"Back from hell"

[Illustration: SAMUEL CRANSTON BENSON

Who went to the war, a pacifist, but returned a fighting American.]

"Back From Hell"

By

Samuel Cranston Benson

_Illustrated_

[Illustration: Logo]

Chicago A. C. Mcclurg & Co. 1918

Copyright A. C. McClurg & Co. 1918

Published September, 1918

_Copyrighted in Great Britain_

W. F. Hall Printing Company, Chicago

Dedicated

to

My Wife

Contents

CHAPTER PAGE I A Former Pacifist 1

II Red Tape in Traveling 9

III How I Got into the Service 15

IV A Unit in Its Infancy 20

V The Northwest Front--Mud! 25

VI A Weird Night 30

VII The Red Cross 36

VIII When France Was First "Gassed" 42

IX When Jacques "Went West" 47

X "Trench Nightmare" 51

XI Calm Before a Storm 56

XII If an Ambulance Could Speak 60

XIII A Ticklish Attack 64

XIV The Death of a Comrade 67

XV On an Old Battle Ground 74

XVI The Verdun Attack--Life and Death 79

XVII Barrage, or Curtain Fire 93

XVIII The Ragpicker 106

XIX Camouflage 112

XX The Heroism of the Wounded 116

XXI The Treacherous "German Souvenir" 123

XXII The Nigger's Nose 128

XXIII Getting By the Consuls 132

XXIV A Close Shave 145

XXV Meeting Brand Whitlock 148

XXVI My Maps of Belgium 151

XXVII The "Cat and Mouse" Game 156

XXVIII Shadowed at Liége 159

XXIX Results of "Frightfulness" 163

XXX My Mental Processes 168

XXXI A Night in Louvain 174

XXXII Ruin and Death 178

XXXIII In the Palace of the King 187

XXXIV The Kaiser's Envy 190

XXXV Caught by the Huns and Tried as a Spy 196

XXXVI Threatened with Crucifixion 204

XXXVII My Escape and Return to Good Old France 210

XXXVIII No Man's Land 215

XXXIX Jean and "Frenchie" 223

XL The Psychology of France 228

XLI The Contagious Spirit of Sacrifice 233

XLII The Heritage of Hate 238

XLIII "Back From Hell" 243

Illustrations

PAGE Samuel Cranston Benson _Frontispiece_

American Ambulance Headquarters, Neuilly, France 22

Ambulance Ready to Leave for the Front 22

An American Woman Caring for a Little Wounded French Child 38

An American Ambulance Ready for Duty 60

American Ambulances on the Road to the Front 80

Allied Troops Charging Through Barbed-Wire Entanglements 102

A Dressing Station Set Up on Newly Captured Ground 120

A Hurry Call 134

"Jumbo," the Biggest Ambulance on the Western Front 134

The Burning of a French Field Hospital 170

Ambulance Men Working Over a "Gassed" Soldier 225

Destruction of a French Hospital by a German Bomb 238

American Hospital at Neuilly Transferred to General Pershing 246

"Back From Hell"

Chapter I

A Former Pacifist

When the old _Chicago_ cut loose from her moorings in an Atlantic port it was a red letter day for me. She was a good sized craft, of the French Line, and was to carry a lot of other Americans, besides myself, from the United States to France. We were all in a spirit of expectancy, mingled perhaps with sadness, for we were going over to see and have a hand in the most stupendous event of history, the Great War. Although many different motives actuated us, our destination was the same, and all of us would soon be within striking distance of the scene of action. Some of those on board were going primarily from a sense of duty and gratitude to the great European Republic, whose men had come over here in '76 to help America kick off the chains which George III had welded on her ankles, and secondarily, because they wanted to kill a few of the Germans whom they right well hated.

Others were going, and made no bones about saying so, because they were natural born soldiers of fortune and were inclined to go anywhere that action and excitement were likely to be found. A few were to be mere onlookers who were crossing the sea as students of a great world movement, who, from an economic or social point of view, would tabulate in a cold and matter-of-course way, the facts which they observed and the conclusions to which they came.

I belonged to neither of these classes. I was an innocent idealist, though soon, alas, to be disillusioned. I had resigned a comfortable pastorate in order to go over and, as I conceived of it, relieve the pain and soothe the fevered brow of those who were in suffering, irrespective of whether they were Allies or Germans, and thus help usher in a world Utopia.

I had always taken myself rather too seriously at home, and thought I was a broad-visioned person whose universality of mind elevated me to a position where I could see beyond provincial boundary lines, and overlook such things as race and creed and national ideals, thinking of all men as made in the image of God, and all destined for one great goal which was the Brotherhood of Man, where all would be happy, and each would deal justly and kindly with his neighbor.

