From England
By MAURICE HEWLETT.
[From King Albert's Book.]
O men of mickle heart and little speech,
Slow, stubborn countrymen of heath and plain,
Now have ye shown these insolent again
That which to Caesar's legions ye could teach,
That slow-provok'd is long-provok'd. May each
Crass Caesar learn this of the Keltic grain,
Until at last they reckon it in vain
To browbeat us who hold the Western reach.
For even as you are, we are, ill to rouse,
Rooted in Custom, Order, Church, and King;
And as you fight for their sake, so shall we,
Doggedly inch by inch, and house by house;
Seeing for us, too, there's a dearer thing
Than land or blood—and that thing Liberty.
War Correspondence—The Beloved Hindenburg
A Pen Portrait of the German Commander in Chief in the East
[By a Staff Correspondent of THE NEW YORK TIMES.]
GERMAN GREAT HEADQUARTERS, EAST, Feb. 10.—But for the "field gray" coat and the militant mustache, I should have taken him for a self-made American, a big business man or captain of industry, as he sat at his work desk, the telephone at his elbow, the electric push-buttons and reams of neat reports adding to the illusion. Quiet, unassuming, and democratic, he yet makes the same impression of virility and colossal energy that Colonel Roosevelt does, but with an iron restraint of discipline which the American never possessed, and an earnestness of face and eye that I had only seen matched in his Commander in Chief, the Kaiser. Here was a man whom the most neutral American could instantly admire and honor, regardless of the merits of the controversy. It was Hindenburg, the well beloved, the hope of Germany. He has already been "done" by journalists and Senator Beveridge, but 70,000,000 are pinning their faith to him, which makes him worth "doing" again—and again.
For a moment I nearly forgot that I was an American with "nerve," bent on making him say something, preferably indiscreet; it seemed almost a shame to bother this man whose brain was big with the fate of empire. But, although I hadn't been specially invited, but had just "dropped in" in informal American fashion, the Commander in Chief of all his Kaiser's forces in the east stopped making history long enough to favor me with a short but thought-provoking interview.
As to his past performances, the Field Marshal genially referred to the detailed official summary; as to the future, he protested.
"I am not a prophet. But this I can say. Tell our friends in America—and also those who do not love us—that I am looking forward with unshakable confidence to the final victory—and a well-earned vacation," he added whimsically. "I should like nothing better than to visit your Panama Exposition and meet your wonderful General Goethals, the master builder, for I imagine our jobs are spiritually much akin; that his slogan, too, has been 'durchhalten' ('hold out') until endurance and organization win out against heavy odds."
Then with sudden, paradoxical, terrific quiet earnest: "Great is the task that still confronts us, but greater my faith in my brave troops." One got indelibly the impression that he loved them all, suffered under their hardships and sorrowed for their losses.
"For you, this war is only a titanic drama; we Germans feel it with our hearts," he said thoughtfully.
The Field Marshal spoke warmly of the Austro-Hungarian troops, and cited the results of the close co-operation between his forces and the Austrian armies as striking proof of the proverb, "In union is strength." Like all other German Generals whom I had "done," he, too, had words of unqualified praise for the bravery of his enemies. "The Russians fight well; but neither mere physical bravery nor numbers, nor both together, win battles nowadays."
"How about the steam roller?"
"It hasn't improved the roads a bit, either going forward or backward," he said with a grim smile.
"Are you worrying over Grand Duke Nicholas's open secret?" I asked, citing the report via Petrograd and London of a new projected Russian offensive that was to take the form, not of a steam roller, but of a "tidal wave of cavalry."
"It will dash against a wall of loyal flesh and blood, barbed with steel—if it comes," he said simply.
My impression, growing increasingly stronger the more I have seen, that German military success had been to no small extent made possible by American inventive genius and high-speed American methods, received interesting partial confirmation from the Field Marshal, whose keen, restless mind, working over quite ordinary material, produced the new suggestive combination of ideas that, while "America might possibly be materially assisting Germany's enemies with arms, ammunition, and other war material, certain it was that America, in the last analysis, had helped Germany far more."
