
me, in revolutionary activity. And again my escape
failed. Only two or three hours separated me from my
goal from a sure shelter and it was painful to fall again
into the hands of the enemy after a thousand miles' journey
in the winter.</p>

<p>The thought occurred to me again that they would not
pardon me my attempts to escape, my efforts to identify
myself again with the revolutionary movement. At the
same time there pulsed so much life in my heart that I
could not imagine the end of my activities. Neither the
long terms passed in jail nor my exile in Yakutsk had
dimmed my spirit. "I will live through all this," said an
inner voice to me; "I will live through everything and
live to see the bright days of freedom." From Yakutsk
I was brought to Irkutsk, and my life here was filled
with the same persecutions as my exile in Kirensk. I
fell very ill and observed how the physicians carefully
concealed from me the danger of my malady. It seemed
so strange to me that people could think of my fatal end
when my soul was full of complete faith that time was
bringing me nearer daily to a different kind of end, the
triumph of the revolution.</p>

<p>The longer the war continued the more horrible its
consequences grew, the clearer the rascality of the government
manifested itself, the more patent appeared the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_261" id="Page_261">[261]</a></span>
inevitableness of the rise of democracy all over the world,
the nearer advanced also our revolution.</p>

<p>I waited for the sound of the bell announcing freedom,
and wondered why this sound was tardy in making
itself heard. When in November of last year explosions
of indignation followed one another, when irate calls were
exchanged among the several groups of the population, I
was already planted with one foot in the Siberian sleigh,
feeling sorry only that the snow road was beginning to
melt.</p>

<p>The 17th of March a telegram reached me in Minusinsk
announcing freedom. The same day I was on my
way to Atchinsk, the nearest railroad station. From
Atchinsk on began my uninterrupted communion with
soldiers, peasants, workmen, railroad employees, students
and multitudes of beloved women, who to-day all bear
the burdens of the normal and now also abnormal life of
a great state.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_262" id="Page_262">[262]</a></span></p>




<h2>TALE OF AN AMAZING VOYAGE</h2>

<p><i>German Officers Escape from Spain in a
Sailing Vessel</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Frederic Lees</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The Spanish Premier, Count Romanones, recently stated that the
sensational story of the escape from Spain in a sailing vessel
of a number of interned German officers, as briefly reported in
<i>El Liberal</i>, of Madrid, is officially confirmed. With extraordinary
assurance, the fugitives set out to sail right round the
coast of Great Britain and reach a Belgian port, but the elements
and the British Navy intervened, and the audacious scheme miscarried.
The author's private sources of information have
enabled him to throw light on a number of episodes which,
in the Spanish and German newspapers, were intentionally
left obscure. Related in the <i>Wide World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;AT OFFICE OF GERMAN VICE-CONSUL IN
SPANISH PORT</p>

<p>One sunny morning in July, 1916, the German Vice-consul
of Vigo was sitting in his office opposite the
wharves of the little Spanish port. The voluminous
contents of his mail-bag lay before him, and at the moment
in question his eyes were intently fixed on a long,
official-looking document&mdash;a type-written folio sheet bearing
a list of names, preceded by a memorandum. As
he read on, his expression became more and more serious.
Twice he read the document through, pondering awhile
over one of the names. Then he hastily pressed the
electric-bell button on his desk.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_263" id="Page_263">[263]</a></span></p>

<p>The Vice-Consul's clerk, Hermann Fischer, appeared
instantly, note-book and pencil in hand.</p>

<p>"It's too soon yet for the correspondence, Fischer,"
said the Vice-Consul, "but I've got here a list of those
eleven officers who were arrested the other day, and
who are interned at Pampeluna. I want you to fetch
the Navy List and look up one of the names&mdash;Lieutenant
Karl Koch. It looks familiar to me."</p>

<p>Fischer was back in a trice with the desired volume,
and, having hunted out the right man from a multitude
of Kochs, proceeded to read forth the biographical information
to the attentive Vice-Consul: "Karl Koch,
born 1873, at Düsseldorf; educated Frankfort and Heidelberg;
joined the Imperial Navy 1890; U-boat lieutenant
1914."</p>

<p>"That'll do!" interjected the official. "I thought it
must be the same man. He and I were at Heidelberg
together. Dear old Karl! To think it has fallen to my lot
to do him a good turn! As a matter of fact, Fischer,
we've got to see that Koch and certain others are made as
comfortable as possible during their captivity amongst
these blessed Spaniards. And if there's a chance of
doing something more than that&mdash;well, all the better. On
that point I've got an answer to this official communication
to dictate to you. Perhaps, as you're here, you'd
better take it down at once; then you can code it and get
it on the wires for the Embassy at Madrid without delay."</p>

<p>Whereupon the Vice-Consul of Vigo proceeded to dictate
his secret message, which showed how very wide his
consular duties had become in wartime&mdash;duties such as
only Teutonic diplomatic agents are expected to carry
out.</p>

<p>Some people, in relating the part the Vice-Consul
played in the adventure in which Lieutenant Karl Koch
and his companions became involved, contend that it was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_264" id="Page_264">[264]</a></span>
this officer who was the prime mover; that it was he who
got into touch with the Vice-Consul, who promised all
possible support. But I have reason to believe it was the
other way about, and that the <i>deus ex machina</i> of the
whole affair&mdash;from the very moment that the German
Vice-Consulate received official information anent Koch's
arrest and internment to the purchase of the <i>Virgen del
Socorro</i> and her departure on her perilous Odyssey&mdash;was
the Vice-Consul, whose fortuitous acquaintanceship
with the lieutenant of the submarine (captured and interned
in circumstances which need not here be dwelt
upon) redoubled his official zeal. If that is not so, what
of the indiscretions of his clerk Hermann Fischer? What
of those of the intermediaries through whom the Vice-Consul
got possession of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i>? What
of the convincing evidence of the hotel and lodging-house
keepers of Vigo who, all unknowingly, harbored the fugitives?
What of the incriminating documents in the Vice-Consul's
own handwriting, or that of his clerk, which I
am assured came into the possession of the Spanish
authorities?</p>


<p>II&mdash;SECRET MESSAGE TO GERMAN EMBASSY
IN MADRID</p>

<p>But I will not anticipate events any further. Enough
has been said to enable me to take up the thread of my
narrative from the time the Vice-Consul dispatched his
coded message regarding Lieutenant Karl Koch to the
German Embassy in Madrid.</p>

<p>Having signed his despatch and given Fischer sufficient
work to keep him busy until noon, the Vice-Consul
sallied forth with a satisfied mien and walked leisurely,
almost aimlessly, towards the quays, gazing out occasionally
over the bay. In the distance could be seen two<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_265" id="Page_265">[265]</a></span>
German vessels, interned since the beginning of the war,
one of which was the steamship <i>Wehrt</i>. At last, on
reaching the deserted end of one of the quays, the Vice-Consul,
glancing quickly over his shoulder, stopped and
gave a low whistle, which was answered almost immediately
by a similar signal and the sound of a boat grating
against the side of the quay.</p>

<p>"<i>Ach so!</i> There you are, José," said the official, as
the boatman became visible. "I was afraid you would
be late. You can row me this morning to the <i>Wehrt</i>."</p>

<p>And with a final precautionary look to right and left,
the German Vice-Consul disappeared over the side and
clambered down the iron rungs of a ladder into the boat.</p>

<p>The captain of the steamship <i>Wehrt</i>, condemned to a
captivity which eternally rankled in his breast, was always
ready to extend a hearty welcome to the Vice-Consul
of Vigo. Their periodic meetings, arranged as far
as possible in secret, constituted a safety valve. The
captain could fulminate to his heart's content against
the tyrant of the seas&mdash;Great Britain; the Vice-Consul
could give full rein to his taste for intrigue.</p>

<p>Behold these two, then, <i>tête-à-tête</i> in the captain's private
room, and exchanging confidences over the luncheon
table. The captain, deprived of official information for
the past three or four days, was thirsting for news regarding
fresh developments in the war, and his lean,
bronzed face lit up with eagerness when he inquired if
the Vice-Consul had anything new and special to report.</p>

<p>"<i>Ya wohl!</i> Something of the greatest importance,"
replied the official. "A matter for consultation, and
in which your advice will be valuable."</p>

<p>And the Vice-Consul proceeded to put the skipper <i>au
courant</i> with the bare facts concerning the predicament
in which Lieutenant Koch and his companions found
themselves at Pampeluna, the official request for whatever<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_266" id="Page_266">[266]</a></span>
assistance he could render them, the strange coincidence
of Koch and himself being old college chums, and
so on.</p>


<p>III&mdash;THE CONSPIRACY IN THE CAPTAIN'S
CABIN</p>

<p>"It's very evident, captain, that we must do something
for them," continued the Vice-Consul. "Pampeluna is
a long way from Vigo, but I think something can be done
if we put our heads together. I can't read all that's in
the official mind which inspired that memorandum, but
it's quite clear the authorities regard Vigo as the most
convenient open door for Koch and his ten brother-officers.
An open door, provided it is <i>held</i> open for them.
The question is, how are we going to do that? I can
see a way of solving part of the difficulty. You can
leave the Pampeluna portion to me. There are plenty
of ways of opening prison doors in a country like this.
As a landsman, I am convinced I can open the land
door without much trouble, but it requires a sailor like
you to attend to the sea door. That's way I've come
to you."</p>

<p>"And you couldn't have come to a more willing man,"
replied the captain, emphatically. "Try and realize what
I've had to suffer on this infernal ship during the last
twenty-three months, with the eyes of the authorities
continually on me and the <i>Wehrt</i>, and every little jack-in-office
sniffing around at unexpected moments, and
you'll understand how I feel for your friend and his
companions. Yes, we've got to do what we can for
them. The submarine is the only effectual weapon left
to Germany, so if we succeed in returning to her eleven
of her brave U-boat men we shall truly have done good
patriotic work. Now, at the back of my brain I've got<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_267" id="Page_267">[267]</a></span>
a plan. You're welcome to it. You know, I suppose,
that the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> is for sale? She's as tight
a little schooner as ever left the port of Vigo. I've often
admired her lines and speed as she sailed past the <i>Wehrt</i>.
Now, when this war is over and we've reduced everybody's
tonnage, save our own, to a minimum, the <i>Virgen
del Socorro</i> will be worth her weight in gold. At the
price she is going at to-day the boat is a splendid speculation.
Why don't you buy her? You'd find it worth
your while, I think, to be the sleeping partner."</p>

<p>"Not at all a bad idea, captain. But are you certain
the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> is in the market? I thought it
was owned by the brothers Z&mdash;&mdash;, who have always
looked upon the schooner as a sort of child of theirs."</p>

<p>"That is so. But ties of the closest affection have to
be broken in these troubled times, and the brothers Z&mdash;&mdash; have
decided to dissolve partnership. I dare say your
boatman José, who ought to be well up in harbor gossip,
will be able to tell you all about that. There's no doubt
my information is correct. I can even tell you the exact
figure at which the owners are willing to sell&mdash;eleven
thousand five hundred pesetas."</p>

<p>"Dirt cheap, considering the times," said the Vice-Consul,
thoughtfully. He took an extra long pull at his
beer tankard, and then, bringing the blue earthenware
vessel down on the table with a bang, exclaimed, "By
Jove, captain, you've put me on the right track! I'm
beginning to see the way to do it. Listen!"</p>

<p>The plan unfolded was as follows. Using his boatman
as an intermediary&mdash;José was generally believed to
be fairly well-to-do&mdash;he would enter into negotiations
with the brothers Z&mdash;&mdash; for the purchase of the <i>Virgen
del Socorro</i>. One of the conditions of the agreement
would be particularly tempting to the owners. On the
understanding that the purchase was kept secret&mdash;the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_268" id="Page_268">[268]</a></span>
rumor might indeed be set afloat that the brothers had
decided not to part with their dearly-beloved boat&mdash;they
should be allowed to retain possession until the very
last moment before the schooner was required by the
new proprietors. There was evidently a double advantage
in this: it would allay any suspicions which inquisitive
harbor authorities or other officials might have
whilst preparations were being made on board the <i>Virgen
del Socorro</i> for the reception of the fugitives from Pampeluna,
and it would enable the Vice-Consul, the captain,
and other helpers to carry out those preparations at their
leisure. No one could say how long it would take them
to prepare the road to the "open door" of Vigo. Though
the Vice-Consul's secret service fund was still well supplied,
it was no good to minimize the difficulties, which
were greater than the captain of the <i>Wehrt</i> could possibly
comprehend until he had explained the full extent
of his plan.</p>

<p>The <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> was to be sent right round the
British Isles, in order to descend the North Sea unobserved,
and, flying the Dutch flag, reach a Belgian port.
It was a risky plan, but, the British Navy notwithstanding,
the conspirators thought it had possibilities of success.
The Vice-Consul, in assisting the scheme, proposed
to make the Fatherland a present of more than
the eleven officers at Pampeluna.</p>

<p>It was advisable to get as many able-bodied German
subjects on board as possible, and so he planned to include
in the party of fugitives nine others, including four
officers from the <i>Goeben</i>, a naval doctor, a law student,
and two sailors, none of whom was interned, in addition
to a sergeant interned at Alcala de Henares, seventeen
miles north-east of Madrid. Twenty was certainly a
large crew for a schooner of the <i>Virgen del Socorro's</i>
size, but the voyage was to be undertaken during the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_269" id="Page_269">[269]</a></span>
summer&mdash;and an exceptionally fine summer, too&mdash;so the
risk of a mishap, provided there was good seamanship,
was slight. As this question of weather was important,
the Vice-Consul proposed to see to the purchase of the
vessel without delay, and to communicate at once with
Lieutenant Koch.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;SECRET PURCHASE OF SHIP&mdash;TO ESCAPE</p>

<p>Within the next few days the secret purchase by the
Vice-Consul of Vigo of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> was an
accomplished fact, and he had had his first interview at
Pampeluna with his old friend, Lieutenant Koch. Other
meetings followed, at intervals of a week or so, and before
the end of the month, thanks to a lavish "greasing"
of palms, the arrangements for the escape of the eleven
officers and their concentration with other fugitives at
Vigo were all made. The captain of the <i>Wehrt</i>, as surreptitiously
as possible, bought inordinate quantities of
provisions and stores during July, in order that José and
the others might, at the opportune moment, tranship
a part of them to the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i>.</p>

<p>At last everything was ready. Nothing remained to
be done but for someone to send a signal from Pampeluna
to the Vice-Consul at Vigo, who was to pass it on
to other quarters. But the signal, so eagerly awaited on
the appointed day, August 4th, never came!</p>

<p>Instead, two days later came a letter of explanation,
stating that Lieutenant Karl Koch had fallen ill at the
critical moment. The plan of escape, therefore, had to
be indefinitely postponed. It was a bitter disappointment
to the Vice-Consul, who pictured himself being reproached
by his superiors for building castles in the air,
if not being saddled with the whole of the expenses.
But he consoled himself, in the presence of the captain<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_270" id="Page_270">[270]</a></span>
of the <i>Wehrt</i>, with the argument that it was "just as
well, since it would allow the authorities time to go to
sleep." The astute seaman could not, however, quite
agree with this. He knew the advantage of fine weather
for such a perilous voyage as the one projected, and
feared that if the escape were not effected soon it might
be too late or too full of risk to be worth undertaking.</p>

<p>Lieutenant Koch's illness dragged on for week after
week. August went by, September came, and the hopes
of the Vice-Consul of Vigo fell lower and lower. In
the first three weeks in September the officer entered the
convalescent stage. One result of his breakdown was,
indeed, in his favor; he was allowed greater and greater
liberty, and, on the plea of taking the air, got out several
times in a motor-car, with the authorization of the governor
and doctor of the prison and under the discreet
eye of an official. Soon even this supervision was relaxed,
and then, when October came in, the U-boat lieutenant
saw the chance for which he and his companions
had been waiting. It was about this time that the Vice-Consul
of Vigo (now almost on the verge of despair)
unexpectedly received the long-awaited warning.</p>


<p>V&mdash;PLOT LAID FOR THE FLIGHT</p>

<p>On the morning of October 5th, Lieutenant Koch and
his companions, having obtained a pass for an unofficial
"joy ride" in two motor-cars, set out for a little country
village some twenty miles from Pampeluna. As they
were all on parole and the chauffeurs of the hired cars
were connected with the police, permission was given to
the party to remain at their destination for luncheon.
It was understood, however, that as soon as the meal was
over the return journey should be made, so as to be back
well before the day was declining. Koch and his friends,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_271" id="Page_271">[271]</a></span>
through intermediaries introduced to him by the Vice-Consul
of Vigo, laid their plans very cleverly. Just
outside the village is a rustic inn where excellent luncheons
are served. The dining-room looks out, at the back
of the house, on to a garden with a bowling-alley and
arbor, and this garden adjoins meadows, bordered by the
railway line. Not far away is the little country railway
station. What happened can easily be imagined.</p>

<p>The eleven officers had their luncheon served in the
restaurant proper; the chauffeurs were served in a
smaller room adjoining, looking out on to the front and
the road. The landlord had been instructed (and had
been well paid in advance for this and other little services)
to ply these two worthy fellows with as much liquor
as they could hold, with the result that they were deep
in their cups long before the boisterous officers had got
through their coffee and liqueurs. They were in such
an advanced state of intoxication, indeed, that they took
no heed when a singular silence followed the noise of
voices and laughter in the adjoining room; and it was not
until the appointed hour for departure had long since
passed that they recovered their senses sufficiently to
learn the truth. Their erstwhile "joy riders" had flown!
They might have been seen, fully three-quarters of an
hour before, strolling down the garden and making their
way, as unobstrusively as possible, across the fields to the
countryside railway station, where, provided beforehand
with tickets for different stations on the line to Vigo, they
boarded the train, once more in as nonchalant a manner
as possible in groups of twos and threes, in different carriages.
By the time the chauffeurs came to their senses
and realized they had been fooled, the fugitives were well
out of danger and, having got together again at the first
big stopping-place, had put themselves <i>en règle</i> as regards
through tickets for their common destination, to which<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_272" id="Page_272">[272]</a></span>
they continued to travel, however, separately, in order
to minimize the risks of capture. The outwitted chauffeurs
had another unpleasant surprise on rushing to their cars,
with the object of dashing back to Pampeluna and recounting
to the authorities their sorry tale of misadventure.
Though they cranked their machines like madmen,
the motors stubbornly refused to work. The reason soon
became evident: the sparking-plugs had been removed
by the far-seeing Koch.</p>