It is a natural tendency, I suppose, of most ministers to be optimistic about the ultimate outcome of the human race, and I was one of this class. I had buttoned my long frock coat close about my collar and rubbed my hands in that familiar, good-natured way, saying that sometime national prejudices would be wiped out and the people of the various countries would come to see each other's viewpoints, and then their differences would vanish away. I hadn't yet seen the German at his worst. The time would come, I thought, when all would fraternize as God intended that they should and this wicked rivalry and jealousy would cease.

It seemed to me that even my fellow-Americans, along with the French and other nations, were too narrow in their views of things, and that, they were equally guilty with the Germans in failing or refusing to understand the minds of other people. The men who had urged intervention in Mexico and intervention in Europe, I took it, were men who were engaged in manufacturing munitions, or who were directly interested in war from a business point of view. They wanted dollars. A part of my philosophy was that God would bring about a settlement of all these conflicts in His own good time, and we need not worry about it. Another part of my philosophy, so it happened, was pacifism. I was a great admirer of William Jennings Bryan, and I thought his peace teaching was--well--great stuff! I had interpreted the life and teaching of Jesus as being unalterably opposed to violence of any kind. No matter what the circumstance, bloodshed could not be justified. "Resist not evil" was His ideal and, therefore, it should be mine also, and as I look at it now, I guess I went even further than He did, in my theories at any rate. For He did use violence occasionally, when it was necessary.

"If a man smite thee on one cheek, turn the other also," was my motto, and I did not believe in striking back. Tolstoi, with his doctrine of nonresistance, from whom Mr. Bryan received large influence, as he once told me, was my ideal man, and the only real Christian since Jesus.

I had also said there would never be another war; a war of any size. I knew, of course, that there had always been crusades in history, and even the most religious people had killed each other by thousands, and had often made the claim that God had told them to do so, but I considered them to have been misguided fanatics of an outgrown age who may have thought they were doing right, but who were in reality committing murder and breaking God's great law.

My father had also been a minister, and he was so meek and peaceful that he held one pastorate for a quarter of a century, a thing which, by the way, I doubt if I shall ever do! He was inclined to be a bit pessimistic and to lament the heartless struggle which takes place all through nature and human life, and he was extremely pacific. I inherited the same traits. My mother also had been a peace-loving woman, but she believed in justice, and I think I inherited from her my aggressive disposition. I was such a pacifist that I was militant in it and sometimes alienated even my admirers by my doctrine.

However, after Europe went to war I could see the storm gathering in the United States, and I looked upon it with feelings of fear and foreboding. I was down in the depths. I felt that "over there" they were already, and over here it was likely that we soon would be violating God's commandment,

"Thou Shalt Not Kill."

I did not believe in killing. I had lectured with David Starr Jordan and spoken with Mr. Bryan. I hated war. As a minister of the gospel my natural inclination was to preach gentle forgiveness and tender mercy, and how I did preach it! I was for peace at any price. I preached peace in my church and I preached it on the street. I even went so far as to rent halls and denounce the doctrine of military preparedness as a dangerous and vicious propaganda.

I declared with all my power that America ought to keep herself out of this war and that she ought to suffer any indignity rather than take up the sword and slay other people. I said that was murder. While not approving of the sinking of the merchant ships, yet I said that those people who traveled on belligerent vessels did so at their own risk and that the United States ought not to bring blood upon her hands because others had done so. I had no antipathy toward the German people. I liked them. I had shown this by studying German in college as my only foreign language. I joined the "Deutscher Verein" as my only fraternity, and when I went abroad to study, it was a German university that I sought.

I knew of course that Germany's military system was a despotic one and that her own people were virtually slaves to the government. But above all I cried "Peace for the United States!" So when I resigned my pulpit in Patton, Pa., and told my congregation that I was going to the scene of war in Belgium, they were astonished beyond measure. I hastened to reassure them, however, that the purpose of my going was not to fight, but rather to relieve distress and carry in the wounded. I had felt a call to take up this task, and at this they became somewhat more reconciled. So in a few weeks' time I was on my way.

When I embarked upon that great ship in New York I was alone. And I want to tell you if you have never gone down the long pier and walked in solitude up the gangplank of a transatlantic liner you cannot imagine the feeling of loneliness I had. Especially strong was this feeling because that ship was to take me to the hell of a world war and I did not know to what else. As we put off and glided down by that old Statue of Liberty, leaving it in the distance, I began to cry, for I didn't know whether I should ever see it again. It seemed as if I had said good-bye to my last friend. Many of the people aboard were foreigners and I suppose I looked a pathetic figure as I stood there. I know I felt like one.

That night the lights were doused and we began to realize that things were serious. When great ships sail in darkness there is something wrong. The ensuing voyage lasted ten days and when I was not walking the decks those days I used to lie in my berth and look out the porthole and often wonder what was ahead for me.

After a week and a half on the ocean we finally landed on the coast of France. Meanwhile I had made several acquaintances, mainly with French people, and I had begun to think I had learned their language. A rude awakening was in store for me before I had been in France an hour!