"But for America, my armies would possibly not be standing in Russia today—without the American railroading genius that developed and made possible for me this wonderful weapon, thanks largely to which we have been able with comparatively small numbers to stop and beat back the Russian millions again and again—steam engine versus steam roller. Were it for nothing else, America has proved one of our best friends, if not an ally.
"We are also awaiting with genuine interest the receipt of our first American guns," the Field Marshal added. How was Germany expecting to get guns from America? He was asked to explain the mystery.
"I read somewhere in the papers that a large shipment of heavy cannon had left America for Russia," he said with dry humor, "in transit for us—for if they're consigned to the Russians, we'll have them sooner or later, I hope;" adding, with his habitual tense earnestness, "the Americans are something more than shrewd, hard-headed business men. Have they ever vividly pictured to themselves a German soldier smashed by an American shell, or bored through the heart by an American bullet? The grim realism of the battlefield—that should make also the business man thoughtful."
"Shall you go west when you have cleaned up here in the east?" I suggested.
"I can't betray military secrets which I don't know myself, even to interest the newspaper readers," he said. He gave me the impression, however, that, east or west, he would be found fighting for the Fatherland so long as the Fatherland needed him.
"Now it means work again. You must excuse me," he concluded, courteously. "You want to go to the front. Where should you like to go?"
"To Warsaw," I suggested, modestly.
"I, too," he laughed, "but today—ausgeschlossen, ('nothing doing,' in Americanese.) Still—that may be yet."
"May I come along, your Excellency?"
"Certainly, then you can see for yourself what sort of 'barbarians' we Germans are."
"Dropping in on Hindenburg" yields some unimportant but interesting by-products. The railroad Napoleon, as all the world knows, lives and works in a palace, but this palace doesn't overawe one who has beaten professionally at the closed portals of Fifth Avenue. It would be considered a modest country residence in Westchester County or on Long Island. Light in color and four stories high, including garret, it looks very much like those memorials which soap kings and sundry millionaires put up to themselves in their lifetime—the American college dormitory, the modern kind that is built around three sides of a small court. The palace is as simple as the man.
The main entrance, a big iron gateway, is flanked by two guardhouses painted with white and black stripes, the Prussian "colors," and two unbluffable Landsturm men mount guard, who will tell you to go around to the back door.
The orderly who opens the front door is a Sergeant in field gray uniform. You mount a flight of marble steps, and saunter down a marble hall, half a block long. It is the reception hall. It is furnished with magnificent hand-carved, high-backed chairs without upholstery, lounging not being apparently encouraged here. They are Gothic structures backed up against the walls. There is no Brussels or Axminster carpet on the cold marble floor—not even Turkish rugs. Through this palace hall, up by the ceiling, runs a thick cable containing the all-important telephone wires. The offices open off the hall, the doors labeled with neatly printed signs telling who and what is within. If you should come walking down the street outside at 3 A.M. you would probably see the lights in Hindenburg's office still burning, as I did. At 3:30 they went out, indicating that a Field Marshal's job is not a sinecure.
Feeling of the German People
Complete Confidence in Victory and Resentment Toward England
[By a Staff Correspondent of THE NEW YORK TIMES.]
BERLIN, Feb. 12.—To the neutral American, intent only on finding out the truth, the most thought-provoking feature here (overlooked by foreign correspondents because of its very featureless obviousness) is the fact that Germany today is more confident of winning than at any time in the three months I have been here. This confidence must not be confused with cocksureness; it is rather the "looking forward with quiet confidence to ultimate victory," as General von Heeringen phrased it. Even more important is the corollary that, while the Germans have apparently never had any doubt that they would win out in the end, this "ultimate victory" does not seem so far off to them today as it did three months ago.
To one who has had an opportunity of personally sounding the undercurrents of German public opinion, this quiet optimism that has become noticeable only in the past few weeks (totally different in character from the enthusiasm that followed the declaration of war) has seemed particularly significant. Three months ago I was incessantly asked by Germans "how the situation looked to an American," and "how long I thought the war would last." When left to answer their own question, they almost invariably remarked: "It may last a long while yet." Today neutral opinion is no longer anxiously or even eagerly sought. The temporary need for this sort of moral support seems to have passed, and there are many indications that the well-informed layman expects 1915 to see the wind-up of the war, while I have talked with not a few professional men who have expressed the opinion that the war will be over by Summer—except against England.