<p>Meanwhile, on October 2nd, the interned Sergeant
Dietrich Gratschuss had slipped away from Alcala. His
escape, facilitated by the four uninterned officers from the
<i>Goeben</i>, who provided him with a suit of civilian clothes,
thrown over a wall into the prison-garden where he
worked daily, was made doubly sure by certain judicious
bribes to a sentry, who kept his back turned and eyes
averted at the critical moment. Gratschuss slipped into
his disguise in a tool-shed, and calmly walked out of the
prison-yard&mdash;saluted by the unsuspecting man on guard&mdash;as
though he had been a visitor. His friends were waiting
round the corner for him with a hundred horsepower
motor-car, in which, with the other uninterned
Germans (the naval doctor, the law student, and the
two sailors), he was whirled away at sixty miles an
hour. The whole of the journey to Vigo was made in
this powerful car, which the owners had been able to
provide with an amply supply of petrol and food for a
long and rapid flight, lasting well into the night.</p>

<p>The whole of the machinery of the Vice-Consul of
Vigo was now in motion. All the fugitives reached that
port in safety and scattered themselves over hotels and
lodging-houses.</p>

<p>A hue and cry was, of course, set up from Pampeluna
and Alcala de Henares; but the Spanish police went off
on various wrong tracks before they thought of ordering<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_273" id="Page_273">[273]</a></span>
a watch to be set at all the ports. Even when this tardy
step was taken, no one ever suspected&mdash;so well had the
Vice-Consul and his accomplices laid their plans&mdash;that
Vigo was the port from which the escape was to be effected.</p>


<p>VI&mdash;MIDNIGHT&mdash;THE FUGITIVES BOARD THE
SHIP</p>

<p>On October 6th the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i>, to allay any
suspicion, made a voyage to sea, and, on returning,
moored alongside the <i>Wehrt</i>. Then, one pitch-black
night, the fugitives left their hiding-places. One by one
they slipped out into the darkness and, following the
narrowest and most deserted streets leading to the harbor,
reached the quays unobserved. At such an hour of
the night&mdash;it was getting on for eleven o'clock&mdash;they
could be fairly certain of meeting no one, save, perhaps,
a drunken sailor or two. These revellers took no more
notice of Koch and his companions than they did of their
own dim shadows. One by one, under cover of the
darkness, the fugitives disappeared down the same iron
ladder the Vice-Consul had used so often, into José's
boat.</p>

<p>By midnight all the fugitives were on board the <i>Wehrt</i>,
from whose well-replenished store-rooms they immediately
began transhipping the provisions to the <i>Virgen del
Socorro</i>. All through the night and until 2 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> this
work continued. The <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> was then
towed out a little farther into the bay, and on the first
signs of daylight appearing her bow was turned north-east.
Soon afterwards a fresh early morning wind
sprang up from the land, her sails filled, and she set off
on her long voyage.</p>

<p>What happened to the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> I will now<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_274" id="Page_274">[274]</a></span>
relate, in accordance with details furnished by various
members of her crew.</p>

<p>The little vessel had no sooner left Vigo and got out
into the open than the land wind suddenly increased in
strength and drove her into exceedingly rough and
treacherous water. Some of the crew were for turning
back, despite the risks that step would have entailed,
and the matter was discussed at some length by Lieutenant
Koch and the other leaders. They came to the
conclusion, however, that they were "between the devil
and the deep sea," and must keep on. It seems doubtful,
indeed, whether, had they decided to make an attempt
to get back to Vigo, they could have accomplished it.</p>

<p>That first day, and for many days afterwards, the <i>Virgen
del Socorro</i> became a veritable plaything of the
waves, which soon began to rise mountain-high. The
sufferings of the crowded fugitives in this terrible
weather were intense. All were drenched to the skin,
and for more than three days and nights they had to remain
in this miserable condition. To these tortures were
added the craving for sleep and adequate nourishment,
for, amidst the continual buffeting of the waves and
wind, they could neither sleep nor get anything cooked.
Under these conditions, it was not surprising that the
twenty occupants of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> were finally
reduced to the state of not caring what happened. One
of the two sailors on board, on whose shoulders devolved
much of the work of navigation, said that, "old seaman
though he was, he had never before experienced such
weather." He felt at times that "all his strength and
hope were sapped," and hourly, during those terrible
first six days, when the little schooner was tossed about
like a cork, "expected death would relieve him of his
tortures."</p>

<p>The storm then calmed down a little and gave the fugitives<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_275" id="Page_275">[275]</a></span>
a respite. They were able to dry their drenched
clothes and attend to the needs of the inner man. At the
same time they could pay more attention to the question
of their course. On this score they were soon to receive
a shock, for there hove in sight a vessel that was undoubtedly
a British patrol. For a couple of hours there
were many anxious searchings of heart on board the
<i>Virgen del Socorro</i>. Would she, thanks to her insignificance
and the Dutch flag flying from her mast, be taken
for an inoffensive fishing smack, and be allowed to go
unchallenged? That had been part of their plan all
through.</p>

<p>At one moment it looked as though the patrol was
bearing down upon them at full speed; but when the
dreaded vessel got no bigger, but instead gradually receded
into the distance, the crew of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i>
realized that for the time being they were safe.</p>


<p>VII&mdash;FOILED BY A STORM&mdash;THE CAPTURE</p>

<p>Safe from the clutches of their human enemies, perhaps,
but by no means safe from the angry sea. Had
some of the crew been able to foresee what was in store
for them, they would perhaps have welcomed the arrival
of that British patrol with outspread arms and expressions
of joy. Once more they were caught up in the
embrace of a furious storm, and driven helplessly westward,
expecting every moment to be their last.</p>

<p>On October 24th another brief calm set in, enabling
the navigator to ascertain his position. The little vessel
was found to be some distance west of Bantry, on the
south coast of Ireland. Here the storm again increased
in violence, and once more the ill-fated <i>Virgen del Socorro</i>
seemed likely to founder. A consultation was held
by Koch and the other leaders. They came to the conclusion<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_276" id="Page_276">[276]</a></span>
that it would be madness to attempt to continue
with the original plan. In such seas as were running,
they would run the risk of being shipwrecked a hundred
times before they got halfway round the British Isles.
The only thing to be done, if they were to prevent the
<i>Virgen del Socorro</i> from being smashed to matchwood
on the British coast, was to keep as much as possible
in the open sea and steer for the English channel, in
hope of making the Belgian or Dutch coast unobserved.</p>

<p>Six more terrible days followed. By this time more
than half the crew of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> were in a
parlous condition. Their store of provisions had shrunk
to such an extent that everybody had to be placed on rations,
and the fresh water had dwindled so alarmingly
that it was reserved for those who were actually on
the point of collapse. Several of the crew, through the
cold and constant seasickness, were utterly helpless.</p>

<p>It was about this time that the coast of Cornwall came
into view, and on November 4th the crew found themselves
in sight of Lundy Island, at the entrance of the
Bristol Channel. From there, proceeding with a slowness
which must often have driven them to the verge
of despair, they circled the Scilly Islands, and it took
them two more dreadful days before they had rounded
the Lizard.</p>

<p>The Odyssey of the <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> had now
stretched over no less a period than a month. Three of
the crew had by now become delirious; all were reduced
to half their ordinary weight, and with the exception of
the hardened seamen were on the point of collapse. Although
they had experienced several alarms, they had so
far succeeded&mdash;no doubt owing to the awful weather&mdash;in
avoiding the vigilant eyes of the British patrols. But
now they no longer cared one way or the other; all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_277" id="Page_277">[277]</a></span>
fight had been knocked out of them by their sufferings.</p>

<p>On November 8th the little vessel approached the Goodwins.
Shortly after dawn a British destroyer was sighted
and reported by the man at the helm. Hardly a man
on board, unless it was Lieutenant Koch, took the trouble
to raise his glassy eyes when he heard the danger announced.
Nor did they manifest any concern when it
further became evident that there was no avoiding the
vigilant war vessel. Nothing expressed so eloquently
the fact that they regarded themselves as beaten as their
attitude of utter indifference when they were challenged
by the British destroyer. One and all were evidently
heartily glad to confess their nationality, the circumstances
in which they came to be there, and the extraordinary
dangers through which they had passed.</p>

<p>The <i>Virgen del Socorro</i> was taken into Ramsgate, says
<i>El Liberal</i>, the Madrid newspaper which published the
first brief account of the adventures related above, and
there we may well leave Lieutenant Koch and his companions.
They are henceforth in safe keeping, for, with
all their ingenuity and daring, the only thing they succeeded
in doing was to exchange one prison for another,
and at the same time drag eight free German citizens with
them into durance vile.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_278" id="Page_278">[278]</a></span></p>




<h2>THE POET'S DEATH IN BATTLE&mdash;HOW
ALLEN SEEGER DIED</h2>

<p><i>A Young American in the Foreign Legion</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Bif Bear, a Young Egyptian in the
Foreign Legion</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The artists of Europe&mdash;the painters, poets, singers&mdash;the æsthetes
of France and Italy, of Britain and Russian, and of Germany,
the Hungarian musicians&mdash;all answered the "call of war" and
threw their souls into the "rendezvous with death." Thousands
of them died on the battlefields. Among them is the young
English poet, Rupert Brooke, and the American poet, Allan
Seeger, who "loved France and gave his life to her." This
young American enlisted early in the war in the Foreign Legion.
He was fighting in the battles in Champagne in July, 1916, when
he fell. A young Egyptian, who was with the poet in the
trenches, tells of his end. After the battle, he wrote this letter
to Mrs. Caroline L. Weeks, of Boston, who has acted in the
rôle of "marraine" (godmother) to many American volunteers.
The following is a translation from the French forwarded from
Paris.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;STORY OF THE AMERICAN POET</p>

<p>It was in the Thiescourt Woods, I remember, that I
saw Alan on his return from convalescent leave. My
section was in first line trenches and his, in reserve, in
the second line. I was on soup fatigue and was going to
the Chauffour Quarry when I saw him in front of me,
walking along alone. Throwing down the marmites (tin
receptacles) with which I was loaded, I rushed to shake
him by the hand. He had, it seemed to me, grown slightly
thinner, his pale face seemed slightly paler, and his eyes,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_279" id="Page_279">[279]</a></span>
his fine eyes with their far-away look, ever lost in distant
contemplation, were still as dreamy as ever.</p>

<p>He told me how sorry he was not to be still with me
as he had been transferred to the first section and I belonged
to the third. But we saw each other every day.
He would recount the joys of his two months' convalescent
leave, and I shall never forget how one phrase was
often on his lips, "Life is only beautiful if divided between
war and love. They are the only two things truly
great, fine and perfect, everything else is but petty and
mean. I have known love for the last few weeks in all
its beauty and now I want to make war, ... but fine
war, a war of bayonet charges, the desperate pursuit of
an enemy in flight, the entry as conqueror, with trumpets
sounding, into a town that we have delivered! Those
are the delights of war! Where in civil life can be found
any emotion so fine and strong as those?"</p>

<p>And we would exalt our spirits with hopes of making
an assault with the bayonet, hopes that were not doomed
to disappointment, for a few weeks later we were to
attack.</p>


<p>II&mdash;AN ODE TO AMERICAN PATRIOTISM</p>

<p>One day while we were in reserve at the Martin Quarries
Alan came to look for me. He was full of joy and
showed me a telegram that he had received from Paris,
asking him to compose a poem which he himself was to
read in public at a Franco-American manifestation, for
which he was to receive forty-eight hours' leave. Alan
was overjoyed at the opportunity of obtaining leave, but
was too retiring to think of reading his poem himself;
he would try, he told me, to have it read by some one
else.</p>

<p>The eve of the ceremony arrived&mdash;I cannot recall the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_280" id="Page_280">[280]</a></span>
date&mdash;but no leave came. We were in the trenches and
chance had placed me near Seeger in "petit poste" (the
small outlook post, some yards in advance of the first
line trench). He confessed that he had lost all hope of
going, and I tried to find all sorts of arguments to encourage
him, that his leave might come at dawn, and
that by taking the train at Ressons at 7 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> he could still
reach Paris by noon and would have plenty of time, as
the ceremony was at 2.</p>

<p>The morning came, and instead of bringing the much
desired permission to leave it brought a terrible downpour
of rain, and the day passed sadly. He found consolation
in the thought that July 4 would soon arrive,
when the Americans with the Foreign Legion might hope
for forty-eight hours' leave, as last year. Alas! He little
thought that on that date....</p>

<p>[The ceremony referred to was held on May 30, in
connection with Decoration Day celebrations. Wreaths
to the Americans killed for France were placed around
the statue of Washington and Lafayette, in the Place des
Etats-Unis, Paris. By an unfortunate mistake the forty-eight
hours' leave granted for the event was made for
June 30 instead of May 30. The ode which Alan Seeger
composed for the occasion was printed in <i>The Sun</i> a few
days after the author had fallen in battle.]</p>

<p>On June 21 we left the sector of the Thiescourt Woods
for an unknown destination, which proved to be the
Somme. We took the train at Estrees St. Denis and on
June 22 about 10 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> reached Boves. Under a blazing
sun, in heat that seemed to have escaped from the furnace
of hell, we started for Bayonviller. We had undergone
no such march since the war began.</p>

<p>Weighed down by their sacks, prostrated by the heat,
men fell by hundreds along the road. Hardly twenty of
the 200 forming the company arrived without having<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_281" id="Page_281">[281]</a></span>
left the column. Seeger was one of these few. He told
me afterward of the terrible effort he had had to make
not to give up. At every halt he drank a drop of "tafia"
(rum and coffee) to "give himself heart," and when he
reached the end of the march he was worn out, but proud&mdash;he
had not left the ranks.</p>

<p>We passed the eight days of repose at Bayonviller, almost
always together, seeking the greatest possible enjoyment
in our life at the moment and making dreams for
the future after the war. Alan confided to me that "after
the war" caused him fear&mdash;that he could not tell what
destiny reserved for him, but that if the fates smiled on
him it was toward the Orient that he would make. He
loved the Orient&mdash;Constantinople, Cairo, Damascus,
Beirut had a powerful fascination for him; their names
would plunge him into profound reverie.</p>

<p>"It is in the mysterious frame of the Orient," he used
to say, "in its dazzling light, in its blue, blue nights, among
the perfumes of incense and hashish, that I would live,
love and die."</p>

<p>And then the talk would turn again on the war and
he would say: "My only wish now is to make a bayonet
charge. After that I shall see. Death may surprise me,
but it shall not frighten me. It is my destiny. 'Mektoub'
(it is written)." He was a real fatalist and drew courage
and resignation from his fatalism.</p>

<p>During the night of June 30-July 1 (1916) we left
Bayonviller to move nearer the firing line. We went to
Proyart as reserves.</p>

<p>At 8 o'clock on the morning of July 1 there was roll
call for the day's orders and we were told that the general
offensive would begin at 9 without us, as we were in
reserve, and that we would be notified of the day and
hour that we were to go into action.</p>

<p>When this report was finished we were ordered to shell<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_282" id="Page_282">[282]</a></span>
fatigue, unloading 8 inch shells from automobile trucks
which brought them up to our position.</p>

<p>All was hustle and bustle. The Colonial regiments had
carried the first German lines and thousands and thousands
of prisoners kept arriving and leaving. Ambulances
filed along the roads continuously. As news began
to arrive we left our work to seek more details, everything
we could learn seemed to augur well.</p>

<p>About 4 <span class="smcap">P.M.</span> we left Proyart for Fontaine-les-Capy
and in the first line. Alan was beaming with joy and
full of impatience for the order to join in the action.
Everywhere delirious joy reigned at having driven the
enemy back without loss for us. We believed that no
further resistance would be met and that our shock attack
would finish the Germans. After passing the night at
Fontaine-les-Capy we moved in the morning toward what
had been the German first lines. I passed almost all the
day with Alan. He was perfectly happy.</p>

<p>"My dream is coming true," he said to me, "and perhaps
this evening or to-morrow we shall attack. I am
more than satisfied, but it's too bad about our July 4
leave. I cannot hope to see Paris again now before the
6th or 7th, but if this leave is not granted me 'Mektoub!
Mektoub'!" he finished with a smile.</p>

<p>The field of battle was relatively calm, a few shells fell,
fired by the enemy in retreat, and our troops were advancing
on all sides. The Colonials had taken Assevillers
and the next day we were to take their place in first line.</p>

<p>On July 3 (1916) about noon we moved toward Assevillers
to relieve the Colonials at nightfall. Alan and I
visited Assevillers, picking up souvenirs, postcards, letters,
soldiers' notebooks and chattering all the time, when
suddenly a voice called out, "The company will fall in to
go to the first line."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_283" id="Page_283">[283]</a></span></p>


<p>III&mdash;LAST PARTINGS OF COMRADES</p>

<p>Before leaving one another we made each other the
same promise as we had made before the Champagne
battle (September 25, 1915), that if one of us fell so
severely wounded that there was no hope of escape the
other would finish him off with a bullet in the heart
rather than let him await death in lingering torture. He
showed me his revolver, saying, "I have more luck than
you. If I can still use one arm I shall have no need of
any one," and then we rejoined our different sections.</p>

<p>About 4 o'clock the order came to get ready for the
attack. None could help thinking of what the next few
hours would bring. One minute's anguish and then, once
in the ranks, faces become calm and serene, a kind of
gravity falling upon them, while on each could be read
the determination and expectation of victory.</p>

<p>Two battalions were to attack Belloy-en-Santerre, our
company being the reserve of battalion. The companies
forming the first wave were deployed on the plain. Bayonets
glittered in the air above the corn, already quite
tall. Scarcely had the movement begun when the enemy
perceived them and started a barrier fire (artillery fire
to bar any advance), the quick firers started their rapid,
regular crackerlike rat-tat. Bullets whizzed and shells
exploded almost as they left the gun, making a din infernal.
And the wave went forward, always forward,
leaving behind the wounded and the dead.</p>

<p>The losses were heavy and the enemy made a desperate
resistance. The company of reserve was ordered to advance
with the second wave of assault. "Forward!"
cried the Captain, and the company deployed "in files of
squadron," advancing slowly but surely under the enemy's
intense and murderous fire.</p>

<p>The first section (Alan's section) formed the right<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_284" id="Page_284">[284]</a></span>
and vanguard of the company, and mine formed the left
wing. After the first bound forward, we lay flat on the
ground, and I saw the first section advancing beyond us
and making toward the extreme right of the village of
Belloy-en-Santerre. I caught sight of Seeger and called
to him, making a sign with my hand.</p>

<p>He answered with a smile. How pale he was! His
tall silhouette stood out on the green of the cornfield.
He was the tallest man in his section. His head erect and
pride in his eyes, I saw him running forward, with bayonet
fixed. Soon he disappeared and that was the last
time I saw my friend.</p>

<p>"Forward!" And we made a second bound, right to
the wave of assault, which we left behind a little, and
down we threw ourselves again. The fusillade became
more and more intense, reaching a paroxysm. The
mitrailleuses mow men down and the cannons thunder in
desperation. Bodies are crushed and torn to fragments
by the shells, and the wounded groan as they await death,
for all hope of escaping alive from such a hell has fled.</p>