Chapter II

Red Tape In Traveling

As we bumped into the dock at Havre I was given my first scare. I was taken in charge by a French soldier who wore a red and blue cap, a huge overcoat with the corners buttoned back, and red trousers with the lower parts stuck in his boots. These things, however, did not have any particular interest for me; not that I was an indifferent onlooker by any means, but the thing I _was_ interested in was on the end of his rifle; the big shining steel bayonet, which to me had a most vicious aspect. It was sixteen inches long but I thought it looked like sixteen feet.

Without losing any time this man took me over to the Registration Department, where another man asked me a lot of fool questions, scanned my passport, and finally gave me a permit of some kind or other. I then asked him what time the train went to Paris. "One minute," he said in French. I thought I'd have to hustle, but he was very deliberate. He filled out a printed blank, taking five minutes to do so and then handed it to me, saying in English, "Zis will give you ze permission to inquire what time ze train goes to Parees." From that moment on my stay in Europe, as I now look back upon it, was one continuous performance of asking for, and getting, or being refused, permits to go somewhere or to come somewhere or to remain somewhere.

Now time, money, and patience were all limited assets with me, but the European officials did not seem to realize this or else were very inconsiderate. They wasted half my time, extracted at least two-thirds of my money, and absolutely exhausted my patience. At risk of having my name instantly recommended for membership in the Ananias Club, I will defiantly state that I had to have five different kinds of papers on my person to allow me to start for Paris, to get to Paris, to remain in Paris, to be identified in Paris, and to drive an automobile in Paris. If I slipped a cog anywhere I was lost. They say a chain is no stronger than its weakest link, and I had to possess every link in this chain of paper.

I remember one fellow who had lost his permit to come to Paris. When he passed his examination for a driver's license, the old fossil in charge would not give it to him. As I understood the matter, the theory was that he could not possibly be in Paris at the time as he could show no paper allowing him to come. And let me say in passing, some of these papers come high. I have figured it all up many times, and as near as I can estimate, the papers, all told, which I had to take out during my European stay, set me back about fifty pounds, five shillings and four pence, or in the neighborhood of two hundred and fifty dollars. It seemed as though every time I turned around some fellow was extending to me a handful of papers and an empty palm. But relieving me of money was not all. The red tape connected with it was what worried me most. Before I could receive the particular permit I wanted, I usually had to take another paper over to another man and swear to a lot of things and get his O. K. upon it. This went hard with me because I'm not used to swearing. I'm a preacher.

In my experience the application was a more formidable thing than the permit itself, and then after I finally received the permit I had to take it down to the Prefect of Police and have it registered before evening. If this was neglected my permit was invalidated and the whole performance had to be gone over again next day. After the permit was registered I had to bring back the voucher of registration and deposit it with the man who issued the permit.

The reason for all this is that every nation in the war takes it for granted that every foreigner is a spy, until he is proved not to be, and every nation not in the war thinks all visitors are trying to get them to violate their neutrality and thus get them into the war. I will admit, however, that dealing with neutral diplomats is a lot easier than dealing with the belligerents.

Then also you have to remember a great many passwords. If you go out of Paris you are given a password, after proving your right to receive the same, and you can't get in again until you give it. If you happen to go to another town or city on the same trip, the same thing happens, only the password is different and all of them change every day. So it is not hard to imagine something of the intricate system which is kept up, and the confusing details which are required in order to get from one place to another and back again. Of course, if you absolutely forget or lose the password, there are other alternatives but they require a tremendous lot of red tape. You can hunt up the proper official, wait until he is at leisure, perhaps two hours, tell him about your unfortunate predicament, present all your papers, and after convincing him that you are entitled to the password you may receive it from him if he is willing to give it to you.

I traveled in Europe before the war and it irritated me as it does most Americans, to be compelled incessantly to register my name and address, age, occupation, place of birth, and the same details of my father and mother, place of entering the country and length of time I had been there; but this was nothing compared to the formalities and the irritating requirements of the present time. French officials try to be as accommodating and polite as possible, but if you object to any point, they tell you with a shrug of the shoulders, that they must live up to the regulations and that they must be very careful, as the country is full of spies and peace propagandists.

If you travel at all through the country by automobile, you have to come to a halt at every crossroad and every bridge. Patrols with rifles are stationed at these places and the man who tried to run by one of these would be shot down instantly. You are required to produce all your papers, which are scanned by the guards, who, if satisfied, will then let you drive on in peace until you come to the next guarded point. If the guards are not satisfied, you sheepishly turn your car around, go back to Paris, get your papers rectified, or get additional ones and strike out again. You often lose hours of time and, not infrequently, days as well, in getting the required permits. You get angry at first, but it does no good and you may as well quickly learn to keep your temper, for when you think it all over you will realize that when such a vital issue is at stake, every possible precaution must be taken.