This unanimous exception is significant because it indicates that to the German mind the war with Russia and France is, in prize-ring parlance, a twenty-round affair, which can and will be won on points, whereas with England it is a championship fight to a finish, to be settled only by a knockout. The idea is that Russia will be eliminated as a serious factor by late Spring at the latest, and then, Westward Ho! when France will not prolong the agony unduly, but will seize the first psychological moment that offers peace with honor, leaving Germany free to fight it out with the real enemy, England, though as to how, when, and where the end will come, there is less certainty and agreement. Some think that the knockout will be delivered in the shadow of the Pyramids; others, and probably the majority, believe that the winning blow must and will be delivered on English soil itself.
Time here is no factor, for the war against England is taking on increasingly an almost religious character; from the German point of view, it will soon be, not a war, but a crusade. I get one clue to this in the new phrase of leave-taking that has gained an astounding currency in the past few weeks. Instead of saying "Good-bye" or "Auf Wiedersehen," the German now says: "God punish England!" to which the equally fervent rejoinder is, "May He do so!" This new, polite formula for leave-taking originated among the officers and men in the field, but you hear it on all sides now, uttered with a sincerity and earnestness that is peculiarly impressive. The new style of saying "good-bye" has at least the merit of being no longer a perfunctory piece of rhetoric.
This optimism is no nation-wide attack of insanity, for the German, thorough even in forming his opinions, is the last person in the world to harbor delusions, and there is a perfect realization of the titanic task that still confronts Germany. Nor is this confidence in ultimate victory due to lack of information or to being kept in the dark by the "iron censorship," for the "iron censorship" is itself a myth. It is liberal, even judged by democratic standards, and surprisingly free from red tape. There is no embargo on the importation of foreign newspapers; even the anti-German journals of neutral countries have free entry and circulation, while at a number of well-known cosmopolitan cafés you can always read The London Times and The Daily Chronicle, only three days old, and for a small cash consideration the waiter will generally be able to produce from his pocket a Figaro, not much older. Not only English and French, but, even more, the Italian, Dutch, and Scandinavian papers are widely read and digested by Germans, while the German papers not only print prominently the French official communiqués, the Russian communiqués when available, and interesting chunks from the British "eyewitness" official reports, but most of their feature stories—the vivid, detailed war news—come from allied sources via correspondents in neutral countries. The German censor's task is here a relatively simple one, for German war correspondents never allow professional enthusiasm to run away with practical patriotism, and you note the—to an American—amusing and yet suggestive spectacle of war correspondents specializing in descriptions of sunsets and scenery.
The German was never much of a newspaper reader before the war, but now he can challenge the American commuter as an absorbent of the printed word. And not only has the German been suddenly educated into an avid newspaper reader, but he has developed a tendency to think for himself, to read between the lines, and interpret sentences. Thus, no German has any illusions about the military prowess of Austria; but her failure has caused no hard feelings. "The spirit is willing, but the leadership is weak," is the kindly verdict, with the hopeful assumption that the addition of a little German yeast will raise the standard of Austrian efficiency and improve the quality of leadership.
The Germans, being neither mad nor misinformed, why they face a world of foes with this new confidence becomes a question of importance to any one who wants to understand the real situation here. The answer is Hindenburg—not only the man himself, but all that he stands for, the personification of the German war spirit, the greatest moral asset of the empire today. He is idolized not only by the soldiers, but by the populace as well; not only by the Prussians, but by the Bavarians and even the Austrians. You cannot realize what a tremendous factor he has become until you discover personally the Carlylean hero worship of which he is the object.