<p>The air is saturated with the smell of powder and
blood, everywhere the din is deafening; men are torn with
impatience at having to remain without moving under
such a fire. We struggle even for breath and cries resound
from every side. Suddenly a word of command,
an order of deliverance, passes from mouth to mouth.
"Forward! With bayonets!"&mdash;the command that Seeger
had awaited so long.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;THE POET'S DEATH ON THE BATTLEFIELD</p>

<p>In an irresistible, sublime dash we hurl ourselves to
the assault, offering our bodies as a target. It was at
this moment that Alan Seeger fell heavily wounded in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_285" id="Page_285">[285]</a></span>
the stomach. His comrades saw him fall and crawl into
the shelter of a shell hole. Since that minute nobody saw
him alive.</p>

<p>I will spare you an account of the rest of the battle.
As soon as the enemy was driven back and Belloy-en-Santerre
won I searched for news of Seeger. I was
told of his wound and was glad of it, for I thought he
had been carried away and henceforth would be far
from the dangers of bullets and shells.</p>

<p>Thus ended this Fourth of July that Seeger had hoped
to celebrate in Paris. On the next day we were relieved
from the first lines and went into reserve lines. A fatigue
party was left to identify the dead.</p>

<p>Seeger was found dead. His body was naked, his shirt
and tunic being beside him and his rifle planted in the
ground with the butt in the air. He had tied a handkerchief
to the butt to attract the attention of the stretcher
bearers. He was lying on his side with his legs bent.</p>

<p>It was at night by the light of a pocket electric lamp
that he was hastily recognized. Stretcher bearers took
the body and buried it next day in the one big grave
made for the regiment, where lie a hundred bodies. This
tomb is situated at the hill 76 to the south of Belloy-en-Santerre.</p>

<p>As I think of the circumstances of his death I am convinced
that after undressing to bandage himself he must
have risen and been struck by a second bullet. I asked
permission on the night of July 6 (1916) when I heard
of his being wounded, to go and see him, but I was
refused.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_286" id="Page_286">[286]</a></span></p>




<h2>THE GUARDIAN OF THE LINE&mdash;HERO
TALE OF LITHUANIA</h2>

<p><i>Told by Frederic Lees</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>One of the most remarkable facts connected with the war on
the Russian front is the large number of women who have distinguished
themselves by conspicuous bravery, sometimes in the
actual fighting-line, but more often in a civilian capacity. This
story deals with the ordeal undergone by a humble railway-crossing
keeper's wife in Lithuania, as told in the <i>Wide World
Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;"THE LONELIEST WOMAN IN THE WORLD"</p>

<p>One morning in April, 1915, Stephania Ychas, the
wife of the keeper of a railway-crossing to the north of
the Lithuanian town of Shavli, felt the saddest and loneliest
woman in the world. Do what she could, she found
it impossible to rid herself of the feeling that a catastrophe
was imminent&mdash;that the terrible war into which her
country had been plunged meant the end of all things.
Poor Lithuania! Once so fair a place, now so desolate a
wilderness!</p>

<p>Stephania's duties, in these troubled times, kept her
continually on the <i>qui vive</i>. At all hours of the day&mdash;and
latterly during many of the night&mdash;she had to be in
and out of her little house, in order to see that the rails
were clear, or to note the numbers of the troop trains as
they swept past towards the north. Backwards and
forwards, from her door to the telephone, fixed against
the wall on the right-hand side of a little window through<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_287" id="Page_287">[287]</a></span>
which she could overlook a big sweep of the line in the
direction of Shavli, she went, welcoming the never-ending
succession of trainloads of soldiers, wounded, or mere
war material passing on to the new line of defence, and
reporting their progress to the railway and military authorities.</p>

<p>Day after day, night after night, the great retreat of
the Russian forces continued, until, single-handed as she
was, Stephania Ychas was almost dropping with fatigue.
A hundred times she told herself that human flesh and
blood could never stand such a strain. It was not the
fatigue alone which was crushing her. Added to her
physical tortures were mental ones, the feeling of being
alone, so horribly alone, and the knowledge that the enemy,
as announced by the retreat and the nerve-racking
booming of the guns, was rapidly advancing on Shavli,
and that until Russia had had time to recover, the hated
Teutons would inevitably overrun Lithuania as far as
Vilna. At night her brain was filled with pictures of
burning farms, ravaged orchards, and indescribable scenes
of brutality such as she knew the German soldiers had
been guilty of in Belgium and Poland.</p>

<p>A dozen times a day, dizzy and sick at heart, she had
been on the point of staggering to the telephone to inform
the commander of a neighbouring station that she could
continue no longer. But a sense of duty had held her
back. When it came to a point of renunciation, her
stout Lithuanian heart said "Nay," and she recalled the
parting from her husband and his final adjurations.</p>

<p>Buried in thought, while waiting for a train which has
just been signalled from Shavli, she recalled the morning
when Michael Ychas, suddenly called to the Colours, had
left her. It seemed like an eternity since those days of
the mobilization.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_288" id="Page_288">[288]</a></span></p>


<p>II&mdash;"GOOD-BYE, STEPHANIA&mdash;GUARD THE
LINE WELL!"</p>

<p>"Good-bye, Stephania," he had said. "Be of good
cheer whilst I am away, and guard the line well. It is
sad to leave you here all alone. Sad to be obliged to leave
one's native country and abandon it to unknown dangers.
How much better I should have liked to have defended
Lithuania, I, a Lithuanian bred and born, than to have
been drafted into a regiment bound for the Caucasus.
As if the Government could not trust us in our own country!
However, Stephania, you are left, and you are doing
a man's duty. It makes me happy, in the midst of
my misery, to think that you are there to look after the
home and the crossing and the rails. Guard them well,
Stephania, and rest assured that, in my absence, I shall
constantly pray to the Virgin to watch over you."</p>

<p>Her reflections were interrupted by a shriek from the
locomotive of the expected train, which was made up
partly of compartments packed with soldiers, partly of
wagons filled with the most heterogeneous collection of
things she had ever seen in her life&mdash;pieces of machinery
piled one on the top of the other, heaps of metal articles
of every imaginable description, and every scrap of copper
or lead, apparently, which Shavli contained. A waving
of hands from the soldiers, a friendly yell from a hundred
throats, and the train had sped on its way.</p>

<p>Stephania Ychas had no time now to waste over daydreaming.
Hurrying into her cottage, she went straight
to the telephone and rang up the commander of the station
farther up the line. After ringing in vain for fully
a minute, she got the connection and made her report.</p>

<p>"Train number three hundred and forty-six passed
North Shavli crossing a minute ago," she said. "A mixed
train, men and materials. Any news?"</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_289" id="Page_289">[289]</a></span></p>

<p>"Shavli reports that things are getting warm," replied
a voice. "I should not be surprised to hear that we have
to leave before the day's out. You'd better 'phone to
headquarters."</p>

<p>She lost not a moment in carrying out the suggestion.</p>

<p>"Halloa, halloa! Is that Shavli?"</p>

<p>"Yes," came a quick answer. "You're the North Shavli
crossing-keeper, aren't you? Good! Well, we were just
about to call you up. Matters are coming to a climax
here. There are only two more trains to go through
now. One with men will be with you in a couple of minutes
at the latest; the other, with goods, should follow ten
minutes afterwards. We are telling the driver to pick
you up."</p>

<p>At this point the speaker was called away from the
telephone, and an indistinct buzz as of a whole office in
conversation, mingled with the trampling of feet and the
slamming of doors followed. But finally the speaker returned.</p>

<p>"Halloa, halloa! Are you still there, North Shavli?
Telephone forward all I have said, and prepare them for
the worst."</p>

<p>Stephania Ychas, now tingling with excitement, did as
she was bid. Once more she stood on duty to see the reported
train pass, and again she went to the telephone to
send her report forward. Having finished, she was about
to hang up the receiver when, on looking through the
window on her left, her eyes caught sight of something
unusual far down the line, almost at the point where the
metals curved out of view. To run and fetch a pair of
glasses which, ever since the beginning of the war, she
had kept hanging in their leather case by the side of the
fireplace, to bring them to bear on the point in question,
and at the same time to ring up Shavli, was the work of a
minute. What she saw, though her calm voice in no way<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_290" id="Page_290">[290]</a></span>
revealed her inner emotion, made the blood run cold
through her veins.</p>

<p>"Halloa, halloa! Are you there, Shavli?"</p>

<p>A reply came in the affirmative.</p>

<p>"For Heaven's sake remain at the 'phone. There's foul
work going on near the great curve. You must give orders
at once to keep back the train."</p>

<p>"One moment, and I will return," replied the railway
official.</p>


<p>III&mdash;A WOMAN'S MESSAGE: "THEY ARE
DYNAMITING THE RAILROAD!"</p>

<p>A pause, which seemed to the woman with the glasses
fixed to her eyes an eternity, followed.</p>

<p>"You were just in time," continued the voice to her
infinite relief. "Courage! Fear not. Orders have been
given to pick you up, with the others along the line, when
we evacuate the town by car. But tell us what is happening."</p>

<p>"I can see a number of men tampering with the metals,"
telephoned Stephania Ychas. "They have dismounted
from their horses. One of them, an officer, is giving orders.
Yes, I can see now. They are Uhlans, and are
going to dynamite the line. There are at least twenty of
them, evidently a portion of an advance guard that has
made a turning movement round Shavli by way of the
woods. Halloa, halloa! In the name of Our Lady of
Vilna, do not leave the instrument. It is a blessing they
did not begin by cutting the wire. Now they are scattering
to await the explosion. There!"&mdash;as the speaker
beheld the explosion, followed by a cloud of smoke and
dust, which rose high in the air&mdash;"it is done. Holy Virgin!
They are making off now. No, the officer is pointing
here. They are coming towards me. Telephone to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_291" id="Page_291">[291]</a></span>
the nearest military station to send me help immediately.
And for the love of the saints, come back to the instrument!"</p>

<p>Stephania Ychas left the receiver dangling by its cords,
and made her little home ready to withstand a siege. She
locked and doubly bolted the door, and with the object
of giving the Uhlans the idea that the place was uninhabited
prepared to block up the windows with the boards
which, as in most Lithuanian country cottages, served
as shutters, fastened from the inside.</p>

<p>"Perhaps," she thought, "if they see the house shuttered,
they will conclude it is uninhabited and will ride
away."</p>

<p>Unfortunately, the Uhlans rode quickly, and Stephania
had more than she could do with just one shutter, that
which protected the little window on the left of the telephone,
and which, when up, plunged the room into semi-darkness.
Whilst she was fixing this barrier, the Uhlans
surrounded the house and the officer momentarily
caught sight of her. Simultaneously there came a violent
knocking at the door with the butt-end of a rifle, a command
to open, and the sharp crack of a revolver. A bullet
crashed through one of the panes, traversed the centre
of the shutter-board, and buried itself in the opposite
wall.</p>

<p>The brave woman was now back at the telephone, but
not before she had managed to make the entrance to her
home doubly sure by dragging a heavy dresser against
it.</p>

<p>"Halloa, Shavli! You have sent for help? Thank you.
They have surrounded the house, and are trying to force
an entrance. They have discovered that I am here. But
they will have a difficulty in forcing open the door, unless&mdash;&mdash;"</p>

<p>She paused and listened. There was a long and ominous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_292" id="Page_292">[292]</a></span>
silence, which made her think at first that the enemy
must have decided it was not worth while to waste further
time over a woman. But the hope was short-lived.
She heard a sharp command in German, the sound of
muffled voices, a burst of laughter, and the clatter of
horses' hoofs around the house. What was happening?
Were they really riding off?</p>

<p>Again her hopes were shattered. The scampering backwards
and forwards continued, one of the horses neighed,
and she imagined she could almost hear the Uhlans' heavy
breathing, sounds which brought back to her the danger
which she had hesitated to frame in words. Very
soon her fears were confirmed. A vision flashed to her
brain and made her sick with fear. A faint cracking
sound broke upon her ears from several points simultaneously,
spreading until it seemed to envelope her on all
sides, and especially over her head. By slow degrees the
crackling grew to a roar, and then she fully realized what
the barbarians had done.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"HELP! HELP!"&mdash;A VOICE FROM THE
BURNING THATCH</p>

<p>"Help, help!" called Stephania into the telephone.
"They have fired the thatch. For Heaven's sake, send
me help. But a few minutes and the rafters, I fear, will
catch fire. Are you still there, Shavli? Oh, speak&mdash;speak!"</p>

<p>An exclamation, mingled sorrow and anger, came from
the telephonist at Shavli.</p>

<p>"Oh, the ruffians, the abominable assassins!" he cried.
"I beseech you to have courage. Help is surely on the
way."</p>

<p>"I will try to be brave and do my duty to the end,
as Michael told me," replied Stephania, as though to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_293" id="Page_293">[293]</a></span>
"But unless they come soon, it will be too late. The
thatch has burnt like tinder. I can hear the flames roaring
like a furnace underneath the rafters. There! One
of them has given way and fallen on to the joists of my
room. Already the heat is suffocating, the smoke almost
unbearable. Holy Virgin! What a death."</p>

<p>"Alas, what more can we do than beg you to bear up?"
returned the voice at Shavli, in an agonized tone. "We
have just been informed that a party of Cossacks left
twenty minutes ago to rescue you. Once more, courage!
And may Our Lady of Vilna indeed protect you."</p>

<p>When Stephania Ychas next spoke through the telephone
the roof fell in with a crash and pierced a hole,
through which the burning embers fell, in the ceiling
of her room. At the same time communication with
Shavli was suddenly interrupted, either through the Uhlans
having discovered and cut the wire, or, as is more
probable, owing to the fire having fused the terminals.
She could not, however, have sustained her appeals for
help much longer. Indeed, it was not many minutes afterwards
that, stupefied and blinded by the smoke, as
she groped her way to the door in an instinctive movement
towards the open air, she sank to the floor unconscious.</p>

<p>It is a characteristic of the Cossacks, many times admitted
even by German military critics, and those who have
been describing the operations in Lithuania for the enemy
Press, that they rarely if ever waste a shot. Unlike the
French cavalry, they do not fire from a distance, but fearlessly
swoop down upon their adversaries and seek to
bring them down, one by one, at a range of but a few
yards. And that was the fate of the Uhlans, who, hungering
to feast their eyes and ears on the suffering of a
defenceless woman, lingered a little too long around the
burning cottage of Stephania Ychas. Not one escaped.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_294" id="Page_294">[294]</a></span></p>

<p>Stephania Ychas did not lose her life after all. The
brave Cossacks broke in the already half-consumed window
and dragged her forth. She was badly burnt, but
lived to tell this tale to a nurse in a Russian hospital,
whither the railway officials of Shavli transported her, almost
immediately after her rescue, in one of their motor-cars.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_295" id="Page_295">[295]</a></span></p>

<h2>WITH A FLEET SURGEON ON A
BRITISH WARSHIP DURING
A BATTLE</h2>

<p><i>Under Fire on His Majesty's Ship, the
"Fearless"</i></p>

<p><i>Told by Fleet Surgeon Walter K. Hopkins, of the
Royal Navy</i></p>


<p>I&mdash;ON A HOSPITAL SHIP IN BATTLE</p>

<p>On August 27 (1914) we were hoping to meet the
enemy early on the following morning.</p>

<p>On August 28, at 3:45 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, "Action" was sounded
off. Two cruisers (supposed enemy's ships) having been
suddenly observed, had caused us to take up "stations"
somewhat earlier than had been anticipated. It was
quickly discovered, however, that the cruisers were our
own. Shortly after, therefore, breakfast was piped to
each watch in turn, and at about 7 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> the enemy's
ships were actually sighted. From this time on to close
upon 2 <span class="smcap">P.M.</span>, successive actions were fought between
various opposing forces of the two fleets.</p>

<p>The day was fine and calm, while the sun gleamed
through a very hazy atmosphere, in which patches of fog
shortened up the visual distance from time to time.</p>

<p>I remained on the upper deck during the earlier part
of the affair, and found it a most interesting and inspiring
sight to watch our destroyers and the <i>Arethusa</i> and
her divisions dashing at full speed after the enemy, while
soon the frequent spurts of flame from their sides, the
following reports, and the columns of water and spray
thrown up by the enemy's shells pitching short or over,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_296" id="Page_296">[296]</a></span>
began to create in most of us a suppressed excitement
which we had not hitherto experienced, telling us that the
"real thing" had begun, that an action was actually in
progress.</p>

<p>Shortly our interest was to multiply fourfold, when
the order to fire our own guns was given. After a time
shells began to drop ominously near. I retired to my
station, a selected spot just below waterline in the after
bread room, one of the few available places in a ship of
this class where some of my party of first-aid men could
be accommodated; the other half of the party in charge
of the sick-berth steward being situated at a similar station
forward. This period one found trying. For
knowledge as to how matters were progressing we had to
rely upon fragments of information shouted down the
nearest hatchway from someone in communication with
those on the upper deck.</p>

<p>The rat-tat-tat! rat, tat, tat, tat! on our side from
time to time, as we got into the thick of it, told us plainly
of shells pitching short and bursting, whose fragments
struck but did not penetrate the ship's skin; it was a
weird sound, occasionally varied by a tremendous
"woomp," which once at least made the paymaster, who
was reclining near me on a flour sack, and myself, look
hard at the side close by us, where we fully expected,
for the moment, to see water coming in. As a matter of
fact, this shell entered some forty feet away, bursting on
entry into the Lieutenant Commander's cabin, while its
solid nose finally fetched up in the wardroom, where
later on it was christened "our honorary member." For
this trophy I believe we have the <i>Mainz</i> or <i>Koeln</i> to
thank. The wardroom steward found a similar piece of
shell in his hammock that night. It had penetrated the
ship's side and a bulkhead before finally choosing its
highly suitable place of rest.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_297" id="Page_297">[297]</a></span></p>

<p>The shells that missed us burst upon the surface of the
ocean near by and, strange as it may seem to those not
familiar with such things, the fragments flew from the
water with sufficient force to dent the sides of the ship
and to kill men when they dropped on the deck.</p>

<p>When a shell actually struck our ship and penetrated
the structure there was a reverberating crash that roared
from end to end and nearly drove our eardrums in and
made work of any delicacy impossible. It was bad enough
with us, but what must have been happening on some of
the German ships that were now sinking and were being
pierced by great shells from three sides at once I leave to
some one with imagination.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"I WATCHED THE BURNING CRUISER
SINK"</p>

<p>It would surely require the pen of a Dante to depict all
the horrors that were happening on the German cruiser
<i>Mainz</i>, as she went down. We knew that she was burning.
The men stayed at their guns until the flames actually
began to burn up their legs. The wounded lay in
heaps on the deck and the flames destroyed them without
help. The blood ran on the decks so that the men who
were still trying to work the light deck guns slipped in it
and fell.</p>