Chapter III

How I Got Into The Service

My first formal call when I got to Paris was upon Ambassador Sharp. This, however, was not until I had been in the city several days. I had become acquainted on the ship with a party of Serbians who had been mining up in Alaska and were now going back to fight the Austrians. They had some difficulty and delay in arranging their passports, so I remained with them until they got away.

When at last I called on Mr. Sharp and told him I wanted to go to Belgium, he asked me why I didn't stay and do relief work in France. He informed me that I would not be allowed to go to Belgium anyway, as the German Government had already required the United States to withdraw many of the consuls. He said my work was needed there in France. Of course I agreed with him--under the circumstances! Acting upon his suggestion and with his letter of endorsement I went to Neuilly and applied for work in the now well-known American Ambulance. I was accepted almost immediately and then I carefully removed my frock coat and folded it up. Without delay I received a uniform and equipment and set to work. The outfit was issued to me free, although men with plenty of money had to pay for theirs. I remember having my picture taken in uniform and sending it to my parishioners in the States, who wrote back and told me of the interest and comment it caused when shown at a church social.

From the outset we were very busy. I was put on the base or Paris squad in the beginning, as most all of the new men were, temporarily, and the very first night I was sent out with a Swiss Frenchman to a depot at Aubervilliers, which was being used as a receiving hospital. There on the floor of that great building many hundreds of wounded soldiers lay mutilated and suffering. Some had their jaws blown off. Others had eyes or noses gone. I shall never forget that dreary night. There was a cold rain driving and I was soaked to the skin, but there were many human beings who suffered worse than I did for their country's sake. When I saw one man who had been hit by a German dumdum or explosive bullet, I gritted my teeth. We were kept working all night transporting those poor fellows in Ford ambulances from the railroad station to the different hospitals, as the French officers instructed. On each trip we carried three lying-down cases, or if the wounded could sit up we conveyed five. For some time thereafter this was our main work.

But after several weeks had passed, the winter began to break and with it the spring offensive opened up. I was with section two of the Ambulance, later called section Y, and a very capable man from the Middle West, was in charge as commander. This section had been stationed at Beauvais, doing local duty mainly, but occasionally working up toward the Soissons Sector and on a line directly south of Ypres, afterward being transferred to the East. The wounded, whom we carried, were little more than bundles of mud and rain-soaked, blood-stained masses of human pulp. Most of them were French soldiers, we being with the French forces, but we did have also quite a number of British Tommies and still more Belgians. I shall always think of those Belgians as such plucky fellows. No matter how badly wounded they were, as a rule when we talked with them, and spoke about getting the "Allemands" or the "Boches" or the "Kaiser" they would double up their fists and jocularly show fight by hitting him an imaginary undercut, or they would draw their open hands across their throats and say, "The Kaiser Kaput!"

At first I liked the Belgians best. One night we carried a Belgian soldier who had both legs and both arms fractured, and every time we made a move he must have suffered the tortures of hell, yet never a sound came from him. In fact their stoicism was remarkable; hardly ever was there any groaning or complaining.

But as time went on and we became better acquainted with the French disposition, through intimate contact with French individuals, we liked them better. At first, I had not cared much for the French. I am ashamed to say it now, as it was my own lack of appreciation, but when my eyes at last were opened, my regard for them became high and lasting.

One day after a terrible bombardment near S----, a _blessé_ or wounded soldier, whom we had carried back to the hospital said, "Comrade, I love the Americans." I did not reply at once. He continued, "Do you love the French?" "Yes," I said, "I have come to love them very deeply. At first I did not know about it but now I do." He lay very still and white, and after a moment said, "Mutual understanding is the basis of love," and then he went to sleep. He never woke up.

Many a poor mangled poilu who was just about to "go West" spoke in the same strain, and I came to realize that the old love for America which LaFayette had kindled over a century before, still lurked in the heart of France. America threw off the tyrant's yoke in 1776, and France threw off the despot's chains in 1789, and thirteen years is a very small difference in ages between brothers, nationally speaking. Since then both Republics have made a lot of mistakes and rectified many of them, but let it be said both have made marvelous records in the development of democratic government and they are now working and fighting side by side, comrades in the cause of human liberty.

Chapter IV

A Unit In Its Infancy

The story of the American Ambulance Service has been written by abler pens than mine and so I will give but a brief account of it.

When the war first began the idea of serving France through ambulance work was conceived by a few large-visioned Americans. The plant of the fine new boys' school called the "Lycée Pasteur" was turned over to these men for the ambulance headquarters. The beginnings had been small, Henry Ford having donated in 1914 ten ambulances with which the movement started. Early in the next year, however, the American Ambulance institution became attached to the French forces which were in active service. The work of the preceding months was quite essential in its way, as its errors no doubt pointed out the path to the later efficiency, and a larger number of ambulances were being accumulated from week to week. The first donation of machines made it possible for the organization at the very beginning to participate in the transport work, and the ever increasing number of cars necessitated the forming of squads in the endeavor to broaden the scope of the service.