Hindenburg woke up one morning to find himself famous; but his subsequent speedy apotheosis was probably not entirely spontaneous. In fact, there is reason to believe that he was carefully groomed for the rôle of a national hero at a critical time, the process being like the launching by American politicians of a Presidential or Gubernatorial boom at a time when a name to conjure with is badly needed. He is a striking answer to the Shakespearean question. His name alone is worth many army corps for its psychological effect on the people; it has a peculiarly heroic ring to the German ear, and part of the explanation of its magic lies probably in the fact that the last syllable, "burg," means fortress or castle. He inspires the most unbounded confidence in the German people; the Field Marshal looms larger than his Kaiser.
The cigarmakers were the first to recognize his claims to immortality and to confer it on him; but now almost every conceivable sort of merchandise except corsets is being trade marked Hindenburg. Babies, fishing boats, race horses, cafés, avenues and squares, a city of 60,000, a whole county, are being named after him, and minor poets are taking his name in vain daily, "Hindenburg Marches" are being composed in endless procession, a younger brother is about to publish his biography, and legends are already thickly clustering about his name. He laid the Russian bugaboo before it had a chance to make its début; there is not today the slightest nervousness about the possible coming of the Cossacks, and there will not be, so long as the Commander in Chief of all the armies in the east continues to find time to give sittings to portrait painters, pose for the moving-picture artists, autograph photographs, appear on balconies while school children sing patriotic airs, answer the Kaiser's telegrams of congratulation, acknowledge decorations, receive interminable delegations, personages, and journalists, and perform all the other time-consuming duties incident to having greatness thrust upon you; for things obviously cannot be in a very bad way when the master strategist can thus take "time out" from strategizing. But the influence of "our Hindenburg," as he is often affectionately called, is wider than the east; the magic of his name stiffens the deadline in the west, and the man in the street, whose faith is great, feels sure that when he has fought his last great battle in the east the turn of the French and English will come.
While the German in the street, thanks largely to Hindenburg, regards the military situation with optimism, he sees no grounds for pessimism in the present political situation. Italy and Bulgaria are regarded as "safe."
How the Germans regard the economic, industrial, and financial situation is rather hard to estimate, because their practical patriotism keeps them from making any public parade of their business troubles and worries, if they have any. The oft-repeated platitude that you would never suspect here that a war was going on if you didn't read the papers is quite just. Conditions—on the surface—are so normal that there is even a lively operatic fight on in Munich, where the personal friction between Musical Director Walters and the star conductor, Otto Hess, has caused a crisis in the affairs of the Royal Munich Opera, rivaling in interest the fighting at the front.
There are certainly fewer "calamity howlers" here than on Broadway during boom times, and you see no outward evidence of hard times, no acute poverty, no misery, no derelicts, for the war-time social organization seems as perfect as the military. In the last three months only one beggar has stopped me on the streets and tried to touch my heart and pocketbook—a record that seems remarkable to an American who has run the nocturnal gauntlet of peace-time panhandlers on the Strand or the Embankment.
Business is most certainly not going on as usual. You note many shops and stores with few or no customers in them. About the only people who are making any money are army contractors and the shopkeepers who sell things available for "Liebesgaben" ("love gifts") for the troops in the field. Those businesses hardest hit by the war are in a state of suspended animation, embalmed by the credit of the State.
But, again, the influence of Hindenburg is wider than the east—and the west; it permeates the business world and stiffens the economic backbone of the nation. It is no exaggeration to say that the whole German people, barring the inevitable though small percentage of weaklings, is trying with terrific earnestness to live up to the homely Hindenburgian motto, "Durchhalten!" ("Hold out,") or, in more idiomatic American, "See the thing through."
Bombardment of the Dardanelles
First Allied Attack Described by an Onlooker
[From THE NEW YORK TIMES, March 8, 1915.]
Athens, Saturday, March 6, (Dispatch to The London Daily Chronicle.)—The bombardment of the Dardanelles forts, according to the latest news, proceeds with success and cautious thoroughness. It is now anticipated that before another two weeks are over the allied fleet will be in the Sea of Marmora, and Constantinople will quickly fall to the victorious Allies.
Two features of the operations make extreme caution necessary for the attacking battleships. In the first place, the number of mines laid in the strait has been found to be enormous. They must all be picked up, and the work takes considerable time, seeing that it must be done thoroughly.
