Life in the War Zone

by Gertrude Franklin Horn Atherton

I made no attempt to enter this proscribed region for six or seven weeks after my arrival, having the thousand and one phases of woman’s work in the war to examine. But when these researches drew to a close I began to plot to get to the front—no other word is applicable unless a woman happens to be a Red Cross nurse. At first I applied to a number of eminent Americans on more or less intimate terms with the powers. I quickly found that, amiable and interested as they were, their own powers had a limit. It was comparatively easy in the beginning of the war to go to the front, but the barrier grows deeper every day.

One referred me to a Frenchman of great influence who has a special liking for Americans. He told me in the friendliest manner that when I obtained permission to go to the front he would provide me with the necessary letters, but that as I was an American I must obtain that permission through my embassy. This I did not even consider. I have spent a good part of my life in Europe, and long since came to the conclusion that all American embassies feel they are created for is to look solemn and important and give receptions. They never by any chance do anything for other Americans except in times of extreme danger, and then they behave very well.

I tried one or two members of the haute bourgeoisie without avail, and then took my troubles to a duchess. There I was more fortunate. The young Duchess d’Uzès has turned her castle near Amiens into a hospital, the sixth or seventh she has established since the beginning of the war, and is therefore on friendly terms with the Service de Santé (the Military Hospital Service Board). She asked one of its principal Secretaries to meet me at breakfast, and I was able to disabuse his mind of any suspicion he might have that I merely wanted to “do” the front, assuring him that it was my solemn duty to visit the base hospitals in behalf of a new oeuvre just formed (Le Bienêtre du Blessé), founded by Countess d’Haussonville, President of the first division of the Croix Rouge, to supply convalescents in the military hospitals at the front with delicacies they would be able, in their weakened condition, to retain.

I told him that, as I had agreed to do the publicity work for this oeuvre, I felt I should see things at first hand, if only to be able to make my articles of appeal interesting. He agreed that this was a most reasonable argument, asked for my permis de séjour and my immatriculation, and promised that I should have my carnet rouge the following week and go with the duchess to Amiens.

I waited nearly a month. I received consolatory promises and nothing more. Meanwhile I could not go outside of Paris, as without my permis de séjour I was unable to obtain a sauf conduit. (If you lose your permis de séjour you cannot leave Paris until the end of the war.)

Finally one of the Vice-Presidents of Le Bienêtre du Blessé (the well-being of the wounded) sent in a petition, and I received a note from the Ministry of War asking for two photographs similar to that of my passport, and inclosing a paper to sign. Two days later I was summoned to the office of the Service de Santé. I had engagements, but I broke them ruthlessly. We all do when the War Office summons. Royalty itself would not be considered.

The Vice-President of Le Bienêtre du Blessé who had asked them to hurry, went with me, and after we had wandered all over an immense building in the Boulevard St. Germain we finally found ourselves in a reception room on the top floor. It was filled with patient people, but we sent in our names and were not kept waiting. There two charming gentlemen (and no people in the world are as kind and charming as high officials in France when they are gentlemen) told me I could go to Rouen and Meaux.

This was a joke. It was like the labors of the mountain to bring forth a mouse. Rouen is entirely given over to the British, and much as I admire the British I came to France to write about the French. As for Meaux, although the battleground of the Marne at any of its points is interesting to good Americans as the scene of the definite finish of German hopes of world dominion, my ambition was the “front,” not a slice of the future tourists’ paradise.

I made known my desires with firmness, and all the eloquence at my command, being able, fortunately, with these accomplished gentlemen, to employ my native tongue. “I want to go to Amiens, and at once,” I concluded.

Alas, if it were only a month earlier—before the battle of the Somme began. Now it was quite impossible. The Grand Quartier Générale (brief for Joffre) would never consent. Amiens was too close to the big guns. I replied pertinently that I had made my application nearly a month ago. Alas! it took so long for an application of that sort to progress along the winding ways of Le Ministère de la Guerre. But, of course, I must see something besides Meaux (I flatly refused to go to Rouen), and if I would make out a list of other names they would do their best to get me the necessary permission. I asked my companion to make out the list, as she knew what base hospitals it would be best for me to visit in the interests of the oeuvre. She dictated Châlons-sur-Marne, Vitry, Révigny, and Bar-le-Duc. The last was the only name with a quickening quality, as it is shelled by taubes every few days. I added that on my own account I should like Verdun, Nancy, Rheims and Thann. My new friend was most sympathetic and considerate. He would do his best, but Verdun—an American lady! He feared the Grand Quartier Générale would not take the responsibility. He was sure, however, he could get me something much better than Meaux.