There were at first five ambulances in each squad and these were loaned to the French forces, but because the squads were so small they were used by the French to supplement the regular government sections which were already in action behind the lines. Their chief work was that of hospital evacuation, which it was soon perceived could be performed more advantageously by the heavier ambulances of the sections which had been working at these hospitals before. But in the early spring a change was made in the organization of the American service and a new man was given charge. Through his influence the French officials gave the American Ambulance Service a trial on the firing line. A section was dispatched to the Vosges which soon gained the recognition of its commanders, who requested that it be doubled in size. When this request was complied with, the section moved to the front in Alsace, in connection with a similar French section. Very soon after another section of the same size was organized and sent to Pont-à-Mousson, connected also, as the former one had been, with a French section. During this time also a squad had been stationed at Dunkirk in northern France.

The American Field Service was at last a reality. These three sections now began to make history and demonstrated considerable usefulness to the cause. The Americans in Alsace took over the dressing station on the battle line, and soon found themselves caring for an entire region, which became famous for its baptism of fire.

The section at Pont-à-Mousson has an enviable record. When it first went to Pont-à-Mousson the French service which was already stationed there was amalgamated with it. Later on this section made the mountain dressing stations possible, which heretofore had been quite impossible. The section at Dunkirk had been engaged in caring for the wounded from air raids and from bombardments by the Germans almost twenty miles away. This section was now honored by being doubled again and given work to do at several important points along the battle line, and with the French army in Belgium.

All the sections now became of acknowledged value and in a remarkably short period their practical possibilities were recognized. Wherever possible the French sections were speedily removed and the whole work given over to the American units. No car could have been chosen for ambulance service which was better fitted for it than the Ford. The mud is the greatest problem around Dunkirk, but it was no barrier to the Ford. The large supply trucks at Pont-à-Mousson were outstripped by the Fords, and the slow and somewhat clumsy mules in Alsace were superseded by them. The drivers were largely college men from Yale, Harvard, Princeton, Columbia, and other universities, who put great action and inspiration into the service. Later on the section from Dunkirk was sent up to the Aisne. The section at Pont-à-Mousson went to Verdun, and that in Alsace was sent over to Pont-à-Mousson. Several other sections were also organized and played a most important part in transporting the wounded of the Allies.

[Illustration: AMERICAN AMBULANCE HEADQUARTERS, NEUILLY, FRANCE.

This magnificent building was its first home.]

[Illustration: AMBULANCES READY TO LEAVE FOR THE FRONT.]

From the very first day of mobilization it had been a terrible problem for the French, who needed every last man to fight the enemy, to spare enough to care for those who were wounded in the fighting. This is most important work, as it means the getting of the wounded men into shape as quickly as possible, so they can be put into the fighting line again. The world knows that from the first the man power of the French Republic has been strained to its capacity and the French welcomed with joy the aid which the Americans offered in this direction. It released many of their own men and furnished many cars which otherwise they would have had to supply themselves, diverting them from the most vital points. The taxicab army which Paris sent out in the first days of the war was not equipped for ambulance work, and so from that time on, for almost three years, the men and ambulances from America were utilized and welcomed with enthusiasm.

The French will never forget and certainly the Americans will remember with pride the assistance they were able to render in the days when the liberty and existence of the nation hung by a pathetically slender thread.

Chapter V

The Northwest Front--Mud!

The section which had been at Dunkirk and in Flanders had some interesting experiences. The larger part of the time the boys were put up in stables and slept on straw or in the ambulances. They had gone out in the early spring and were detailed to work around Dunkirk carrying the _blessés_ from the freight depot to the several hospitals as the French authorities directed. Working in mud under air raids and long range bombardments was not unusual to them.

The history of the northwest front is a history of men in mud. From Dunkirk to Verdun and much farther, this ugly nightmare tears the soul. The world has heard of the mud in Flanders, long ere this, and I believe this war has done more to advertise the real estate of that country than anything else could do. I suppose the people of the Western Hemisphere never knew there was so much mud in the world. I know I never did. And Flanders is not the only place that has it either. That entire front is blessed with it extending two hundred miles long and almost two feet deep. If I had unlimited time I would figure up just how much mud there was. We think we have mud in America, Missouri boasts of most of it, and has thus become proverbial. I once read of an old colonel who was riding along on his horse one day in Missouri during the Civil War when he saw an old hat lying in the mud on the side of the road. Strange to say, the hat kept revolving, first one way and then the other. The colonel's curiosity finally got the better of him and he dismounted and went over to where the hat was lying. Giving it a kick he discovered a private's head under it smiling up at him graciously. "Well, my man," said the colonel, "you'll pardon me, but can I do anything to help you? You seem to be in a pretty bad way." "Oh, yes," answered the private, "but as for myself, I'll make out all right, for I can breathe. It's not myself I'm worrying about, but the horse that's under me sure is in a bad way."