In the second place, the larger batteries, against whom the allied fleet is contending, are very skillfully hidden.
I have had an interesting talk with a gentleman who has just arrived from Tenedos, where, from the height of Mount Ilios, he witnessed the bombardment. He tells me:
"The sight was most magnificent. At first the fleet was ranged in a semi-circle some miles out to sea from the entrance to the strait. It afforded an inspiring spectacle as the ships came along and took up position, and the picture became most awe-inspiring when the guns began to boom.
"The bombardment at first was slow, shells from the various ships screaming through the air at the rate of about one every two minutes. Their practice was excellent, and with strong glasses I could see huge masses of earth and stonework thrown high up into the air. The din, even at the distance, was terrific, and when the largest ship, with the biggest guns in the world, joined in the martial chorus, the air was rent with ear-splitting noise.
"The Turkish batteries, however, were not to be drawn, and, seeing this, the British Admiral sent one British ship and one French ship close inshore toward the Sedd-el-Bahr forts.
"It was a pretty sight to see the two battleships swing rapidly away toward the northern cape, spitting fire and smoke as they rode. They obscured the pure atmosphere with clouds of smoke from their funnels and guns; yet through it all I could see they were getting home with the shots they fired.
"As they went in they sped right under the guns of the shore batteries, which could no longer resist the temptation to see what they could do. Puffs of white smoke dotted the landscape on the far shore, and dull booms echoed over the placid water. Around the ships fountains of water sprang up into the air. The enemy had been drawn, but his marksmanship was obviously very bad. I think I am right in saying that not a single shot directed against the ships came within a hundred yards of either."
The French Battlefront
Account of First Extended View of the Intrenchments Defending France
[By a Special Correspondent of THE NEW YORK TIMES.]
Paris, March 7.—I have just been permitted a sight of the French Army—the first accorded to any correspondent in so comprehensive a measure since the outbreak of the war. Under the escort of an officer of General Joffre's staff, I was allowed along a great section of the fighting line, into the trenches under fire, and also received scientific detailed information regarding this least known of European forces.
France has been so silent about her army and her Generals and so indifferent to the use of journalism in the war it is scarcely realized even in France that 450 of the 500 miles of fighting front are held by the French and only the remaining fifty by the British and Belgians. At the outbreak of the war no newspaper men were allowed with the army, and those who managed to get to the front, including myself, all returned to Paris under escort. Although we saw what a powerful machine it was and knew it was getting stronger every day, we were permitted to say very little about it—Germany, meanwhile, granting interviews, taking war correspondents to trenches and up in balloons in the campaign for neutral sympathy.
France, or, rather, General Joffre, for his is the first and last word on the subject of war correspondents, gradually decided to combat the German advertising.
Only he decided to go them one better, as I hope to show. There have been several trips, all tryouts. I was informed at the Foreign Office a month ago that when the representative of so important a paper as THE NEW YORK TIMES was to be taken to the front it would be for a more important trip than any up to that date—that I was to be saved up for such an occasion as I am now privileged to describe.
I propose to give as few names of places and Generals as possible, first, to meet the wishes of the personal censor, who is the same officer who escorted me throughout the trip, and, second, because I believe general facts relating to the morale of the French Army and their prospects in the Spring campaign will be of more interest than specific details concerning places where the lines have been established for the past six months.
From scores of letters received from America the first question which seems to arise in the minds of neutrals outside the war zone is, What are the prospects of the Germans taking Paris when the second great phase of the war is really under way? First, let me admit that a lurking fear that the Germans might penetrate the lines had caused me to make certain arrangements for the hasty exit of my family from Paris as soon as the Spring fighting began. I am now willing to cancel these arrangements, for I am convinced there is no danger to Paris.
The German Army, in my opinion, will never for a second time dictate terms of peace in Paris. I feel that I am in a position to make the statement, founded on an unusual knowledge of the facts, that should German ambition again fly that high they would need at least 3,000,000 men concentrated before the fortifications of Paris—these in addition to the enormous force to oppose the French and allied field armies.
