The most glaring example of inaccuracy upon the part of an American writer was an account of the battle of Ypres which appeared in both English and American publications. This account, giving the entire credit for the victory to the English, with faint praise for the French, was resented by both the English and French officers, the former as sportsmen not wishing undue praise, and the latter naturally piqued that a story having such wide circulation should not have been based more materially upon facts. This correspondent was later denied the privilege of visiting the French front and has retired from the zone of military activity.
Most of the fakes, as I have shown, occurred at the beginning of the war, or during the first six months, when all the world was in a state of great excitement, and when correspondents, the majority of whom had never seen a war before, should have been forgiven for sometimes letting their imaginations run riot. During the past twelve months, since organization has taken the place of chaos in so many activities related to the war, and when correspondents have acquired experience and perspective, I know of scarcely any cases of wilful misrepresentation of the truth. During the battle of Champagne in September, 1915, one correspondent did attempt to project his astral body to the battlefield for the purpose of writing an "eye witness" account of the fighting; but he paid dearly for the indiscretion. He was at once crossed off the official list of correspondents at the French war office and all his credentials were withdrawn for the duration of the war.
WHEN CHENAL SINGS THE "MARSEILLAISE"
I went to the Opéra Comique one day to hear Marthe Chenal sing the "Marseillaise." For several weeks previous I had heard a story going the rounds of what is left of Paris life to the effect that if one wanted a regular old-fashioned thrill he really should go to the Opéra Comique on a day when Mlle. Chenal closed the performance by singing the French national hymn. I was told there would be difficulty in securing a seat.
I was rather skeptical. I also considered that I had had sufficient thrills since the beginning of the war, both old-fashioned and new. I believed also that I had already heard the "Marseillaise" sung under the best possible circumstances to produce thrills. One of the first nights after mobilization 10,000 Frenchmen filled the street beneath the windows of the New York Times office where I was at work. They sang the "Marseillaise" for two hours, with a solemn hatred of their national enemy sounding in every note. The solemnity changed to a wild passion as the night wore on. Finally, cuirassiers of the guard rode through the street to disperse the mob. It was a terrific scene.
So I was willing to admit that the "Marseillaise" is probably the most thrilling and most martial national song ever written, but I was just not keen on the subject of thrills.
Then one day a sedate friend went to the Opéra Comique and it was a week before his ardor subsided. He declared that this rendition of a song was something that will be referred to in future years. "Why," he said, "when the war is over the French will talk about it in the way Americans still talk about Jenny Lind at Castle Garden, or De Wolf Hopper reciting 'Casey at the Bat.'"