<p>Our shells passed through their hospital ward and
killed the wounded and the surgeons as they were working
over them. That any men could have passed through
such an ordeal and retained their senses is a tribute to the
wonderful effect of naval training and discipline.</p>

<p>The <i>Fearless</i> appears to have borne a somewhat
charmed life&mdash;a large number of shells pitched just short
and just over her&mdash;she was hit fair and square by seven,
one of which played a lot of havoc with the middle deck<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_298" id="Page_298">[298]</a></span>
forward and the mess gear there. Her sides showed
some twenty-three holes of varying size, and yet her list
of casualties was only eight wounded, none dangerously.
She also had two narrow escapes from being torpedoed,
one torpedo passing just forward from an unknown
source, and another aft from a submarine.</p>

<p>During comparative lulls I went onto the upper deck
once or twice, to visit the forward station and to see
that all was correct. For suppressed excitement and vivid
interest I should say the seeker after sensation could
scarcely ask for more than a modern naval action.</p>

<p>The shells were falling all about us, and why we were
not sunk I can never understand. The captain kept the
ship zigzagging on her course to upset the enemy's aim.
At one time we came within 2,000 yards of the Mainz,
which had already been partly wrecked by the long-distance
fire from our big battle cruisers, the <i>Lion</i>, <i>Invincible</i>,
and <i>Queen Mary</i>. It was our duty to help finish
her without sinking our big ships.</p>

<p>She made two attempts to torpedo us. I watched one
torpedo skimming through the water like a shark about
ten yards from the bow, as it seemed to me. We just
escaped it by a turn of the wheel in the nick of time.
Then another skimmed by our stern, running over the
spot we had left only a minute before.</p>

<p>"She's a goner," I heard one of our men say. The
German cruiser was a burning wreck, but she kept the
two small guns, one at each end, firing away to the last.
Then one of our destroyers rushed in to close quarters
and gave her the finishing blow with a torpedo.</p>


<p>III&mdash;THE WOUNDED ON THE BLOODY DECK</p>

<p>It was not until the latter part of the affair that I was
called upon to deal with any wounded, and then a rapid<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_299" id="Page_299">[299]</a></span>
succession of cases were either carried or managed to
walk to the main deck after, where, assisted by the first-aid
party, I cleansed and dressed their wounds. Two or
three returned to duty the same afternoon, the others
being placed in the wardroom temporarily after dressings
had been applied, a reliable first-aid man being placed
in charge. In addition, one case was treated at the
forward station, and later on in the day a man who had
received a somewhat severe contusion and abrasion of the
thigh from a spent fragment of shell reported himself.
Seven of the eight cases were wounds due to fragments
of shell and splinters of steel or wood from the ship. The
exception was a scald of the forearm, sustained by a
stoker while investigating a steam pipe burst by an exploding
shell.</p>

<p>While I was occupied with the cases mentioned above,
we had taken the destroyer <i>Laertes</i> in tow, she being temporarily
disabled by gunfire; and the order coming to
retire, we proceeded from the scene of action for some
considerable distance, when I was ordered to go to the
<i>Laertes</i> to attend to some seriously wounded, and tranship
them. The <i>Laertes</i> was cast off, and lay some two cables
away. Arriving on board I found the worst case was
that of a young stoker in a serious condition from shock
and loss of blood. He had sustained several shell
wounds, one of which involved the left tibia and fibula,
some two inches of the tibia being torn away from its
middle third.</p>

<p>Around this patient the deck was covered with blood,
and so slippery that I had to send for cloths to be put
down to enable me to keep a footing. The condition of
the deck enabled one to form an idea of how decks were
on the <i>Mainz</i>, where 200 men were killed. Near by were
two others, somewhat less severely wounded, lying on
the deck, while just behind me lay two figures covered<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_300" id="Page_300">[300]</a></span>
with the Union Jack. The wounded had all received
first aid, the wounds being neatly dressed, but considerable
hemorrhage was going on. Returning with these
cases to the <i>Fearless</i> I found several other wounded had
already been brought on board from other destroyers.
The sick bay, which had been prepared to receive the
most serious cases, was soon filled, and others were sitting
or lying on the mess deck near by.</p>

<p>Owing to the probable proximity of the enemy I had to
bear in mind the necessity for all possible speed, which
was awkward, as they required very careful handling.
However, I hurried up as much as I was able. Sudden
manoeuvring or the shock of shells hitting us might make
our work impossible. Firstly, iodine was applied to the
majority of wounds and their immediate area, and a fresh
temporary dressing applied. Then ably assisted by the
sick-berth steward and two first-aid men, I spent the
next few hours in endeavoring to get these, for the most
part, very dirty patients, as clean as possible. It should
be added that, at this stage, morphia was administered
by hypodermic injection to three or four cases, and again
once or twice during the night. It was found to be very
beneficial.</p>

<p>Many of the men had lost an arm and a leg, and in
some cases both arms and legs. Several poor fellows had
their faces almost entirely blown away.</p>

<p>I had prepared masks of lint for the faces, specially
medicated, to relieve the terrible burns caused by the
picric acid used in shells.</p>

<p>A German seaman, a brawny young fellow, suffered
much pain and considerable loss of blood from a wound
in his left foot. Examination showed the presence of a
piece of metal, embedded in the lower part of the instep,
from underneath which steady oozing of blood was occurring.
I put the patient under chloroform, and he was<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_301" id="Page_301">[301]</a></span>
kept lightly under, most excellently, by the Paymaster,
while I removed the fragment of shell and many pieces
of loose bone. The removal proved more difficult than
I had anticipated, owing to the numerous "talons" the
piece of shell possessed. These pointed in all directions,
and were embedded in the bones of the foot so firmly that
it was rather like the extraction of a huge molar with a
dozen or more distorted fangs. The fragment weighed
some six ounces, and its removal gave the patient great
relief.</p>

<p>A German seaman had compound comminuated fracture
of right radius, ulna, and humerus, due to a huge
wound in the neighborhood of the elbow. Multiple
wounds of face and body and a scalp wound. This man
appeared to be suffering from severe shock, was at times
wandering in his mind, but at others quite clear. The
wound in the scalp was found later to penetrate the skull
in the left frontal region. He died after several days in
hospital.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;"IT WAS VERY FINE SPORT"</p>

<p>A sub-lieutenant I discovered sitting in the wardroom
with his legs upon a chair. He had sustained a "lozenge-shaped"
clean cut shell wound in the middle of right
thigh, about 5 inches by 2 inches, and passing deeply
through the anterior muscles. He was very cheery and
was only anxious to get back to his work, which he did
after two or three weeks.</p>

<p>A captain-lieutenant of the sunken German destroyer
V187 had been struck in the right side by a piece of shell,
the force of the blow throwing him overboard just before
his ship sank. He was taken out of the water about half
an hour later. The wound was situated over the lower
right rib, was oval in shape and about one and a half<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_302" id="Page_302">[302]</a></span>
inches in diameter. He was passing blood and had a good
deal of pain in the abdomen. It was suspected that a
piece of shell had penetrated the abdomen, but X-rays
showed nothing.</p>

<p>He was a good type of officer. On asking him what he
thought of the affair, he replied, "Ah, it was very fine
sport."</p>

<p>The courage and endurance of the patients were admirable.
In only one case did I hear any "grousing,"
as our sailors call any kind of complaining, and this was
in one of the less severely injured. A suggestion that
many around him were in an infinitely worse plight than
he, and were enduring their troubles cheerfully, made a
difference, and after a little refreshment he was as good
as the rest of them. Some of the Germans were at first
rather sullen, but their confidence was soon gained when
they found that I could speak to them in their own language,
and that we were intent upon doing our best for
them.</p>

<p>I found beef tea, brandy, ship's cocoa made with milk,
most useful and acceptable for those who could not take
solid food. At first one or two of the Germans hesitated
about drinking what was offered them, but they soon
thawed and took their portion gratefully, and, in fact,
their gratitude a little later for what had been done for
them was remarkable.</p>

<p>I was able to report to the captain on the bridge, at
about 4 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span>, that all cases had been dealt with, had been
washed, dressed, fed and made as comfortable as circumstances
would allow.</p>

<p>On arrival in harbor about midday on August 29, the
more serious cases were transferred to Shotley Sick
Quarters, the others to the hospital ship <i>Liberty</i>. I accompanied
the former cases, and soon after seeing them
safely disposed of returned to the ship, had some food<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_303" id="Page_303">[303]</a></span>
and turned in about 5:30 <span class="smcap">P.M.</span>, having been up some
thirty-seven hours. Curiously enough, though tired, I
could not sleep well owing to a bad cramp in both my
calves, but I had passed a very interesting day and a
half. (Told in the <i>New York American</i>.)</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_304" id="Page_304">[304]</a></span></p>




<h2>AIRMEN IN THE DESERTS OF EGYPT</h2>

<p><i>Adventures of the Royal Flying Corps in
Sinai</i></p>

<p><i>Told by F. W. Martindale</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The land has its perils for the aviator, and so has the sea; but
our "fliers" in Egypt have learnt to dread the treacherous
desert more than anything else. Here are two little stories
from the annals of the R. F. C.&mdash;one near tragedy, the other
real tragedy, lightened only by the amazing self-sacrifice of a
young officer and the dogged pluck of his mechanic, who posted
up his diary while awaiting death. Recorded in the <i>Wide World
Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;FLYING OVER THE ANCIENT HOLY LANDS</p>

<p>Whatever the professional distinction may be between
the two branches of the aviation service, the broad difference
in the public mind between the Royal Flying
Corps and the Royal Naval Air Service is that the former
fly over land and the latter over sea. And whatever the
relative advantages, and the reverse, of these opposite
conditions may be, a certain amount of sympathy inevitably
goes out to the naval airman in the supposedly more
difficult element from which he starts and on which he
has to make his "landing" on return. The mystery and
the menace of the sea, which has always made sailors a
race apart, is so real and apprehensible a thing, even to
the landsman, that instinctively the sea is felt to be a
source of greater peril to the airman than the land.</p>

<p>Be this as it may, it has fallen to the lot of the Royal<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_305" id="Page_305">[305]</a></span>
Flying Corps in this war to face an "element"&mdash;if one
may call it such&mdash;as mysterious as the ocean, and not a
whit less menacing. This is the desert&mdash;a thing which
casts a spell upon those who have to dare it as potent and
as fearful as any with which the sea holds the mariner
in thrall.</p>

<p>Mutable to the eye as the face of the waters, sudden
and fickle in mood as the sea itself, there lurks in the
desert an even grimmer menace than that which gives
the sailor his wary, vigilant eye. The cruelty of the sea
is nothing to the cruelty of the desert. Ask the airman
who has made trial of both, and he will tell you that
better a hundred times the risk of falling into the clutches
of the uncertain sea than the chance of finding himself
at the mercy of the pitiless desert.</p>

<p>Here is a case in point&mdash;a little excerpt from the doings
of the Royal Flying Corps, which it would be hard
to match even in the records of that adventurous service.
Pilot and observer set off in an aeroplane upon a single-handed
reconnaissance towards the enemy's lines in
Sinai. A long flight was made over the desert, and the
machine was a long way from its base when that terrible
bugbear known as "engine-trouble" developed. All attempts
to right it in the air proved abortive, and a forced
descent was made. The aeroplane alighted on the desert
waste, and the two occupants worked feverishly to adjust
the faulty mechanism. Their dismay can be imagined
when they found repair impossible, and realized that between
themselves and the Canal lay a stretch of some
twenty miles of desert, over which no means of progress
was possible to them save their own legs.</p>

<p>It says much for the loyalty to the duty of these two airmen
that they carefully dismantled the gun which was
mounted on the machine before setting fire to the latter,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_306" id="Page_306">[306]</a></span>
and that they actually set off on their long tramp across
the burning desert carrying the gun between them.</p>

<p>It soon became evident that any idea of saving the
gun by taking it all the way with them was hopeless.
The weight, not inconsiderable under any condition, was
insupportable, and before long there was no course possible
but to bury the weapon in the sand, obliterating as
best they could all tell-tale traces which might reveal its
hidden presence to a chance enemy patrol.</p>


<p>II&mdash;OVER THE BURNING DESERT WITH A
GUN</p>

<p>Progress was easier when the cumbersome weapon had
been disposed of. But it was not long before clothing
had to be jettisoned also. The relatively thick and heavy
garments of an aviator were intolerable under the savage
rays of the sun, and one by one they had to be discarded.
Even so, the going was terribly difficult and the journey
most exacting. By means of a compass a direction due
west was maintained, the one hope of the castaways being
to keep on until some point on the Canal should be
reached.</p>

<p>The hours went slowly by as mile after mile was laboriously
covered. The strength of both men was steadily
declining, but it was not until something more than half
the estimated distance from their goal had been accomplished
that either gave way. Then one collapsed; he
could go no farther, he declared. His companion, well
aware how fatally seductive a "rest" would inevitably be,
bade him keep going, but without effect. The weary
man's legs gave way beneath him; he sank down on the
sand, and declared that he <i>preferred</i> to stay there rather
than attempt to struggle on any longer. Advice, persuasion,
cajolery, threats, and even force were of no<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_307" id="Page_307">[307]</a></span>
avail, and nothing remained but for the second man to
continue the journey, with waning hope, alone. To stay
with his comrade meant that both must inevitably perish
miserably; by pressing on there was, at all events, a faint
chance, not only of reaching the Canal himself, but of
summoning aid to return in time to rescue the other.</p>

<p>For some miles the wretched survivor, now tortured
by an awful thirst and so weakened that he seemed
scarcely able to move his legs, staggered blindly on across
the desert. He had consciousness enough to maintain
his westerly direction, but as to how long he continued
stumbling forward in this almost aimless fashion, or
what distance he covered, he can hazard only the wildest
guess. His progress became largely automatic. Force
of will kept him moving, his reluctant limbs relapsing
into semi-mechanical action.</p>

<p>At the moment of his direst extremity, as it seemed,
when from sheer lack of power his body threatened to
collapse altogether, the hapless wanderer espied a horse
before him in the desert!</p>

<p>Now, if this were fiction, no writer, however cynical,
would ever dare to introduce a horse at such a point of
the narrative. The thing would be too absurd; the long
arm of coincidence never reached so far as that! Nobody
could be expected to believe it.</p>

<p>Yet the fact is as stated. At the psychological moment,
when every new step taken might have proved his
last, the wanderer saw before him in the desert the miraculous
apparition of a horse. It can be easily supposed
that at first he did not believe his eyes. In his half-demented
state he feared the creature must be an hallucination&mdash;some
trick of mirage, or the mere figment of his
disordered brain. Only when he came nearer, and could
hear as well as see the animal move, did a full realization
of his good fortune begin to dawn upon him.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_308" id="Page_308">[308]</a></span></p>


<p>III&mdash;TALE OF MODERN ARABIAN NIGHTS</p>

<p>A sail in unfrequented latitudes never seemed more
truly a godsend to castaways at sea than this marvellous
horse to the exhausted airman. It was but a stray animal
belonging to some mounted unit which had drawn
the peg of its head-rope and escaped from the horse-lines
into the open desert, but to the incredulous eyes which
suddenly perceived its presence it might well have been
the famous magic steed of the Arabian Nights.</p>

<p>To catch the animal was the immediate thing to be
done, and anyone who has tried to catch a shy horse in
a paddock can imagine the hideous anxiety on the part
of an exhausted man in approaching an animal which has
the illimitable desert to man&oelig;uvre in, and has but to kick
up its heels to vanish in a trice over the horizon. Fortunately,
the creature evinced but little shyness, and suffered
itself to be taken without difficulty. It is probable,
indeed, that this desert encounter was not less welcome
on the one side than on the other.</p>

<p>One wonders how the would-be rider ever managed
to get astride his lucky steed. His legs had little enough
capacity for a spring left in them. But necessity and
hope in combination provide a wonderful incentive and
spur, and somehow or other he scrambled up. He himself
has hazy recollections only of this stage of his adventures,
and beyond the fact that he <i>did</i> mount that
horse, and manage to set it going in a westerly direction,
his recollections are vague.</p>

<p>The next phase of the story is contained in the narrative
of the officer commanding a patrol vessel on the Suez
Canal, who relates that while on duty his attention was
directed to a strange figure riding on horseback along the
eastern bank of the Canal. At first sight he supposed it
to be some mounted Arab or other nomad of the desert,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_309" id="Page_309">[309]</a></span>
but on closer inspection the horse did not seem to be of
native type, and the rider's garb appeared unusual. On
nearer approach the strange apparition resolved itself into
a white man, of wild and haggard demeanor, dressed in
a torn shirt and very little else, who bestrode barebacked
a troop-horse in distressed condition. Hailed by the
patrol boat, the white horseman replied in English, and
explained intelligibly, if a trifle incoherently, that he had
come out of the desert, that his chum was lying some
miles back in dire distress, if not already dead, and would
somebody please hurry up and do something.</p>

<p>The conclusion of the story can be told in a sentence.
A relief party was sent at once into the desert, the second
airman was picked up exhausted but still alive, and at the
date when the present writer last heard of them both
parties of this strange adventure of the desert were little,
if any, the worse for their experiences. As to the gallant
troop-horse which played the part of a kind of <i>equus ex
machina</i>, no peg in all the lines is now more firmly and
securely driven in than his!</p>

<p>The story just related ends happily for all concerned;
let me deal now with the reverse side of the shield!</p>


<p>IV&mdash;SHOT HIMSELF IN SELF-SACRIFICE</p>

<p>About the middle of June last year Second-Lieutenant
Stewart Gordon Ridley, of the R.F.C., went out alone in
his machine as escort to another pilot, who had with him
a pilot named J. A. Garside. "Engine trouble" developed
when Lieutenant Ridley had been flying for an hour and
a half, and, as they could not put the matter right immediately
on alighting, they decided to camp where they
were for the night. Next morning, as Ridley's engine
still proved obdurate, the second pilot decided to fly back
alone to the base, and return on the following day to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_310" id="Page_310">[310]</a></span>
assistance of the two men. This programme was duly
carried out, but when he got back the pilot found that
Ridley and Garside, with the machine, had disappeared.</p>

<p>A search party was immediately organized to scour the
desert, and on the Sunday tracks were discovered. It
was not until the Tuesday, however, that the missing
'plane was discovered. Beside it lay the dead bodies of
Lieutenant Ridley and Garside. A diary was found on
the mechanic, and the brief entries therein tell the tragic
story of those last hours better than pages of description.
The diary reads as follows:&mdash;</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Friday.&mdash;Mr. Gardiner left for Meheriq, and said he would
come and pick one of us up. After he went we tried to get
the machine going, and succeeded in flying for about twenty-five
minutes. Engine then gave out. We tinkered engine up
again, succeeded in flying about five miles next day (Saturday),
but engine ran short of petrol.</p>