I thought of this story a thousand times while over there, and I think I told it at least half that number of times. The mud in the spring is so thick that it oppresses one. It gets on your mind as well as on your body. A person who only has an occasional trip may laugh at it, but when one drives through it day and night, and night and day for weeks the humor of it all wears off. It becomes a mighty serious affair. In many places it is thick and sticky like bread dough and piles up on your wheels or feet making it almost impossible to move. The clay, or gumbo, in America cannot compare with it. It is whitish gray in color and even when it is not heavy it is exceedingly disagreeable. It splashes on your clothes and flies in your eyes. It gets into your ears, your nose, and your hair, and not infrequently into your mouth if you talk or laugh too much. It has a resemblance to gray paint and partakes very much of its nature. Once it gets on your clothes it is impossible to get it off and it even sticks to and stains your flesh so that it requires hard scrubbing with soap and hot water to remove it. Yet when it splashes you in this manner it is pleasant--compared to the discouraging effect when it is heavy!

One day when I was going to a shop with an empty car for some repairs, I met my old antagonist, French mud. It was the genuine article this time too, the kind that gets a hold and doesn't let go. I was turning out of the road to allow a _camion_ to go by but in my eagerness to avoid it I swerved an inch too far. Little by little I felt the back end of my car sliding off the road so I threw in low speed and opened the gas. The front wheels stayed on the higher ground but the rear wheels seemed to be trying to catch up with them and finally did so, but when they did, they pulled the whole car off into the gutter which was not steep but oh, so muddy. I labored and struggled with the gas and the low speed. I groaned and swore, I stalled my engine and got out to crank it, and when I did I couldn't get in again. I used up ten minutes in getting my feet out of that mud and getting them cleaned up. I tried it again but it was no use, the car would not come, for it was stuck. That was the only explanation there was, it was stuck in French mud. Not having any chains I tried to put sticks and boards under the wheels and I succeeded but they went so far under that I could not see what became of them. I finally began pulling a farmer's rail fence to pieces in my attempt to pry out the wheels and get a foundation to start from, but at last I had to walk more than a mile till I found two men at a farmhouse who came down with a heavy team to pull me out. When they arrived at the place where the car was stuck, lo, the fence which I had dismantled belonged to one of the men. He looked at me with a peculiar expression. I thought he was angry and was going to scold me and demand payment for damage to his property. In a couple of seconds, however, we both burst out into a hearty laugh for he appreciated the situation as well as I. With a large log chain looped around the front axle of the car the great horses put their necks into the collar and hauled it out. The men would not accept a cent of pay, one of them saying, "Not a sou, it's for France."

Chapter VI

A Weird Night

One midnight after a certain engagement "somewhere in France" in which many men fell, I learned of an experience which burned its way into my soul, and I believe will stay there till the Judgment Day. I have read in history of individuals such as the one I am telling of, but never in my life have I had actual knowledge of any but this one, and I hope that I shall hereafter forever be delivered from such.

This particular night the firing for some reason had suddenly ceased. A man named Valke was an emergency watcher at a listening post, when the most blood-curdling thing I have ever known occurred.

A listening post is a branch off from the main trench toward the enemy or in his general direction, which is dug secretly as you go, the dirt being carried back in bags so as not to disclose its location. These posts must be changed often, as the enemy is apt to discover them, and then look out!

Valke was standing in the darkness and seclusion of the post when a shriek rent the air, the sound of which he said he would hear through eternity. It came from a man who was prostrate on the ground. He had noticed the body lying there before, a few yards away, and had assumed that the man was dead. He was a Frenchman, and on account of the darkness could be seen with difficulty. But he was not dead, only unconscious, and something had suddenly revived him.

"O God," he cried, "my marriage ring!" and then he moaned and groaned like a lost soul in agony. Immediately another form raised up to full stature and looked quickly about. Valke had to strain his eyes to see him and he trembled with nervousness. He did not know what to do for an instant. The man's head jerked this way and that. He must have expected someone to hear the cries and groans of the other man, and evidently was looking around for watchers or listeners. The Frenchman kept on groaning, and the man, seeming to fear that if any watchers were near, they would immediately let loose upon him, started to run. Valke kept very still in his dark post.

Suddenly the fugitive stopped. He turned and ran back to the prostrate Frenchman. Valke saw the gleam of a knife drawn from a sheath. It was in the hand of the apache. In an instant the horrid thing was done--a swift movement of the arm, a flash, and the blade plunged into the body of the helpless soldier! Then silence: silence more terrible than the groans of agony that it stilled. Valke's fists clinched by instinct, the nails cutting into the very flesh of his palms; and then his right hand went to the holster on his hip. It was all too plain: the hideous vulture of the battlefield knew that "dead men tell no tales," and that the wounded sometimes recover and tell things that lead to fearful reprisals on their enemies. More than that: wounded men cry out and groan; but the dead are quiet. The knife had done its work: escape might be surer for the assassin. That's the logic of ghouls.