The defenses of Paris since the city had its narrow escape before the battle of the Marne present one of the wonders of the world. Not only has Gallieni's army intrenched the surrounding country and barb-wired it until the idea of any forward advance seems preposterous, but every foot of ground is measured and the exact artillery ranges taken to every other foot of ground.
For instance, from every single trench which also contains an artillery observatory the exact distance is recorded to every other trench, to every house, hillock, tree, and shrub behind which the enemy might advance. In fact, the German organization which threatened to rule the world seems overtaken by French organization which became effective since the war began.
All through the trip it was this new spirit of organization that impressed me most. I have sent you many cables on the new spirit of the French, but never before dared to picture them in the rôle which to my mind they never before occupied—that of organizers. I started the trip to see the real French Army in the most open but unexpectant frame of mind. For weeks I had read only laconic official communiqués that told me nothing. I saw well-fed officers in beautiful limousines rolling about Paris with an air that the war was a million miles away. The best way now to explain my enthusiasm is to give the words of a famous English correspondent, also just returned from a similar trip, (he is Frederic Villiers, who began war corresponding with Archibald Forbes at the battle of Plevna, and this is his seventeenth war,) who said:
"In all my life this trip is the biggest show I have ever had."
The first point on the trip where the French intelligence proved superior to the German was that I was allowed to pay my own expenses. With the exception of motor cars and a hundred courtesies extended by the scores of French officers, I paid my own railroad fare, hotel and food bills.
"This army has nothing to hide," said one of the greatest Generals to me. "You see what you like, go where you desire, and if you cannot get there, ask."
This General was de Maud'Huy, the man who with a handful of territorials stopped the Prussian Guard before Arras shortly after the battle of the Marne and who since then has never lost a single trench. His name is now scarcely known, even in France, but I venture the prophecy that when the French Army marches down the Champs Elysées after the war is over, when the vanguard passes under the Arch de Triomph, de Maud'Huy—a nervous little firebrand—will be right up in the front rank with Joffre.
While our party did all the spectacular stunts the Germans have offered the correspondents in such profusion, such as visiting the trenches, where in our case a German shell burst thirty feet from us, splattering us with mud, also where snipers sent rifle balls hissing only a few feet away, almost our greatest treats were the scientific daily discourses given by our Captain concerning the entire history of the first campaign, explaining each event leading up to the present position of the two armies. He gave the exact location of every French and allied army corps on the entire front.
On the opposite side of the line he demonstrated the efficiency of the French secret service by detailing the position and name of every German regiment, also the date and the position it now holds. Thus, we were able to know during the journey that it was the crack Prussian Guard that was stopped by de Maud'Huy's Territorials and that the English section under General French was opposed by Saxons.
Our Captain by these lectures gave us an insight into the second great German blunder after the failure to occupy Paris, which was the failure immediately to swing a line across Northern France, thus cutting off Calais and Boulogne, where they could really have leveled a pistol at England's head. He explained that it was the superiority of the French cavalry that dictated that the line should instead run straight north through the edge of Belgium to the sea. His explanations went further than this, for he refuted many military arguments to the effect that cavalry became obsolete with the advent of aeroplanes.
Cavalry formerly was used to screen the infantry advance and also for shock purposes in the charges. Now that the lines are established, it is mostly used with the infantry in the trenches; but in the great race after the Marne to turn the western flanks it was the cavalry's ability to outstrip the infantry that kept the Germans from practically all of Northern France. In other words, the French chausseurs, more brilliant than the Uhlans, kept that northern line straight until the infantry corps had time to take up position.
My introduction to the real French Army was made at the point of junction with the English troops, so I was thus able to make some comparison between the types of the Allies. I did not see the Germans except as prisoners, although on this trip I was sometimes within a few yards of their lines. With all consideration for the statement that they are the greatest fighting machine the world has ever seen, all I can say is that the greatest fighting machine I have even seen is the French Army.
To me they seem invincible from the standpoints of power, intelligence, and humanity. This latter quality specially impressed me. I do not believe any army with such high ideals can easily be beaten, and I judge not only from Generals in command, but the men in the trenches. One morning I was going through the trenches near the most important point where the line was continually under fire.