<p>Sunday.&mdash;After trying to get engine started, but could not
manage it owing to weakness&mdash;water running short, only half
a bottle&mdash;Mr. Ridley suggested walking up to the hills. Six
<span class="smcap">P.M.</span> (Sunday): Found it was farther than we thought; got
there eventually; very done up. No luck. Walked back; hardly
any water&mdash;about a spoonful. Mr. Ridley shot himself at ten-thirty
on Sunday whilst my back was turned. No water all
day; don't know how to go on; got one Verey light; dozed all
day, feeling very weak; wish someone would come; cannot
last much longer.</p>

<p>Monday.&mdash;Thought of water in compass, got half bottle;
seems to be some kind of spirit. Can last another day. Fired
Lewis gun, about four rounds; shall fire my Verey light to-night;
last hope without machine comes. Could last days if
I had water.</p></blockquote>

<p>The captain of the Imperial Camel Corps, with which
the aviators were co-operating, formed the opinion that
Lieutenant Ridley shot himself in the hope of saving the
mechanic, the water they had being insufficient to last
the two of them till help arrived. The Commanding<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_311" id="Page_311">[311]</a></span>
Officer of the R. F. C. states: "There is no doubt in my
mind that he performed this act of self-sacrifice in the
hope of saving the other man."</p>

<p>The history of the R. F. C. is a short one, but it is
already full of glorious deeds.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_312" id="Page_312">[312]</a></span></p>




<h2>HOW SWEENY, OF THE FOREIGN
LEGION, GOT HIS "HOT DOGS"</h2>

<p><i>Told by Private John Joseph Casey of the Foreign
Legion</i></p>


<p>I&mdash;STORY OF AN AMERICAN "WEST-POINTER"</p>

<blockquote>

<p>Lieut. Charles Sweeny, of the French Foreign Legion, returned
to New York to recover from a wound received during the
French offensive in Champagne. Sweeny is an American, a
graduate of West Point, and the son of a former president of
the Federal Smelting and Refining Co., of Spokane, Wash. The
following story, of a most unusual "Dutch treat," was told by
Lieut. Sweeny to Private Casey, a New York artist, also fighting
in the Foreign Legion, to the <i>New York World</i>.</p></blockquote>

<p>You have read of the cordial exchanges of tobacco and
tidbits between the men of the North and the South,
who were facing each other as deadly foes in the rifle
pits during the Civil War. These exchanges (the amicable
ones, of course) were quaint and peculiar enough
between those avowed enemies, even though both were
of the same blood and spoke the same tongue. But the
one which now interests us took place during the present
war, between Lieut. Charlie Sweeny of the French Foreign
Legion, and the Germans in the adjacent trenches;
by which exchange the Germans got nothing, and Sweeny
got a feast of "hot dogs!"</p>

<p>Sweeny, as you may infer from his name, is not a
Frenchmen, even though he happens to be in the army
service of France. I am also in the same service and my
name is Casey. We are both Americans. Sweeny is<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_313" id="Page_313">[313]</a></span>
a West Point graduate, and a native of Spokane, Wash.
After his graduation from West Point he married a
Belgian girl and settled down in Paris. His wife and
two small children are living in that vicinity at the present
time.</p>

<p>When the war broke out Sweeny enlisted in the French
Foreign Legion. He was promoted for gallantry in action;
and last September, after leading us into the Boche
lines during the Champagne offensive, he was decorated
with the Legion of Honor. Lieut. Sweeny is the first
American in fifty years who has held a commission in the
French army.</p>

<p>But how Sweeny won his "hot dogs" is a different
story.</p>

<p>One day when we were in the front trenches Sweeny
handed me a cigarette. It looked like a Turkish cigarette
and I duly remarked it.</p>

<p>"No," said he, and he indicated a large tin box filled
with the same sort, which he had with him, "these are a
present from our friends, the enemy. They were given
to me by the Germans."</p>

<p>"Must have been sent over to you inside a 'Jack
Johnson' shell," said I.</p>

<p>"I can see you don't believe me," Sweeny replied, "but
it's a fact. They came in a hamper, together with two
bottles of real Munich beer, an assortment of Westphalian
ham, cheese, honey, sandwiches of roast veal and
white bread, a few slabs of K bread, some pipe tobacco,
and some&mdash;what do you think?&mdash;hot dogs! As sure as
you're born, Casey, and if you'll believe me, I went for
those frankfurters first! Oh, how many nights I have
sat out here and thought how good one of those hot
dogs, with a big gob of mustard on it, would be! But I
never thought I'd ever taste any in the trenches. Yet
only just now I have demolished four of them."</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_314" id="Page_314">[314]</a></span></p>


<p>II&mdash;"LET SWEENY TELL IT"</p>

<p>Here was the way of it, as Sweeny told it to me:</p>

<p>"I started out about midnight with a patrol to have
a look at a new German bayou between two fortlets beyond
our lines. I strung my men out so as to give warning
of any German patrol, and then led them past our
sentries and the barbed wire. I was some distance ahead
of my men, and had got well within the German lines
without seeing or hearing anything of the Germans.</p>

<p>"Now this was not the first time that I had ever penetrated
that far into the German lines, but it was the first
time on such a mission that I had not had to dodge a
German patrol; and very often their bullets. These
things ran in my head continually and made me think
that I had fallen into a very neat trap which the Germans
had laid for me. I expected to see them rise from
anywhere any minute, and hear the banging of their guns
and the whistling of their bullets (if I was lucky enough
to hear them, that is), and I began to wish myself well
out of my predicament and back again in the comparative
safety of our trench.</p>

<p>"This made me more cautious than ever, and presently
I began to retreat. As I did so a round German
helmet bobbed up out of a ravine not a dozen yards
away. An instant later, at the other end of the ravine,
another appeared. I squirmed away like a snake and
got behind the only shelter in sight, a little scrubby tree,
about three yards away.</p>

<p>"As I lay there quaking, wondering why the Germans
did not shoot&mdash;for they must have seen me&mdash;I happened
to look up, and there, hanging to a branch of the tree,
was a fat, clean-looking basket. I reached up, the limb
on which it hung being only a few feet from the ground,
and lifted the basket down.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_315" id="Page_315">[315]</a></span></p>

<p>"Then in a flash the explanation of the puzzle was
clear to me. The Germans had left that basket there and
meant me to have it.</p>

<p>"With the basket on my arm I got up, bowed low to
the round hats, and walked back to our trench without
ever being fired on.</p>

<p>"Inside the basket was the assortment I have described
to you. There was also a note something after this wise:</p>

<p>"'We have been in front of you for over a year, and
it is not against our comrades, the French, that we are
fighting, but against our enemy, the English. Let us
join forces against our common enemy. We are not
starving, as you may well see from the little present
we send you herewith.'</p>

<p>"Here was something that set me thinking pretty hard.
I had escaped death or capture by a miracle so far as I
could see, and all in order that I might enjoy a hearty
meal at the expense of the Germans.</p>

<p>"I set the basket down in the trench, and fell to with
a will; and I give you my word, Casey, of all the good
things I have eaten, I never enjoyed anything more than
I did that Dutch treat&mdash;especially the frankfurters.</p>

<p>"They took me back to the States immediately&mdash;hot
dogs, the brightness of the sea, the yawping of barkers,
crowds passing, the noise of thousands of shuffling feet&mdash;not
the sort of shuffling we hear now, Casey, when a
bugle call or the heavy sound of guns seems the chief
attraction. It was a great shame I couldn't save you one.</p>

<p>"The meaning of all this was a puzzle to me until I
found out that our boys had left a bundle of American
and English newspapers in the spot where I had found the
basket, with the paragraphs plainly marked in which it
was said the Germans were starving. And the basket
was the Germans' reply.</p>

<p>"Now you know how I came to get my hot dogs."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_316" id="Page_316">[316]</a></span></p>




<h2>THE DOGS OF WAR ON THE
BATTLEGROUNDS</h2>

<p><i>The "Four-Footed Soldiers" of France</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The "friend of man" has always served his master faithfully and
well in various humble capacities, but the Great War has seen
his sphere of usefulness enlarged to an almost incredible extent.
Our Gallant French allies have mobilized thousands of dogs for
war service, and as scouts, sentries, messengers, ambulance
workers, and beasts of burden these wonderfully-trained animals
have rendered most valuable assistance to the armies in the field.
Here is a soldier's story in the <i>Wide World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;TALES OF THE DOGS</p>

<p>My friend, who had just come home on leave from the
trenches, placed on the table in front of me a suspicious-looking
parcel which left no manner of doubt that, for
its size, it was extremely heavy.</p>

<p>"I'm going to leave this with you for a day or two, if
you don't mind," he said. "I can't carry it about with
me."</p>

<p>"What is it&mdash;bombs?" I asked, laughing, and my
friend, without a smile, answered:&mdash;</p>

<p>"Yes, two bombs&mdash;for my dog."</p>

<p>Wondering what murderous intention had suddenly
taken possession of the man, I looked my surprise, and
then he explained. He was about to buy a dog to take
back with him to the trenches, he told me, and to make
sure that the animal was absolutely and thoroughly
trained he had brought the bombs in order to test him.
If, when the bombs exploded in the dog's presence, the
latter stood the shock without fear or panic, he would
know the animal was trained and would be useful to<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_317" id="Page_317">[317]</a></span>
him. If, on the other hand, he manifested the symptoms
of unrest which I, for instance, would show if a bomb
exploded just behind my coat-tails, then the animal was
not properly trained and would be of no use to a soldier
in the trenches.</p>

<p>The use of dogs in warfare is to-day a common matter.
The number of dogs with the French army alone can be
guessed when it is stated that one society, the Société
Nationale du Chien Sanitaire, of 21, Rue de Choiseul,
Paris, has trained over fifteen hundred war-dogs.</p>

<p>The training of dogs for warfare showed from the
first of the most satisfactory results, and numbers of
regiments would now find their operations very difficult
indeed if they were suddenly deprived of their sagacious
four-footed companions.</p>

<p>The Société du Chien Sanitaire, like most new movements,
did not receive much official encouragement at the
beginning of the campaign, but nevertheless, thanks to
its efforts, under its energetic president, M. A. Lepel-Cointet,
aided by private enterprise, suitable animals were
soon forthcoming, at any rate for ambulance purposes,
and many officers took "mobilized" dogs with them to act
as scouts and watchers at night.</p>

<p>Dogs particularly suitable to warlike purposes are to
be found in great numbers in the Lower Pyrenees and
other mountainous regions of France, and to-day there
are societies in different parts of the country&mdash;not enough,
it is true, but still they have made a good beginning&mdash;who
are collecting and training the animals and sending them
to the Front. Recently a contingent of one hundred dogs
was sent to the army by the Department of the Indre,
which is a hunting country where dogs are particularly
well trained to explore and to act as guardians. People
who have given or lent dogs to the army can, by keeping
the number given to them on receipt of the animal, have<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_318" id="Page_318">[318]</a></span>
news of their pets and their exploits, and some continue
to keep in touch with their humble friends by sending
them dainties from time to time.</p>


<p>II&mdash;DOGS AS SENTINELS AT THE FRONT</p>

<p>M. Mégnin, an authority on the use of dogs in warfare,
says that German attacks by night on small outposts have
almost completely failed since dogs have been employed
to watch. The animals have a remarkably acute sense of
hearing, and are able to detect the enemy at a great distance
and prepare the men to receive him. Thousands of
sentinels, especially in the Argonne and the Vosges,
where it is difficult to see far ahead owing to the nature
of the ground, have owed it to their dogs that they have
not been surprised and killed or taken prisoners. In many
cases they have even turned the tables on the enemy.</p>

<p>Captain Tolet, who is in command of the kennels of the
Tenth French Army, has narrated some of the brave
deeds&mdash;the word is not too strong&mdash;of dogs under his
care, especially during the fighting on the Somme. On
August 28th a dog called Médor, although wounded by
a shrapnel shell, ran a mile and a half to carry a message
from a brigade to a colonel, was again wounded in the
last two hundred yards, but dragged himself to the commander's
post, where he died a quarter of an hour later.
Another dog, Follette, in the same month, ran nearly two
miles and was wounded, but nevertheless persisted in his
mission, dying five days later. In a part of the Vosges a
battalion of Chasseurs which utilized a particularly intelligent
animal as a sentinel did not lose a single man,
while a battalion which had preceded it, and which had no
dog, lost seven sentries in three days.</p>

<p>Another case of a dog's usefulness is recorded in the
taking of a farm in the Bois Brûlé (Burnt Wood).<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_319" id="Page_319">[319]</a></span>
Everyone thought Germans were hiding in the farm, and
no patrol had ventured to approach it. At last a man
went towards it at night with a dog on a leash twenty
yards ahead of him. The animal showed no signs of uneasiness,
and the farm was found to be empty. Telegraphists
and others were thereupon able to instal themselves,
and before morning the Germans' position was
satisfactorily examined and an enemy redoubt smashed
up.</p>

<p>Some of these gallant four-footed soldiers have received
decorations just like men&mdash;and an extra bone or
two as well, one hopes. Why not? The intelligence
shown by these animals sometimes approaches very near
to that of human beings, and one feels sure they are
gratified at the attention drawn to their doings. Recently
there was a special public parade at the Trocadéro in
Paris, when the Société Protectrice des Animaux presented
prizes to soldiers who had distinguished themselves
in the training of animals. Collars of honour
were also awarded to a large number of dogs exhibited
by the soldiers who had trained them. Three
of these animals were specially fêted on account of what
they had done&mdash;Fend l'Air, belonging to Sergeant Jacqemin,
whose life he had saved at Roclincourt; Loustic,
specially noticed for his intelligence at the Front; and
Pyrame, who saved an entire French battalion by detecting
the presence of an enemy column. In other cases
the War Cross has been awarded to dogs that have performed
conspicuous deeds, especially in the saving of
life.</p>

<p>It was mainly owing to a number of British dogs that
the French army was able to drive the Germans out of
Boesinghe Woods in one of the engagements round Ypres.
Prusco, a bull-terrier, serving with French motor scouts,
who carried him in a side-car, was of great value in carrying<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_320" id="Page_320">[320]</a></span>
messages back to headquarters; while Lutz, a dog that
distinguished himself in one of the Verdun engagements,
was employed as an advance sentinel last February, and
first gave warning of a German attack by repeated growls.
The Red Cross Dog League, which began activities early
in the war with eight dogs, now has two thousand five
hundred animals in the field, and it claims that the lives
of at least eight thousand wounded men have been saved
by them.</p>


<p>III&mdash;HOW DOGS BECOME GOOD SOLDIERS</p>

<p>The training of intelligent animals like these is carried
on in five different ways, for various uses.</p>

<p>1.&mdash;<i>As Ambulance Dogs.</i> The animal seeks for
wounded men lost on the battlefield; he searches in holes,
ruins, and excavations, and hunts over wooded places or
coverts, where the wounded man might lie unnoticed by
his comrades or the stretcher-bearer. The dog is especially
useful at this work in the night-time, when he can
often by his scent discover fallen men who would otherwise
be passed over, for at night-time ambulance-men
often have to work in the dark, as lights would attract the
enemy's fire. Having found a wounded man still alive,
the dog brings his master (or the ambulance-man to whom
he is attached) some article belonging to the sufferer.
This object tells the master, "I have found someone&mdash;search!"
Usually the object brought is the fallen man's
<i>képi</i> (or nowadays his helmet), and the trainers teach
the dog to find the man's headgear, but if this is missing
some other object must be brought. It is a fatiguing
operation for the animal, as he has to return with closed
mouth. The ambulance-man who receives the article at
once puts the animal on a leash, and is immediately led
to his wounded comrade. The leash is about two yards<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_321" id="Page_321">[321]</a></span>
long, so that the movements of the animal shall be hindered
as little as possible.</p>

<p>If dogs were utilized in this service long during wartime,
their value would be incalculable; and their use is
all the greater when fighting takes place over an extended
area. The situation of the wounded man overlooked or
abandoned on the battlefield is a truly horrible one;
he has to wait in the forlorn hope that he will be found,
for the army has gone on, and the more victorious it is
the farther it will push ahead. In the Franco-Prussian
War of 1870-1 more than twelve thousand men were
thus lost to the French alone, while in the Russo-Japanese
War the Japanese lost over five thousand in this manner,
showing that the methods then used for the exploration
of the battlefields were inadequate. In that war three
dogs sent by a military dog society found twenty-three
wounded men who had been abandoned after the battle
of Cha-ho. In the Boer War the collie dogs taken out by
the men, it is said, saved hundreds of wounded men who
would never have been found by the ambulance-workers
in the difficult country where fighting mostly took place.</p>

<p>2.&mdash;<i>As Trench Dogs or Sentinels.</i> The sentry or
trench dog is trained to stay in the trench itself or in a
small "listening-post" made for him, either on the edge
of the trench, outside it, or at a little distance away.
There he remains on the <i>qui vive</i>, ready to signal the least
suspicion of a noise or the presence of the enemy. In
this work both his eyes and his scent help him. He is
kept on the leash, and he gives the signal of danger by
a slight growl, without barking, which would give the
alarm. The greatest difficulty in the training of dogs for
this work has been to rid them of the habit of barking,
but this has been overcome with care and patience. The
training of dogs for this class of work can be&mdash;and has
been&mdash;carried to great lengths. A man crawling on patrol<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_322" id="Page_322">[322]</a></span>
work can take a dog with him, also in a crouching position,
on a leash. A little tug at the leash causes the dog
to rise, to retire, or to change its direction, and a properly-trained
animal will answer to the leash as satisfactorily
as a horse does to the reins. Such a dog is of immense
help at night, when he can be taken quite close to the
enemy.</p>

<p>3.&mdash;<i>As  Patrols or Scouts.</i> The dog accompanies the
human scout in his reconnaissance, and helps in finding
advance posts or sentinels, and locating small groups of
the enemy.</p>

<p>4.&mdash;<i>As  Couriers or Messengers.</i> The animal acts as
a messenger, carrying written orders or information, and
is used according to circumstances. He can carry messages
between groups in the rear and fighting formations
in the front&mdash;for example, between the artillery and the
infantry, and <i>vice versa</i>; between two fighting forces,
such as battalions, companies, or sections; between the
headquarters and the various positions of the army; or
between the main body and detached posts, such as patrols,
scouts, etc. Taken along by a patrol or scouting
party, he can be sent back to the main body with a message
fixed to his collar. The note having been removed
and read, a reply can be attached to his collar, and the dog
sent back to the original body of men, even if they have
changed their position, since he finds them again by his
scent. A dog is not only much quicker in carrying these
messages than a man, and can cover ground where no
cycle could go, but he also has an advantage in being almost
invisible to the enemy. If on a leash, he can conduct
a man in charge of reinforcements or ammunition
to the new position of the patrolling party&mdash;sometimes
over a distance of several miles.</p>