Valke drew his service pistol, but hesitated to fire. To do so might betray his listening post and draw the enemy's shrapnel; it might be fatal to the section. In the second that Valke cast up the chances, he heard whisperings from another listening post. The ghoul had risen and was slinking for cover when the crack of a rifle tore a gap in the stillness. A light flashed up fifty yards ahead. Instinctively, the prowler sought the cover of a bush nearby and waited for the lapse of attention which might let him dash to safety. A sentry on patrol came up, passed, and vanished. That was the apache's chance! He came out of hiding and skulked along the entanglements hoping to find an alleyway to safety. The way led him right in front of Valke's listening post. A flash lamp shot its beam of blinding light full on the assassin's face.

"Who goes there?" challenged Valke. No answer.

"Who goes there?" ... Silence; not a sound.

"_Qui Vive?_" ... No reply. "_Qui Vive?_" ...

Then Valke pressed the trigger and with a groan the apache crumpled up, dead.

"For a minute," said Valke in telling me the story, "the thought of what I had done made me shudder, though it was nothing but a plain matter of army duty. The man had been challenged, well knowing the penalty of war for silence. And yet--I had killed him! It made me feel faint. But when we examined the body it was all right again inside of me. That German held in his hand a bleeding human finger, still at blood heat, and around that finger was a marriage ring! In his pocket he had an emblem pin and a gold watch and chain; and on his own finger a diamond ring--all snatched from the dead or dying bodies of men who had made the supreme sacrifice for France! Who could pity such a vile ghoul as he?"

From that hour I believe my transformation began. I thought of my sacred calling, the ministry. My church at home flashed into my mind. What would people think? How would I stand in the eyes of God? I reflected on my former teachings and beliefs. Could I face my friends, to whom I had preached peace and gentleness, now that I had applauded violence and war? Was it right or justifiable? My mind was very much perturbed and I was extremely nervous. A process of moral regeneration of my ideas was going on. This, I now believe, to be as important as a man's spiritual conversion, and step by step this book unfolds the process in my life. I stood at an hour of decision. I faced life. Its issues must be met. Here in the presence of death I had my supreme struggle. Time divided! The roads parted. Eternity was ahead. Where was I? I was in hell! Right then it surrounded, enveloped, engulfed me. The hour was freighted with destiny. Then came a sudden high resolve. "I must take the path of right and duty, wherever it may lead, e'en 'though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, Thou art with me.' Duty may require violence and war." My pacifism began to fade away, as I saw visions of mutilated men. Then all went black.

Chapter VII

The Red Cross

Caring for men, not only those who are wounded, but for those who are sick or in trouble as well, the Red Cross is without a doubt the greatest relief organization in the world today. It is so far-reaching in its scope that it does not stop with the soldiers, but includes also in its ministrations indirect victims of war--the widows, the fatherless, the aged left desolate, the homeless, and the refugees of every age and condition of life. Heretofore some people have had a wrong impression of this great agency, thinking that it ministered merely to unfortunate men on the battle field. This is far from being the case, however. It holds out its hand of hope and help to many other thousands who would languish in hopelessness and despair but for its kindly succor.

To be sure in war time the most critical point of all is the battle line. And the most important man is the soldier. He must be kept fit to do his work or all else fails. Therefore naturally enough the Red Cross, or _Croix Rouge_ as it is called in France, focuses its attention mainly on the fighting men. The problem of caring for the wounded in the present conflict is so different and so much more vast than in any previous war that a comparison is well nigh impossible. Back in our Civil War there was no Red Cross organization and the facilities for attending to the needs of the injured and the sick were extremely limited to say the least. Consequently while we did the best we could, hours and days often passed, before a Wounded soldier could be attended to, and many deaths ensued which would be avoided today. In fact the mortality percentage was immensely higher than in the present war. This sounds almost unbelievable in view of the many fearful devices which the Germans have used and the constant reports of awful carnage. But when we base our death estimates upon the actual number of men engaged the face of the situation changes very materially. We must remember that even in time of peace in civil life among twenty million men there will be thousands of deaths each day and the chances of saving a sick or wounded man are far greater today than ever before.

The marvelous Red Cross institution has sought out the best physicians and surgeons of every country and the most efficient nurses as aids; and by research investigation and experiments has brought down to the finest point that science has yet attained the matter of saving life. Any person who has had anything whatever to do with this great agency will testify to its marvelous skill and efficiency.