Passing from the second line to a point less than a hundred yards from the German rifles I came face to face with a General of division. He was sauntering along for the morning's stroll he chose to take in the trenches with his men rather than on the safer roads at the rear. He smoked a cigarette and seemed careless of danger. He continually patted his soldiers on the back as he passed and called them "his little braves."
I could not help wondering whether the German General opposite was setting his men the same splendid example. I inquired the French General's name; he was General Fayolle, conceded by all the armies to be the greatest artillery expert in the world. Comradeship between officers and men always is well known in the French Army, but I never before realized how the officers were so willing to accept quite the same fate.
In Paris the popular appellation for a German is "boche." Not once at the front did I hear this word used by officers or men. They deplore it, just as they deplore many things that happen in Paris. Every officer I talked to declared the Germans were a brave, strong enemy; they waste no time calling them names.
"They are wonderful, but we will beat them," was the way one officer summed up the general feeling.
Another illustration of the French officer at the front: The City of Vermelles of 10,000 inhabitants was captured from the Germans after fifty-four days' fighting. It was taken literally from house to house, the French engineers sapping and mining the Germans out of every stronghold, destroying every single house, incidentally forever upsetting my own one-time idea that the French are a frivolous people. So determined were they to retake this town that they fought in the streets with artillery at a distance of twenty-one feet, probably the shortest range artillery duel in the history of the world.
The Germans before the final evacuation buried hundreds of their own dead. Every yard in the city was filled with little crosses—the ground was so trampled that the mounds of graves were crushed down level with the ground—and on the crosses are printed the names with the number of the German regiments. At the base of every cross there rests either a crucifix or a statue of the Virgin or a wreath of artificial flowers, all looted from the French graveyard.
With the German graves are French graves made afterward. I walked through this ruined city where, aside from the soldiery, the only sign of life I saw was a gaunt, prowling cat. With me past these hundreds of graves walked half a dozen French officers. They did not pause to read inscriptions; they did not comment on the loot and pillage of the graveyard; they scarcely looked even at the graves, but they kept constantly raising their hands to their caps in salute regardless of whether the cross numbered a French or a German life destroyed.
We were driving along back of the advance lines. On the road before us was a company of territorial infantry who had been eight days in the trenches and were now to have two days of repose at the rear. Plodding along the same road was a refugee mother and several little children in a donkey cart; behind the cart, attached by a rope, trundled a baby buggy with the youngest child inside. The buggy suddenly struck a rut in the road and overturned, spilling the baby into the mud. Terrible wails arose, and the soldiers stiffened to attention. Then, seeing the accident, the entire company broke ranks and rescued the infant. They wiped the dirt from its face and restored it to its mother in the cart.
So engrossing was the spectacle our motor halted, and our Captain from Great General Headquarters in his gorgeous blue uniform climbed from the car, discussing with the mother the safety of a baby buggy riding behind a donkey cart, at the same time congratulating the soldier who rescued the child.
Our trip throughout moved with that clockwork precision usually associated only with the Germans. The schedule throughout the week never varied from the arrangements made before we left Paris. When we arrived at certain towns we were handed slips of paper bearing our names and the hotel number of our room.
Amazing meals appeared at most amazing places, all the menus carefully thought out days before. Imagine fresh trout served you with other famous French delicacies in a little house in the battle zone, where only a few hundred yards of barbed wire and a few feet more of air separated you from the German trenches. During the German advance, also after the battle of the Marne, there were many towns in the districts where it was impossible to obtain tobacco, spirits, or food staples. This condition has entirely abated, and the commissariat is now so well supplied that soldiers have sufficient tobacco even in the trenches.
It was my privilege to take a brief ride at the front in an antebellum motor bus of glorious memory—there being nothing left in Paris but the subway. Buses are now used to carry fresh meat, although they have been used in transporting troops and also ammunition. We trundled quite merrily along a little country road in Northern France, the snow-white fields on either side in strange contrast to the scenery when last I rode in that bus. I am sure I rode in the same bus before the war in my daily trips to the Paris office of THE NEW YORK TIMES. Its sides are bullet riddled now, but the soldier conductor still jingles the bell to the motorman, although he carries a revolver where he used to wear the register for fares.