<p>5.&mdash;<i>As  Dogs of Communication.</i> This is the most difficult
task to which military dogs are put, and requires<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_323" id="Page_323">[323]</a></span>
very special qualities, so that only a very few animals
have been found capable of the work. It consists in
sending him after a patrol <i>en route</i> with a message, or
even in finding a lost patrol or scouting party and bringing
it back to its base. It will readily be understood that
an exceptional scent is required in a dog to do work of
this sort.</p>

<p>In the two last-named classes of work dogs can pass
swiftly backwards and forwards through brisk firing
and run much less risk than a man.</p>


<p>IV&mdash;DOGS ARE HEROES UNDER FIRE</p>

<p>There are several societies in Paris which choose suitable
dogs in order to make soldiers of them. The "Central
Society for the Development of the Breeds of Dogs"
gave three thousand dogs to the French army last August.
After they have been tested, an operation which
takes about three weeks, they are sent to special stations
in the rear of the armies to be trained, and five or six
days are all that are necessary for the training of animals
for the simpler kinds of work. For more difficult
tasks the training is naturally a longer business. When
dogs are to be trained as communication agents the instruction
may take several weeks. They are taught to go
from one master to another, first by a call, then by a
whistle, then simply at a mere gesture. Distances are
gradually increased, obstacles are placed in the way, the
animal's goal becomes invisible, and so on. Much patience
is required in this kind of work; and it is found
that the best results are obtained by kindness and giving
rewards for good work accomplished. The animals are
taught to recognize only two masters, and to obey them
alone. Outsiders are not allowed to pet or feed them.
When they understand that they have to obey only one<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_324" id="Page_324">[324]</a></span>
or two men, they have to learn to follow one or both of
them when marching in a column of infantry, to recognize
them when in a group, and so on. They are taught to
endure the sound of gun-firing or explosions quite close
to them. Above all, they are strictly trained never to
pick up articles on their journey and to refuse delicacies
offered them by strangers.</p>

<p>Specially-trained dogs only are chosen for this work,
and they are mostly sheep-dogs or collies or animals
whose business it was in civil life to be guardians or
watchers, and always on the alert. These are all the
easier to train for the special work&mdash;somewhat of the
same order&mdash;which they are set to do in war.</p>

<p>... When the question of transport through the
mountain snow had become a matter of urgent importance,
the French authorities conceived the idea of using
dog-drawn sleighs for carrying supplies. Some hundred
"huskies"&mdash;a cross between the Eskimo dog and the wolf&mdash;and
other trained dogs from Alaska, North-Western
Canada, and Labrador were brought over by Lieutenant
René Haas, a Frenchman who had spent fourteen years
in Alaska. Mr. Warner Allen, the representative of the
British Press with the French armies, describing the work
of these dogs, says the snow in the neighbourhood of the
Schlucht Pass was deep enough until almost the end of
April for the dogs to render yeoman service. "They
were able," he says, "to draw heavy loads over almost
inaccessible country, and to supplement to a valuable extent
the wheeled transport. But their utility has not
ceased with the disappearance of the snow. They are
now being harnessed to trucks on small two-foot-gauge
light railways, which run everywhere behind the Front,
and they are capable of drawing the heaviest load up the
steepest gradient. Eleven dogs, with a couple of men, can
haul a ton up some of the most precipitous slopes in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_325" id="Page_325">[325]</a></span>
mountains, and I was assured that two teams of seven
dogs each could do the work of five horses in this difficult
country, with a very great economy of men."</p>

<p>This correspondent adds that the best of these imported
breeds of dogs is the Alaskan, as "his courage never fails,
and he will work until he drops, though he is perhaps the
weakest of them. They are all shaggy dogs, with prick
ears and bushy tails, their colour ranging from black to
white, between greys and browns. Their chest development,
so necessary for hauling, is remarkable. They are
mainly fed on rice, horse-flesh, and waste military biscuits,
and this fare appears to suit them admirably, as
they are always in splendid condition, and disease is practically
unknown. The experiment of transporting these
dogs to France has shown that they can be of real service
in mountainous country, and represent a real economy."</p>

<p>Dogs that are specially adapted or have been trained
for hunting or sporting purposes are of little use in war,
as they have acquired habits incompatible with the work
now demanded of them. Certain breeds, such as the
Great Dane, and others of limited intelligence, are of no
value at all. Some of these have the habit of rushing
forward at the slightest alarm, which is of more danger
than advantage to the soldiers to whom they might belong.</p>


<p>V&mdash;DOGS AS LOYAL COMRADES&mdash;FELLOW-WORKERS</p>

<p>The "dog soldier," like his master on special missions,
has to see and hear without being seen or heard. It is
amusing, but nevertheless true, that the dogs of smugglers
and poachers, as well as those of coastguardsmen,
have been found to be most useful animals in the army.
A well-trained dog, acting with a sentinel or scouting
party may be the means of preserving numbers of lives
by saving them from unpleasant surprises.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_326" id="Page_326">[326]</a></span></p>

<p>The use of dogs in warfare was, of course, not invented
in the present war, though their utility had been systematized
and given more scientific scope than was ever the
case before. In no previous campaign have men understood
the full use that could be made of these highly-intelligent
creatures.</p>

<p>It was the Belgians who first turned their attention to
the subject of employing dogs more extensively. Everybody
who has visited Belgium knows the use that is made
of dogs for traction purposes all over the country. Nearly
all the peasants who bring agricultural or dairy produce
to market employ dogs to draw their small carts, sometimes
harnessing whole teams to heavy loads. The dog is
also greatly used in Belgium for sport, and from the
sporting dog to the police dog is but a step. The dog in
war&mdash;as sentinel, courier, scout, or ambulance worker&mdash;followed,
and was the idea of Professor Reul, of the
Veterinary School of Cureghem, and two journalists
named Van der Snick and Sodenkampf. In 1885-6 the
first dogs trained to some of these purposes were shown
at a dog show at Ostend, and shortly afterwards societies
were started at Brussels, Liège, Lierre, Ghent and other
places, not merely for the training of dogs, but to improve
the breeds. Lieutenant van der Putte, of the Belgian
army, started the Société du Chien Sanitaire for the express
purpose of training dogs for ambulance work and
soon afterwards similar societies were organized in Paris
and Berlin.</p>

<p>It was quite natural that the Belgians should also think
of using these draught-dogs for small machine-guns, thus
providing an inexpensive but efficient light artillery. The
Germans wished to imitate them, but it is related that
when they tried to buy dogs from the Belgians, as they
had no indigenous animals suited to the purpose, the Belgians
refused to sell. In other ways, however, the Germans<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_327" id="Page_327">[327]</a></span>
were at the beginning of the war well provided with
dogs for various purposes, including the ambulance service.</p>

<p>Since then the use of dogs in the German army has
assumed considerable proportions. The animals used are
mostly of the German sheep-dog variety, and a register
of these, numbering several thousands, is kept for mobilization
purposes by the German Sheep-Dog Club.
Other breeds used by the enemy are terriers, red-haired
griffons, Doberman <i>pinchers</i>, Airedale terries, and a sort
of bull-terrier known as a "Boxer." Dogs, it appears,
have been used by the German army chiefly on the Eastern
Front, where the fighting was of a more open description
than on the Western Front.... The German
papers published appeals from the authorities asking
dog owners to offer their pets for war purposes, and
many thousands were obtained as a result.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_328" id="Page_328">[328]</a></span></p>




<h2>TRUE STORY ABOUT KILLING THE
WOUNDED</h2>

<p><i>Told by A. Pankratoff</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>Translated from the Russian for <i>Current History</i></p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;GERMANS HANGED COSSACKS ON TREES</p>

<p>The other day, quite unexpectedly, I ran into Lieutenant
X., better known as the Junior Subaltern.</p>

<p>This was the fourth time I had run across him since
the beginning of the war&mdash;at Insterburg, where the Junior
Subaltern was leading his company toward Königsberg;
then in the trenches beyond Tarnovo; then in the vicinity
of Lublin, during the great retreat; and now, the
fourth time.</p>

<p>"I am stationed twelve versts from Czernowitz," he
went on to explain. The Junior Subaltern is really so
young that you can't help envying him. His face shines
with health. His eyes are always laughing. His speech
is very simple, but impressive; but he does not like to
talk; he would rather listen, and laugh responsively with
his eyes.</p>

<p>Fortune had brought us together; several men sitting
down to a common meal. We talked freely about everything.
The conversation turned to the German habit of
finishing all the wounded enemies they find after a successful
battle. During the forest fighting last August
one of us had come across sixty Cossacks who had been
but slightly wounded, and whom the Germans had hanged
on the trees.</p>

<p>"We avenged them, however; the Germans got something
to remember!" said the narrator.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_329" id="Page_329">[329]</a></span></p>

<p>Lieutenant X.'s eyes sparkled with animation.</p>

<p>"Well," he said, "of course they deserved it! Of course
it is a crime to kill the wounded. But, gentlemen, there
are cases when it is impossible not to kill the wounded!"</p>

<p>"What on earth do you mean?"</p>

<p>"Just what I said! There is such a thing as rightful
killing of the wounded!"</p>

<p>We insisted, and the Junior Subaltern narrated a recent
experience of his, "somewhere in Bukowina." He
had been in command of a party of scouts. His regiment
had just arrived to take the place of another infantry
regiment. And the first thing to do was to become acquainted
with the locality and to learn the dispositions
and intentions of the enemy. The Junior Subaltern was
sent out with his company. At one place the opposing
armies were separated by a ravine, which forked out toward
our trenches. Lieutenant X. knew that the men of
the regiment his was replacing had become acquainted
with the Austrians, and that the enemies by day came
together at the bottom of the ravine by night, entertained
one another, and gossiped.</p>

<p>"War is burdensome, gentlemen!" explained the Junior
Subaltern, "and we all longed for even the semblance
of human intercourse with the other chaps. * * *
And there happened to be a prolonged and tiresome spell
of calm between battles, and so the men of the regiment
we were replacing and the Austrians had long smokes
together, exchanging pipes. But every one remembered&mdash;and
nobody held it against any one&mdash;that the course
of cigarettes must be closely interwoven with the course
of bullets on the morrow. * * * Yet, yet&mdash;oh, if we
were only chivalrous knights, conducting a picturesque
tournament, instead of common Russian cannon fodder
fighting common Austrian cannon fodder. * * *"</p>

<p>Of course our young friend wanted to do the magnanimous<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_330" id="Page_330">[330]</a></span>
thing by the enemy, sending round word to
them, "Here we come! Get ready!" But what he did do
was to take advantage of the quiet exchange of the two
Russian regiments and the total ignorance in which the
Austrian members of the nightly smoking club in the
ravine still remained, and to creep noiselessly forward
to the spot where the friends of the night before were on
guard. The Austrian sentinels&mdash;three of them&mdash;dozed,
wrapped in their blankets. The Russians crept stealthily
forward. * * *</p>

<p>"What else could we do?" asked the Junior Subaltern.
"Humanitarian ideas are in blank contradiction to the
present war. Civilians at home may try to judge everything
in accordance with these ideas. Well, we know
they are mistaken. Oh, they are simply ridiculous!"
ended the Junior Subaltern, his good-natured, broad face
blushing at making such a bold statement in company.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"WHEN WE LEAVE NO WOUNDED
ALIVE"</p>

<p>"Such nonsense!" he went on. "Of course, at the
back of our minds the horror of it is always present.
But what else can you do? Standing in blood up to
your throat, and knowing that you have to protect your
men, to protect yourself. * * * And what difference
does it make to them whether you shoot them or throttle
them? * * * About a hundred paces from those three
sentinels there were at least a hundred others, and two
hundred yards off were the Austrian trenches. The least
noise, a groan, the stifled cry of a wounded Austrian
would be the end of everything for my scouts; and there
were only thirty of us. That was when I gave the order
not to leave any wounded alive. * * *"</p>

<p>It was an evident relief to him to be interrupted.</p>

<p>"Oh, yes, I remember!" said one of us. "I was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_331" id="Page_331">[331]</a></span>
camp when the Austrian officer, routed out in his sleep,
was brought in on the run in his nightshirt. The whole
thing went rapidly and well, and you took a machine gun
from the Austrians!"</p>

<p>Another of us said:</p>

<p>"I don't see what you are driving at! There's no
analogy at all! What you did was no hitting of those
who were down already. All sorts of conventions and
international law would justify you!"</p>

<p>"Well," answered the Junior Subaltern, "did I not say
that there was such a thing as justifiable killing of the
wounded, for us as for the Germans? Besides, I got
decorated for the job! Ouch! It is going to thaw! I
know, because my wounded leg aches!"</p>

<p>His smile was so frank and his face so full of the
bloom of youth as he thus changed the subject that it was
quite evident that he did not change it from any false
modesty, but simply because the subject&mdash;including his
own distinguished part in it&mdash;had no further interest for
him.</p>

<p>"You have been wounded?"</p>

<p>"Yes. Two bullets in my leg, one in my arm, one in
the abdomen."</p>

<p>"And you are still alive?"</p>

<p>"As you see! It was that devilish machine gun! The
bullet that entered my abdomen cut through the intestines,
touched my stomach, and came out by my back.
When I regained consciousness I heard the doctor saying:
'Put this one aside; he will die in a minute or two!' And
some of my men dug a nice grave for me and wrote my
name and the date on a board, and sat down patiently to
wait for my funeral. But I didn't die. So the surgeon
had to send me to hospital. But when the ambulance was
starting I heard him say: 'It's not a bit of use! He'll<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_332" id="Page_332">[332]</a></span>
die on the way there!' But I cheated the doctors. I'm
quite a rare specimen!"</p>

<p>"You are indeed!" And we all laughed, so contagious
was Lieutenant X.'s laughter.</p>

<p>"The Medical Council," he went on, "explained it by
the fact that, for two whole days previously, I had had
nothing to eat. * * * hadn't had time! It was on
the Stripa. The moment our regiment arrived at &mdash;&mdash;
we had to fight."</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_333" id="Page_333">[333]</a></span></p>




<h2>HOW WE FOILED "U 39" IN THE
SUBMARINE ZONE</h2>

<p><i>Adventures Aboard a Horse Transport</i></p>

<p><i>Told by H. O. Read, Late First Officer S.S. "Anglo-Californian"</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This story relates what happened when the horse transport
"Anglo-Californian" met the "U 39." The captain and twenty
men lost their lives, and eight more were wounded; but the
heroism of the commander and his officers saved the ship and
her valuable cargo. Personal experiences recorded in the <i>Wide
World Magazine</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;"WE CROSS THE ATLANTIC ON THE
<i>ANGLO-CALIFORNIAN</i>"</p>

<p>Ever since the 18th of February, 1915, when a blockade
of the seas round the British Isles was declared by
Germany, seamen navigating in the waters of the war-zone
have had a most anxious time in consequence of the
activity of the German submarine and their callous methods
in dealing with defenceless merchant vessels.</p>

<p>Our ship, the <i>Anglo-Californian</i>, had made a number of
voyages across the Atlantic, and had so far been fortunate
enough to get through the war-zone each time without encountering
any of the enemy's submarines. We had always
congratulated ourselves on our good fortune, but
on the voyage I am about to describe our luck seemed to
have deserted us.</p>

<p>It was the morning of the 4th of July, about eight
o'clock. I had almost completed my watch and was on
the point of being relieved by the third officer when, taking<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_334" id="Page_334">[334]</a></span>
a final look round the horizon before leaving the
bridge, I noticed the small cloud of blue smoke on the
surface of the water about a mile away on our port beam.</p>

<p>For the moment I was rather puzzled as to what it
could be, there being no craft of any description in sight
from which it could come. I was not long kept in doubt,
however, for as the cloud of smoke gradually lifted I
caught sight of the conning-tower and long, low hull of a
submarine, which I knew at once must be a German, as
our under-sea craft were not operating in this vicinity.</p>

<p>She had apparently just come to the surface after locating
us with her periscope, and, seeing everything clear,
immediately gave chase.</p>

<p>Ordering the man at the wheel to put the helm over,
thus bringing the submarine directly astern of us, I informed
the captain of the presence of the enemy. He immediately
came on the bridge and proceeded to take all
necessary steps to try and outrace the submarine. We
were quite unarmed, so flight was our only chance.</p>

<p>The chief engineer was summoned and told to raise all
the steam he possibly could and drive the ship for all she
was worth, and the extra speed that was very quickly attained
was convincing proof of the way in which he and
his staff carried out these orders.</p>

<p>Almost immediately after sighting the submarine the
captain ordered the wireless operator to send out the
"S.O.S." call for help. This was promptly answered, and
we were informed that assistance was being sent us with
all possible speed.</p>

<p>The captain, myself, the second officer (who was the
captain's son), and the third officer were now on the upper
bridge, anxiously watching our pursuer through the
glasses. To our dismay we noticed that she was slowly
but surely gaining on us.</p>

<p>It was not until a quarter of nine that she first opened<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_335" id="Page_335">[335]</a></span>
fire, this presumably being a warning shot, as it fell wide
on our port side. The captain took heed of the summons,
however; he merely smiled and gave orders to telephone
down to the engineers to "keep her going" as hard as
they could.</p>

<p>A second warning shot was fired, falling clear of the
ship on the starboard bow, but this also was unheeded.</p>

<p>Those on the submarine, observing that our speed was
increasing and that no notice was taken of their shots,
evidently came to the conclusion that we were going to
make a run for it, and forthwith they commenced to fire
shell after shell at us. At first they tried to bring
down the wireless apparatus, so as to prevent us from getting
into communication with the patrol vessels, but this,
as I have previously stated, we had already done, and
were now in continuous communication with them, giving
them our now rapidly-changing positions. Unfortunately
for us, however, the patrols were some distance away,
and there was not much chance of their being able to
reach us for two to three hours. What would happen
meanwhile was hard to say; certainly our chances of getting
away from our pursuer looked very small indeed.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"SHELLS WERE BURSTING AROUND OUR
VESSEL"</p>

<p>The fire from the submarine now became more rapid,
but was not always effective, as Captain Parslow, heedless
of the shells which were dropping and bursting all round
the vessel, kept the quartermaster at the wheel constantly
working his helm so as to keep the submarine almost directly
astern of us, thereby making the ship as small a target
as possible. Momentarily, however, the submarine
drew nearer and the shell-fire more and more deadly.
Almost every shot now found its mark, striking the vessel
at various points on the quarters and round the stern.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_336" id="Page_336">[336]</a></span>
Forsaking the wireless, their aim was now evidently the
rudder or propeller, so as to totally disable us and thus
have the vessel at their mercy.</p>

<p>When the firing first commenced our crew, including
the horse attendants, and numbering about a hundred
and fifty all told, had been warned to be ready to go to
their boat-stations at a moment's notice in case of emergency,
and consequently everybody, with the exception
of the engineers and firemen working below, was now on
deck.</p>

<p>No signs of panic were shown until a shell, bursting
amidships, killed three of the horsemen. Then a rush
was made for the starboard after lifeboats, and men began
scrambling into and overloading them. The result would
have been disastrous if the captain, drawing my attention
to it, had not ordered me to go and threaten to shoot
anyone who did not immediately come out and wait until
orders were given for the boats to be lowered.</p>

<p>This had the desired effect, quelling the panic for the
time being.</p>

<p>The submarine&mdash;she was the "U 39," we noticed&mdash;was
now only about five or six hundred yards astern, and our
case began to look hopeless. Not once, however, did the
captain waver from his intention never to surrender.
His coolness and courage were remarkable, and went a
long way to inspire confidence in those under him.</p>

<p>The shells were now bursting all over the vessel and
playing havoc with the deck structures. They tore
through the horse-fittings, killing numbers of the unfortunate
horses, and also wounded several of the men,
who were now clustered in groups near the boats.</p>

<p>Just at this moment a signal to us to "abandon ship"
was observed flying from the submarine, and the firing
suddenly ceased, the intention apparently being to give us
time to get into the boats and leave the vessel. This,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_337" id="Page_337">[337]</a></span>
however, our captain had no intention of doing, and after
hastily consulting the chief engineer and myself he decided
to get as many of the crew away from the ship as
possible, as they were in imminent danger of being killed
by the bursting shells. The remainder of us were to stand
by him and keep the ship going until the very last.</p>

<p>The man at the wheel was sent to take his place in
the boats, and the majority of the crew were ordered to
do the same.</p>

<p>The firemen&mdash;who had up to this moment been working
below&mdash;now came on deck, and made a rush for the
boats before the order was given. Driving them out at
the muzzles of our revolvers, we persuaded them to keep
cool and wait until they were told to take their places.</p>

<p>These firemen, who were Arabs, were now thoroughly
frightened, and would on no account return to the stokehold,
though the captain offered £20 to any man who
would do so.</p>

<p>During the time the firing ceased&mdash;which was not more
than five minutes&mdash;we got the port after lifeboat away,
full of men, and were preparing to lower the others when
we received a wireless message from the patrol steamer,
saying that they could see the smoke from our funnel.
They told us to keep going, and to hold the submarine at
bay as long as possible, as they were coming towards us
with all possible speed.</p>

<p>It was at this moment that the captain shouted to the
firemen to return to the stokehold, offering, as already
stated, £20 to any man who would do so, but this they
refused to do.</p>

<p>The chief and second engineers, with the donkeyman,
nobly responded to the captain's request, and immediately
rushed down to the stokehold and engine-room, where
they worked like Trojans to get as much steam as possible
to keep the vessel going.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_338" id="Page_338">[338]</a></span></p>

<p>As soon as it became apparent to those on the submarine
that we were not going to give in they commenced
firing again, and with deadly effect, for the boat was now
only about a hundred yards behind us.</p>

<p>One of the shells, bursting directly behind the funnel,
struck the davit of the after lifeboat, which was now full
of men and in the very act of being lowered. It severed
the tackle, causing the boat to drop into the water, where
it capsized, throwing all its occupants into the sea.</p>

<p>Another shell, fired almost directly afterwards, struck
the davit of the port forward boat, cutting it completely
in half. The boat, which was hanging in the tackle with
seven men in it, was blown almost to fragments and
nearly all its occupants killed.</p>

<p>There now only remained one boat fit for use, the other
two remaining ones being too badly damaged to put into
the water. This boat was now manned and rapidly lowered
over the side, with the chief steward in charge; and
it was chiefly due to his skilful handling that she finally
got away clear of the ship, as she was in danger of being
smashed to pieces by the now rapidly-revolving propeller
as she floated astern.</p>


<p>III&mdash;STOOD AT THEIR POSTS LIKE HEROES</p>

<p>There were now only thirty-two of the one hundred
and fifty members of the ship's company left on board,
including the captain, officers, and engineers, and our
chances of getting out of our present predicament certainly
looked small.</p>

<p>The second, who had now taken the wheel, was skilfully
steering the ship under the captain's orders. He
kept the submarine&mdash;which was now close upon us&mdash;almost
directly astern, and the position of both father and
son was one of extreme danger, for fragments of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_339" id="Page_339">[339]</a></span>
bursting shells were constantly striking the navigating
bridge, and the couple had frequently to lie prone on the
deck to avoid being struck. Their coolness and courage,
however, never forsook them, and they remained at their
posts like heroes, without the slightest sign of fear.</p>

<p>We now noticed&mdash;greatly to our relief&mdash;the smoke of a
steamer on our starboard side, and this we rightly judged
to be the patrol ship hurrying to our help.</p>

<p>As she gradually came into sight, in response to a request
by our captain over the wireless, she fired at the
submarine, but the distance was too great, and the shot
fell short.</p>

<p>We made sure that our pursuer would now give up the
chase and submerge to get out of danger, but instead
she crowded on extra speed and drew up alongside our
steamer. She kept carefully under our lee, thus sheltering
herself for the time being from any further shots
from the patrol steamer. From this position she fired
shell after shell into us.</p>

<p>It was now an impossibility to keep the submarine any
longer astern, as her superior speed enabled her to keep
abreast of us.</p>

<p>We counted thirteen men on her deck, some of them
manipulating the gun, and others armed with rifles, with
which they kept up a constant fire, endeavouring to pick
off anyone they could see on our decks.</p>

<p>Those on the approaching patrol steamer, comprehending
our position and expecting every moment to see the
ship torpedoed, sent us a wireless message to throw lines
and ropes over the side and try to foul the submarine's
propeller, and thus stop her. If possible we might also try
and ram her. Ramming was out of the question, on account
of the German's superior speed, but, acting on the
first suggestion, under the captain's orders I went along
and threw some of our mooring-ropes overboard, but the<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_340" id="Page_340">[340]</a></span>
scheme was apparently ineffective, as the submarine still
kept her place on our port side.</p>

<p>It was just at this moment, as I was returning from
carrying out these orders, that a shell fired from the submarine,
and aimed directly at the bridge, struck our gallant
captain and literally blew him to pieces.</p>

<p>The second officer at the wheel was stunned and almost
blinded by the report, and his escape from death
was a miracle, as the captain was only a few feet away
when killed. Fragments of the shell actually tore away
some of the spokes of the wheel which he held at the time.</p>

<p>As I gained the lower bridge he came down smothered
in blood, dazed and stunned by the shock of the explosion,
and horrified at witnessing the death of his brave
father.</p>

<p>To remain on either of the bridges now was out of the
question, as the submarine was only fifty yards from us,
running abreast. The Hun crew had clamped a Maxim
on the top of their quick-firing gun and, using this, together
with their rifles, they kept up a constant fire fore
and aft.</p>

<p>The patrol steamer was still about two miles away, but
coming towards us at top speed, with smoke pouring from
her funnel. But would she reach us in time before the
pirates sent us to the bottom? We were now in imminent
danger of being torpedoed, the submarine being in
a splendid position to launch her deadly missile.</p>

<p>Seeing this, I called the wireless operators away from
their posts, to which they had gamely stuck through the
whole of the firing, and shouted down to the two engineers
to come on deck. Gathering together the remainder
of my men, we made our way along the bullet-swept
decks, taking shelter where and when we could. We cut
everything floatable adrift in case the ship went under so
as to give us a better chance of being picked up by our
rescuers.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_341" id="Page_341">[341]</a></span></p>


<p>IV&mdash;"WE SAW THE SUBMARINE SUBMERGE"</p>

<p>The deck of our vessel was a sickening sight. Dead,
dying, and wounded men lay in all directions, and blood
seemed to be everywhere.</p>

<p>We gathered the wounded together and got them under
cover, and with the able help of our veterinary surgeon
attended to them as best we could.</p>

<p>Nothing more could now be done. We were momentarily
expecting the torpedo to strike the vessel and finish
her, and stood ready to jump clear of the ship when she
went under.</p>

<p>But the torpedo did not arrive. Instead, we saw the
crew of the submarine hurrying to get their gun below
and preparing to submerge. The cause of this man&oelig;uvre
was the sudden appearance of two destroyers, racing towards
us at full speed.</p>

<p>The submarine rapidly disappeared under the water,
and in a few moments more the two destroyers and the
patrol steamer were alongside and darting all round us
in hopes of getting a shot at her.</p>

<p>We sent up a rousing cheer when we saw our rescuers
approach; we could scarcely realize that we were saved.</p>

<p>I at once got in communication with the commander of
one of the destroyers and asked him to search for our
boats and any of our crew who happened to be in the
water and pick them up.</p>

<p>This they at once started to do, and in a very short
time informed me that they had rescued ninety-seven of
them and would proceed to Queenstown and land them.</p>

<p>On making an examination of our steamer, we found,
in addition to considerable damage round the decks, that
she had been badly holed below the waterline, and was
taking water rapidly.</p>

<p>We at once set to work and plugged the holes up with<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_342" id="Page_342">[342]</a></span>
bales of hay and bags of fodder, at the same time giving
the vessel a list so as to bring the damaged plates out of
the water as much as possible.</p>

<p>When this had been done I informed the commander of
the remaining destroyer, and told him that we were ready
to proceed, but that it would be necessary to go into
Queenstown, the nearest port, to land our dead and
wounded.</p>

<p>He replied that this would be the best course to adopt,
and that he would convoy us into port.</p>

<p>We accordingly headed for Queenstown, and duly arrived
there late that night, where we were treated with
the greatest courtesy and kindness by the Admiralty
officials.</p>

<p>The dead were removed and the wounded taken to the
naval hospital, where their injuries were attended to.</p>

<p>Meanwhile the Admiralty took the vessel in hand, and
immediately commenced temporary repairs on her, and in
less than twenty-four hours I was able to leave the port
and proceed with her to Avonmouth, our destination, under
the escort of two destroyers.</p>

<p>The remains of our brave captain and of those who
fell with him were buried in Queenstown the following
day, being accorded full naval honours. The Admiral
of the port himself attended, and the respect and regard
shown by the townspeople, as the remains of these heroes
were laid to rest, was very marked.</p>

<p>No tribute is too great to pay to the memory of the late
Captain Parslow, who died like the gallant seaman he was,
giving his life in an endeavour to save his ship and the
lives of those under his command.</p>

<p>His son, the second officer, for the pluck and courage
he displayed in remaining at the wheel during the firing,
has been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross. The
chief engineer received the same decoration, and I myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_343" id="Page_343">[343]</a></span>
was the recipient of a handsome gold watch, suitably
inscribed, "From the Lords Commissioners of the Admiralty,"
as was likewise the second engineer and the
senior Marconi operator.</p>

<p>The conduct of both the third officer and the junior
Marconi operator deserves great praise, for they displayed
splendid courage and coolness in carrying out their duties
during the attack.</p>

<p>Lloyd's showed their appreciation of our efforts by presenting
a substantial cheque, expressing at the same time
their sincere regret for the loss of the heroic Captain
Parslow.</p>

<p>The crew of the submarine, presumably, duly received
Iron Crosses for their glorious day's work.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_344" id="Page_344">[344]</a></span></p>




<h2>MY WORST EXPERIENCE IN
MESOPOTAMIA</h2>

<p><i>Told by a Man Who Stopped a Bullet</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The writer of this vivid narrative, a British soldier, was wounded
in Mesopotamia during an unsuccessful attempt to relieve
Kut-el-Amara, shortly before its fall. Recorded in <i>Current
History</i>.</p></blockquote>


<p>I slipped my left hand into my tunic and was surprised
to feel the hot blood pouring out. Then it dawned
on me that I had been hit, and pretty badly, too. My
equipment was hurting me, so I took it off.</p>

<p>I felt very dizzy, and decided to try and get back as
far as I could. I stood up, a very unwise thing to do,
considering that I was about 150 yards from the Turkish
trench and must have made an easy mark, but I was not
hit again immediately. My legs gave way and I collapsed
and lay flat for a time. I thought if I was not to
bleed to death I must make an effort to put my field
bandage in place. So with difficulty I pulled it from
my tunic pocket. The outer covering came off easily,
and I took out one of the packets, but could see no way
to slit it open. Finally I gripped the edge of the packet
in my teeth and tore at it with both hands till it opened.
I put the pad on the wound, as near as I could, but had
no means of keeping it there, so I staggered to my feet
and ran on, keeping the pad in place with my left hand.
I believe I covered another fifty yards when I dropped
again and lay in a kind of stupor.</p>

<p>I was aroused by the almost continuous "krock" of
bursting shrapnel. Shells were dropping right and left,<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_345" id="Page_345">[345]</a></span>
and the air was full of moaning and screaming as the
bullets flew by. I managed to get on my feet again, although
the effort made the blood spurt out anew. The
sodden pad had slipped down and a burning pain in the
pit of my stomach caused me to double up in agony and
slide onto my knees. I started crawling painfully along
until I came to a small mound which would at least
afford "head over." I crept behind it and lay in the only
position I could, on my left side.</p>

<p>I passed my hand over myself to feel for a wound,
but could not find one. The bullet had entered the small
of my back and lodged under my breast bone. Gradually
the more intense pain passed away, leaving a not
unpleasant sense of numbness over all my body.</p>

<p>The persistent calling of a man in pain brought me
back to consciousness. The pitiless sun was blazing high
in the heavens, and I felt hot and dry. Somebody was
shouting "Fetch the stretcher-bearers, you fools: are you
going to leave me here?" At first I felt very sorry for
him, but soon wished he would stop, for I had a shocking
headache. I judged it to be about midday, and
thought that in another six hours I had a good chance of
being brought in.</p>

<p>I was horrified to see that the water of the Suwaicha
Marsh, which was on our right flank, had risen considerably,
and I feared for any of our wounded who were
further out on the right and unable to crawl away from
the menace. The man who was shouting stopped, and
everything was strangely calm and peaceful. I felt very
happy and contented then, for as long as I kept quite still
the pain was very dull, so I began singing and mumbling
away in a quiet voice:</p>

<p>
"Where my caravan has rested<br />
Flowers I'll strew there on the grass."<br />
</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_346" id="Page_346">[346]</a></span></p>

<p>I sang again and again, accompanied by a strange roaring
in my chest. My caravan, I thought, had rested
in some very unusual places, but none so unusual as this.
And what was the use of talking about the grass in the
desert of Mesopotamia, where there is nothing but the
yellow earth, the blue sky, the hot sun, and dirty water?</p>

<p>There was a water bottle, equipment, and rifle lying
close to my head, and I have a vague remembrance of a
Sikh lying beside me for a time and then jumping up
and running back. I slowly put my right arm up, caught
the sling, and dragged the bottle nearer. I pulled the
cork out somehow, and propped the bottle against my
face, with the neck to my lips, but was much upset to find
I had not the strength to lift it up. Tears rolled down
my cheeks after I had made two or three attempts, for
I was very thirsty. I sang no more, as my throat was
harsh and lumpy. So I lay staring at the yellow and
blue till I lost consciousness once more.</p>

<p>This time I was roused by our own guns, and the
sound was most comforting. "Giving 'em hell," I
thought gleefully. They bombarded for about an hour,
and then I slipped back into unconsciousness. It was
getting dark when I came to again. A man was standing
close to me, staring round the field. Somebody had
put my sun helmet on my head. He came over to me.
"Are the stretcher-bearers coming?" I asked, and he
told me I was the next to be moved. It was not long
before the bearers came, and they put the stretcher behind
me. It was painful work getting on the stretcher,
as I could not bear to have my body touched anywhere.
However, it was managed at last, and I lay on my left
side.</p>

<p>I suppose they went as gently as they could, but every
step racked my body so much that I was nearly mad with
pain. I cannot remember how far it was to the dressing<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_347" id="Page_347">[347]</a></span>
station, but I remember passing through the artillery
lines, where the guns had started again. I was put on a
table, still on the stretcher, and was pleased to see our
battalion doctor. "Well, laddie," he said, "how are
you?" I replied that I was all right, but thought it "a bit
thick" having to lie out there all day. Then he started
cutting my clothes up, jersey and shirt as well. The
dressing was by no means painful, but they left my hand
untouched. I asked for something to drink, but the
doctor said they would give me all I wanted at the field
hospital.</p>

<p>Then began the worst experience I have ever been
through. I was taken to a native springless mule cart,
with a few sacks and blankets thrown in the bottom,
and helped off the stretcher. The slightest movement
caused great pain, but when the cart started bumping off
I was in a positive inferno. I will not dwell on that four-mile
journey from the marsh to the riverside; suffice it
to say that what little breath I could summon was used in
praying the driver to stop and leave me on the ground.</p>

<p>We came to the field hospital at last. The natives
pushed a stretcher into the cart beside me, and one intelligent
fellow nimbly jumped up and stood on my
smashed hand. That was the last straw. I cursed him.
When I stopped for want of breath they attempted to
lift me on to the stretcher, but I begged them to stop.
I tried to get on by myself, but could only manage to
get my knees on and could not lift my body. The natives
were chattering round the cart, so I started shouting
"English, English. Fetch English," and at last a
"Jock" came up to see what was wrong. I begged him
to put his hand under my shoulder and help me on the
stretcher, and in a moment I was lying on my stomach&mdash;not
very comfortable on account of my laboured breathing,
but it was a rest for my left side. When my hand<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_348" id="Page_348">[348]</a></span>
had been cleaned and dressed I was put on a mattress
in a bell tent, where I tossed about in a high fever.</p>

<p>In the morning I was put in a paddle-boat, and I
slept till it started in the afternoon. We were taken
ashore at Orah that night, and there received better
attention. I was placed on the operating table and the
bullet located and removed.</p>

<p>I will not describe my stay at Orah or the trip down
the Tigris in the paddle-boat to Bussorah. My hand
was a fearful size and very painful. When the ship
was moored in front of Bussorah Hospital I was very
weak. Two orderlies helped me on to the stretcher, and
I was carried down the gangway to the entrance of the
hospital. A Major took particulars and consigned me
to a veranda ward on the second floor. And so I was
placed in one of the whitest, cleanest, and most comfortable
beds in the world.</p>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_349" id="Page_349">[349]</a></span></p>




<h2>SPIRIT OF YOUNG AMERICA&mdash;HOW
WE WENT "OVER THE TOP"</h2>

<p><i>Experiences of a New York Boy with the
Canadians</i></p>

<p><i>Told by (name withheld), Wounded in France</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>This is a letter from an American boy at the front. It symbolizes
the spirit of young America. In his frank, simple,
human way, he tells with outbursts of quaint humor how he
went "over the top," faced death, was wounded, and longs to
get back into the fight. It is but one of the tens of thousands
of private letters that are reaching friends in America every
time a ship comes in from Europe.</p></blockquote>