Trench life was one of the most interesting surprises of the trip. Every night since the war began I have heard pitying remarks about "the boys in the trenches," especially if the nights were cold. I was, therefore, prepared to find the men standing in water to the knees, shivering, wretched, sick, and unhappy. I found just the contrary—the trenches were clean, large, and sanitary, although, of course, mud is mud. I found the bottoms of the trenches in every instance corduroy-lined with modern drains, which allowed the feet to keep perfectly dry, and also the large dugouts where the men, except those doing sentry duty, sleep comfortably on dry straw. There are special dugouts for officers and artillery observers.
I also visited a large, perfectly equipped Red Cross First Aid camp, all built underground, extending from one line of trenches to another. All trenches, communication traverses, and observatory dugouts have received names which are printed on shingles affixed to the trenches on little upright posts. For instance, we entered one section of the trenches through Boyau d'Espagne, we traversed Avenue de Bois, Avenues Wagram and Friedland, and others commemorating Napoleonic victories. The dugouts of officers and observers were all called villas—Villa Chambéry, Villa Montmorency being examples. It all seemed like cozy camp life underground except that three times the morning of our visit it was necessary to flatten ourselves against the mud sidewalls while dead men on crossed rifles were carried out, every head in that particular bit of trench being bared as the sad procession disappeared.
Although the maps show the lines of fighting to be rather wavy, one must go to the front really to appreciate the irregular zigzag, snakelike line that it really is. The particular bit of trenches we visited cover a front of twelve miles, but so irregular is the line, so intricate and vast the system of intrenchments, that they measure 200 miles on that particular twelve-mile fighting front.
When one leaves the trenches at the rear of the communication boyaux, it is astonishing how little of the war can be seen. Ten feet after we left our trenches we could not see even the entrance. We stood in a beautiful open field having our pictures taken, and a few hundred yards away our motor waited behind some trees. Suddenly we heard a "zip zip" over our heads. German snipers were taking shots at us.
In addition to the enormous force of men constantly in the trenches along the entire line there is an equal size reserve line directly behind them in case of sudden attack. The artillery is posted considerably further to the rear along with revictualing stations, aeroplane hangars, and headquarters of the Generals, but through all this enormous mass of men which we passed daily going to and from our front observation posts never once did we get the impression of parade. Three were just troops, troops, troops everywhere, every hamlet, every village filled with them, every crossroads with their sentries. All of them, hardened by Winter and turns in the trenches, are in splendid condition, and as opposed to the Germans, at least to the German prisoners I have seen, each French soldier has a clear and definite knowledge of what the war is all about. The greatest event of his day is when the Paris newspapers arrive.
What impressed me greatly was that in all the officers' quarters were copies of the French "Yellow Book," the English "White Paper" and German documents attempting to prove their innocence in causing the conflict. It is not sufficient for French Generals or officers just to go to war; they must know why they go to war, down to the last papers in the case. In six months the French privates have acquired one habit from the British Tommies—that is drinking tea. Back of every section of trenches I found huge tea canteens, where thousands of cups are served daily to the soldiers who have decided for the first time in their life they really like such stuff. There one sees more soldiers at the same time than at any other place in the fighting zone; there they sit and discuss the future calmly and confidently, there being a distinct feeling that the war is likely to be over next Summer.
No one knows what the Spring tactics of General Joffre will be. Along the section of the front I visited the officers are all satisfied that the Commander in Chief's "nibbling tactics" have forced the Germans to retire on the average of two to three miles all along the line. The very name of that great man is spoken with reverence, almost with awe, by his "children at the front."
I, therefore, from the facilities given me, can only make one assertion in summing up my opinion of the French grand army of 1915, that it is strong, courageous, scientifically intelligent, and well trained as a champion pugilist after months of preparation for the greatest struggle of his career. The French Army waits eager and ready for the gong.