<p>I&mdash;"IN WAY OF FRITZ'S SHELLS"</p>

<div class="right">
1st Canadian Hospital, France,<br />
August 27, 1917.<br />
</div>

<p>Well, at last old man, I am writing to you. I am
sorry I have not answered your last letter sooner. I
have no good excuse to offer, so I guess I'll still cling
to the old thread-bare one of "too busy." I guess my
dear Mary will have told you that I am in hospital recovering
from a little wound, the penalty of getting in the
way of one of Fritz's shells. I am glad to say that I
am going along nicely and hope to be about again very
soon. I got hit just back of the knee, over the hamstring
tendon, "whatever that is." I guess I ought to
be thankful it was no worse. In a week or so I shall
be none the worse for the experience. Believe me, it was
some experience. You know&mdash;one of those times when<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_350" id="Page_350">[350]</a></span>
you hear invisible bands playing "Home Sweet Home"
and "He's Gone Where They Don't Play Billiards."</p>

<p>I guess, dear George, you would like a little of the
news of how I am passing the weary months away. Well,
at times it's not so bad. We have our little bit of fun,
for you know I'm one of those guys that makes the best
of it. We get many a laugh. We have got the knack
of being easily amused. We often get a smile out of
things at which if it wasn't for the surroundings we should
feel like shuddering.</p>

<p>I cannot tell you much on account of the censor. But
I can tell you a little of the experience I had last Wednesday
week, the 15th, the time we had the pleasure (?)
of going "over the top" and getting in close touch with
Fritz. We had been expecting it to come off for a long
time and I think the period of waiting was the worst part
of the whole affair. We had only been out of the line
a couple of days and such awful days they were; the
time we had been in, it was up to our knees in mud.
Well, anyway, the order came along for us to go back
and make an attempt to pull the job off. The day before
they tried to make things as pleasant as possible.
We had a band concert almost all day long, and then as
soon as it got dark we started forward to take up our
position to wait for the big show at daybreak.</p>

<p>Our first trouble was gas. We had our masks on in
about two seconds. I guess you have seen pictures of
these masks. But believe me, when you get a bunch of
men moving cautiously across country they're enough to
scare a fellow out of a month's growth. Eventually we
got there. But the position we were to take up was being
peppered with Fritz's iron rations. So we were told
to move to another place and dig ourselves in. Again he
located us and made it unhealthy, so we had to move
again. We were in a great mood then, for we had worked<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_351" id="Page_351">[351]</a></span>
like niggers and had just got comfortable when the order
came to move. We contented ourselves that we would
square matters in the morning.</p>

<p>At a quarter of four (daybreak) we settled down to
wait for the signal for the big show to start. There certainly
was some excitement in the air. Almost as much
as when in a game of pool the fifteen ball's over the hole
and it's your shot next. Through some cause or other
matters we were delayed twenty-five minutes&mdash;the longest
minutes I have ever lived. Each minute seemed like
an hour. Long after the war is all over and forgotten, I
think I shall remember that long, weary wait.</p>


<p>II&mdash;"WHAT I SAW WHEN I WENT 'OVER'"</p>

<p>At last, we got the signal and the barrage and bombardment
started. I have read of bombardments and
I have seen them described pretty vividly, but no description
or imagination could make anyone realize what
they are really like. Every thing we had, opened up at
the same second&mdash;silent batteries that had been there for
weeks without firing a shot, just waiting for this event
to be pulled off. It seemed as if the very earth was swaying.
But don't think we had it all our own way. For
Fritz had quite a number of iron foundries he wanted
to get rid of, and he started up almost as soon as we did.</p>

<p>We found out afterwards, that they knew we were
"going over." In fact, their officers had been officially
warned to be prepared for an attack at 4 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> So I guess
they had their anxious wait as well as we. Fritz's fireworks'
display was simply wonderful. Rockets and flare-lights
of every color and description went up, but I didn't
stop to admire it. I was too busy and scarcely in the
mood to admire anything. Everything had to be done
by signals. The noise was so deafening that even if you<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_352" id="Page_352">[352]</a></span>
shouted at the top of your voice you couldn't be heard.</p>

<p>The first wave went over at 4:25 <span class="smcap">A.M.</span> Everything possible
in what they call modern warfare was used&mdash;liquid
fire, oil, tanks and a dozen different things to get Fritz's
wind up. And believe me, we did get it up! For thirty
minutes after we went "over" we had them on the run.
All I am sorry about is that we could not keep them going
<i>until they reached Berlin</i>.</p>

<p>Believe me, old man, it was some fight! Some of the
things I saw myself, I would not have believed if I hadn't
seen them with my own eyes. Some of the fellows just
went crazy. One fellow was fighting away with only
half a rifle in his hand, and yet there was dozens of good
ones lying around if he had only taken a moment to pick
one up. Others were throwing bombs just like bricks.
You know the bombs we use out here mostly are the kind
we saw at that New York Red Cross bazaar&mdash;perhaps
you remember them. Before they explode you have to
pull the safety pin out, and then they burst four seconds
later. Well, some of the guys didn't pull the pins out;
they just used them like bricks. Gee, it put me in mind
of a good old Summer Lane scrap, but anyhow it was
enough to get them on the hustle.</p>

<p>There were many other little incidents, some that I
saw myself, and others that I heard coming down on the
hospital train. One of our fellows took two prisoners
only armed with a lighted candle. This happened after
we had been occupying Fritz's front line several hours.
Leaving his rifle at the top, he went down into one of
Fritz's saps "looking for souvenirs, I guess." Well, he
lit his candle and there in the corner were two great hulking
fellows. I guess they were more scared than he was.
Up went their hands with the same old cry: "Not me,
Mister, Mercy, Kamerad." We had a laugh afterwards
for the guy who brought them up, looked as if he had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_353" id="Page_353">[353]</a></span>
scared stiff. I'll bet he never goes down a strange sap
again unarmed. Later on they caught another five in one
of the other saps.</p>

<p>There were dozens of little incidents like this. So far
so good&mdash;but the worst had yet to come. We had captured
three villages and the famous hill. When I say
there had been five previous attempts to get the hill alone,
for he had occupied it for two and a half years, you will
see that it was some accomplishment. They put over ten
counter-attacks. I didn't count them. I was too interested
and busy with other things to bother about counting
anything. They came over in the old massed formation
style. It seems a crazy style to me, for their losses
must have been enormous. Every time they came over
they got smashed, and were glad to beat it back, or at
least as many of them as were able to. That continued
practically all day.</p>


<p>III&mdash;ON AN ADVANCE POST</p>

<p>As soon as it was dark, I was detailed along with a
bunch of other fellows to go out as reinforcements to
our left flank. My friend Jones, another fellow and I,
were put on an advanced bombing post. Every once in
a while they would attempt to come over on us. It kept
us pretty busy, and also kept us from getting sleepy.</p>

<p>In the early morning one of Fritz's planes came flying
over us. One of our fellows couldn't resist the temptation
of drawing a bead on him, although it's against all
orders for us to fire on aircraft. The chances of hitting
him are about a thousand to one. Well, the "son of a
gun" made a dive and swooped over us with his machine
gun. I don't think he got anybody, but he came so low
that some of our guns got him. He dropped like a stone.
I was almost sorry to see it, for I am still a sport and
that guy certainly had got grit.</p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_354" id="Page_354">[354]</a></span></p>

<p>Well, these little events kept happening all day long.
Then at four o'clock in the afternoon my friend Jones
got hit. It was during one of his attacks&mdash;he got inquisitive,
took a peek over the parapet, and got it in the
cheek. Two hours later I got hit&mdash;this was the second
time I had been hit. The first was so slight I didn't leave
the line, but this time I had just had about as much as I
cared for. So I got first aid and waited until things had
quieted down a little, and then made my way to a dugout
to wait until it got dark.</p>

<p>About nine o'clock, I started to beat it for the dressing
station. But believe me, old man, it was easier said than
done, for we had advanced over a mile over No Man's
Land and I had to go all over that way again. There
were three of us that started. The other two were just
slightly wounded&mdash;one in the shoulder and the other in
the wrist. But poor me, having it in the knee, was worst
of the bunch. I couldn't move fast, it had stiffened me
so.</p>

<p>Well, we had our little adventures going across. Once
I got entangled in the barbed wire. And then when we
saw several fellows ahead of us&mdash;we just dropped in a
shell hole, and waited for them to move off. After a
wait of about fifteen minutes, they didn't move. The
fellow with the hit in the shoulder crawled forward to
find out who they were. He was gone so long we were
just making up our minds to make a wide circuit of them,
"for none of us were armed"&mdash;we had thrown everything
away so we could move quicker. Just as we had
given him up he came back with the news it was one
of our own working parties fixing wires. The reason
he had been so long was because he had been waiting
to catch some of the conversation to see whether it was
English or not.</p>

<p>Away we started again. We were nearing our old<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_355" id="Page_355">[355]</a></span>
front line when Fritz caught us with one of his flare-lights.
Of course the next minute it was Whiss-siss-siss-pop-pop-pop!
They had turned a machine gun on us.
Then came another wait in a shell hole. Eventually I
reached the dressing station. I had my leg dressed and
a few bits of sticking plaster put on various parts of my
body. I was put on a motor ambulance and the next
morning woke up in a hospital clearing station to find
my old friend Jones sitting up in a bed opposite me.</p>

<p>Well, we had a good laugh for we are like the Siamese
twins. Wherever one is the other is not far off&mdash;at least
it has been that way since coming to France. And the
objects we looked, he with a face as big as two, and me
with my clothing all muddy and torn and various other
changes. We'd have made a good picture entitled, "After
the Fight." Later on we were taken on a hospital train
to this place, but I shall be glad when I can get about
again. I feel more lonesome here than I ever have in all
my life. It's the weariness of lying here with nothing to
do that gets my "goat." Nevertheless it's great to be
human again and among civilization again. The first few
days I appreciated it all right, for I did not have a wink of
sleep from the Monday night and scarcely anything to eat
or drink.</p>

<p>Now don't forget, old man, to drop me a line and let
me know how everything is in dear old New York. So
now good-bye for the present, hoping you WILL remember
me to all old friends.</p>

<div class="right">
Your old friend,<br />
<span class="smcap">Laban</span>.<br />
</div>

<p>P. S. I am enclosing a little souvenir, one of Fritz's
field cards. I was amusing myself on the back of it with
a few verses.<br /><br /></p>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_356" id="Page_356">[356]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 595px;">
<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-i356.jpg" width="595" height="900" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THIS IS THE SIDE OF THE POSTCARD TAKEN BY MR. HILL THAT
WAS INTENDED FOR THE ADDRESS<br /><br /></p></div>
</div>

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_357" id="Page_357">[357]</a></span></p>

<div class="figcenter" style="width: 604px;">
<img src="https://brian.carnell.com/wiki/_media/etext:v:various-true-stories-of-the-great-war-vol-5-i357.jpg" width="604" height="900" alt="" />
<div class="caption"><p>THE IMPRESSIONS OF AN AMERICAN BOY WHO DID NOT WAIT</p>
<p>Laban Hill, No. 1,054,147, Fourteenth Canadian Battery, on "Going Over the
Top" in August, 1917. Written to a Friend on a Postcard Taken
From a Dead German Soldier</p></div>
</div>

<div class="poem">
<div class="center"><br /><br />Over The Top</div>
<br />
<div class="center">1</div><br />
"Did you ever go over the top?" he said,<br />
"Did you ever go over the top?<br />
Did you sweep along an unbroken line,<br />
With bayonets gleaming, and eyes ashine<br />
And a feeling that went to your head like wine,<br />
The time you went over the top?"<br />
<br />
<div class="center">2</div><br />
"Did you ever go over the top?" he said,<br />
"Did you ever go over the top?<br />
Did the flarelights shine on a glorious sight<br />
As they pierced the dawn in the changing light;<br />
Did you thrill with a feeling of savage delight,<br />
The time you went over the top?"<br />
<br />
<div class="center">3</div><br />
"Did you ever go over the top?" he said,<br />
"Did you ever go over the top?<br />
Oh, tell me" he said "how you held up your head<br />
Of the things that you thought and the things that you said,<br />
Of your glorious pride as with the men you sped<br />
Far away over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">4</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top," I said,<br />
"You bet I've been over the top.<br />
But I felt alone in the flare-lights glare.<br />
And Mauser bullets were singeing my hair,<br />
And my knees were knocking together for fair,<br />
The night I went over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">5</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top," I said,<br />
"You bet I've been over the top.<br />
But it's lonesome out there in no man's land<br />
And you miss the crowd and you miss the band<br />
And your feet take root in the place you stand,<br />
The night you go over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">6</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top<br />
There was yards of wire got attached to my clothes<br />
And how I got out of it God only knows<br />
A secret I fear he will never disclose<br />
Till I'm finally "over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">7</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top," I said,<br />
"You bet I've been over the top.<br />
The artillery raised a continuous roar--<br />
They'd been at it, it seemed for a week or more--<br />
And old man I was sweating at every pore<br />
The night I went over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">8</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top," I said,<br />
"You bet I've been over the top.<br />
The noise and confusion, the shouts and the groans<br />
Had paralysed action and frozen my bones<br />
When a fellow went past me,--I think it was Jones,<br />
He was headed back over the top."<br />
<br />
<div class="center">9</div><br />
"Oh yes, I've been over the top," I said,<br />
You bet I've been over the top<br />
And since Jones has a blighty and wasn't napoo,<br />
If they're handing them out<br />
"I thought" me for one too.<br />
And blest if I didn't--in fact I got two,<br />
The night I went over the top.<br />
<br />
<div class="center">New York isn't the only place people hustle</div><br />
</div>

<hr class="chap" />

<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_358" id="Page_358">[358]</a></span></p>

<h2>THE SINKING OF THE
"PROVENCE II"</h2>

<p><i>Told by M. Bokanowski, Deputy of the Department
of the Seine</i></p>

<blockquote>

<p>The French auxiliary cruiser <i>La Provence II</i>, formerly a passenger
liner, was sunk by a submarine in the eastern end of
the Mediterranean while serving as a troop transport. Nearly
4,000 men are said to have been on board, of whom only 870
were saved. One of the survivors, M. Bokanowski, wrote this
thrilling description to President Poincaré of France:</p></blockquote>

<p><span class="smcap">Monsieur Le President</span>: You are doubtless familiar,
in all its details, with the fate of the <i>Provence II</i>.
I should like to describe to you&mdash;to assuage in a measure
the grief of France&mdash;the noble behaviour of those who
made ready at that moment, between sea and sky, to die
for their country.</p>

<p>We had on board a battalion and some detachments
of the Third Colonial Regiment of Infantry. At the
moment of the explosion I was on the bridge, with the
commander of the ship, his second in command, and
several of the higher officers. We directed the steps to
be taken, distributing lifebelts, superintending the launching
of boats and liferafts. Not an outcry, not a complaint,
not the slightest sign of panic&mdash;only the dignified
tranquillity of men who long ago had consecrated their
lives to the sublime cause that had put arms in their
hands.</p>

<p>Everybody would have been saved had it depended
only on officers and crew. Unfortunately the ship sank
rapidly. The water soon found its way into the boilers.<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_359" id="Page_359">[359]</a></span>
When they began to explode, about ten minutes past 5,
I jumped into the sea and swam as fast as I could in
order to get beyond the radius of suction. A few moments
later there were several deafening explosions. I
turned and saw the end. The ship was going down
stern foremost. Captain Vesco, still standing on the
bridge, cried in a voice above the uproar: "Vive la
France!" The survivors, swimming about the ship, or
safe on boats and rafts, saw the <i>Provence</i> make a sudden
plunge, her forward deck standing perpendicular in the
air. They, in their turn, saluted with a cry of "Vive la
France!" It was a quarter past 5.</p>

<p>After swimming for half an hour I succeeded in
reaching an overloaded raft, the occupants of which
pulled me aboard. Night was falling, the wind was chill
and nipped the flesh of the men, who were almost entirely
naked. Throughout the endless night, not a whimper!
My companions in misfortune had no words except
to lament the fate of those who were drowned and to
curse the Boche, who, neither before nor after his treacherous
shot, had dared to appear and show his flag. In
water up to the waist, with teeth chattering from the
cold, but upheld by the desire to survive and be able to
punish the villains, we were picked up eighteen hours
later by a trawler. Several men had died from the cold
on the rafts, and several others had lost their reason.</p>

<p>An English patrol and a French torpedo boat divided
the survivors between them, some heading for Milo, others
for Malta. I was among the latter, and we arrived
here about 1 o'clock yesterday. Captain Vesco, who was
in command of the <i>Provence II.</i>; Lieutenant Besson, second
in command; Colonel Duhalde, commanding the
Third Colonial Regiment of Infantry, remained on the
bridge until the very last second of the ship's life in the
most noble spirit of self-sacrifice, giving with perfect<span class="pagenum"><a name="Page_360" id="Page_360">[360]</a></span>
calmness precise and effective orders for saving the passengers.</p>

<p>The gunners of the <i>Provence's</i> stern gun, having
loaded it when the torpedo struck, remained at their
posts, trying to discover the hidden foe in order to
repay him in his own coin.</p>

<p>Surgeon Navarre of the Third Colonial Regiment, being
taken aboard a trawler nearly exhausted by his
eighteen hours on a raft, refused to change his drenched
clothing or to take any food until he had dressed the
hurts of the wounded and looked after the sick. He was
prostrated a long while after such superhuman labours.</p>

<p>And I must mention this other incident, which brings
tears to my eyes:</p>

<p>Gauthier, Assistant Quartermaster of the <i>Provence</i>,
having been taken on board a greatly overloaded raft,
was hailed by a soldier asking for help; he jumped into
the water to give him his place, saying: "A sailor's duty
is to save the soldiers first of all."</p>

<p>He was picked up, twenty-one hours after the wreck,
clinging to a plank.</p>

<p>I call attention also to the devotion and zeal&mdash;meriting
our profound gratitude&mdash;of Lieutenant Sinclair Thompson,
commanding the English patrol <i>Marguerite</i>, and of
his officers and crew, by whose labours about 300 survivors
were taken from the place of the wreck to Malta.</p>

<p>Pray pardon the form of this story, Monsieur le
Président. I have written it hurriedly, with a bruised
hand, and with a head still in a sad muddle. I wished,
before my impending departure for Saloniki, to say to
you with all my heart: "That is what these noble fellows
did!"</p>

<div class="right">
<span class="smcap">Bokanowski.</span><br />
</div>

<p>&nbsp;</p>
<hr class="chap" />
<p>&nbsp;</p>
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