Moreover, aside from its merely utilitarian aspect, there goes with the Red Cross Angel in Europe that sentimental sweetness and that delicate touch which is so treasured by the heart of every soldier. It is the beginning, by the greatest Mother in the world of the fulfillment of the prophecy of Jesus, "I was hungry, and ye gave me to eat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me; verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it unto one of these my brethren, even these least, ye did it unto me." In this way real religion is practiced in the trenches. In this way is that new Christianity taking shape in Europe which is to be the religion of the future in America.

[Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._

An American Woman Caring For A Little Wounded French Child.]

Another of the great movements for the uplift and welfare of the soldiers is the Y. M. C. A. It has long been recognized that there are many strong and peculiar temptations in the life of a soldier which do not come to people in the ordinary walks of life. The first of these is the temptation to homesickness. With armies from all over the world concentrated in France, and with millions of boys for the first time in their lives separated from their old associates and environments and set down in the midst of a new atmosphere among people of a foreign tongue and different habits and modes of living, it would be strange, indeed, if they did not have a longing for home, old acquaintances, and familiar faces. Companionship and sympathy are the things they need above all else. Confidential relations between themselves and those whom they can call friends is worth everything, and this is exactly what the Y. M. C. A. establishes. It counteracts, if not entirely in large part at any rate, the tendency toward homesickness. In a land which is strange, where there are no acquaintances and no home atmosphere, the Y. M. C. A. secretaries and the Y. M. C. A. huts furnish the only touch of home that the soldier has. Here he comes when tired and beaten and spent with war; here his footsteps turn when his soul longs for an association which money cannot buy. Here he finds exactly what he needs, namely other boys who are lonely too and who are seeking the same satisfaction that he wants.

In the hut he first finds the secretary. The man who has charge of the building is there to be used in any way he is needed. He is not there to push religion on to homesick soldiers. Above all things, remember that the secretary is a failure who is continually trying to force his religion down the throats of the men and boys who want good fellowship. After gaining the friendship and respect of a man and his confidence it is not unlikely that the influence of a secretary will exert itself in a religious manner; but even then it will be indirectly, unless and until there is some definite evidence from the man himself that he is interested and wants it.

In other words the Y. M. C. A. as such, is not a revival meeting whose object is to impress the weight of men's sins upon them when that weight presses heavily enough anyway; but rather it is a place of human feelings and homelike atmosphere. A boy comes in and finds writing paper for a letter to his mother. In one corner at the top is the Red Triangle, emblem of body, mind, and spirit; and in the other corner are the words: "With the Colors." When the letter is written, stamps can be had in the building and the letter is mailed there. The boys have different kinds of games to play and good books to read so that with the amusement and comradeship they can also get some mental benefit. When a man comes in from the trenches dirty and fatigued and about disgusted, there is nothing else in the whole makeup of the war-organization which will do what this institution does.

The Knights of Columbus contribute quite as freely to the comfort of the soldiers, and I do not believe there is a boy on the Western front who would tolerate a word against either of them. It strikes me that the religion of the Red Cross type--a type which includes the Y. M. C. A. and the Knights of Columbus--is the kind which the Master exemplified in His life and the kind which he intended for us. I feel that it is a far truer and higher form of religion than many of the brands that are being peddled about the world today, and I hope when the war is over, that the whole world may adopt it.

Chapter VIII

When France Was First "Gassed"

At the stations these days we found numbers of poilus who were "done in" by the German explosive bullets, many of them breathing their last. Poor devils, writhing in pain and agony! It was bad enough to have their flesh penetrated by the capsule of lead and steel, but to have added to it the excruciating torture of having the bullet explode or expand after it got inside, was fiendish.

But such was the German's idea of "military necessity." They had thrust aside every consideration of humanity, and every ideal of morality, and were employing ruthless and frightful methods to gain their military goal, which as they said "must be attained at all costs."

And cost it did.

It cost innocent life and untold agony.

It was daily costing conscience and character.

It was costing Germany that standing among the nations which is so necessary to the future, and she was sacrificing her national honor for transitory dreams of power and wealth.

The Germans had employed the most fearful implements that the genius of their fertile brains could devise.

Liquid fire which seared the flesh, and electric currents which burned most dreadfully, were among the lighter forms of their torturous warfare.

The poison gases capped the climax.

One afternoon, at the second battle of Ypres, they let loose this demon of the devil.

From a distance of two miles the ambulance men had been watching the engagement, waiting for the signal to come forward to transport the wounded men.

The field glasses betrayed every movement on the battle line.

Suddenly, and without any apparent cause, the Allied lines seemed to break, and the fields were alive with running figures.

Astonishment took hold of the spectators.

The impossible had happened, and the French Army was in wild retreat.

Figures were seen tottering and stumbling across the meadow, soldiers were reeling to and fro, staggering like drunken men. Falling down upon the ground, waving their arms frantically, they kicked their legs in the air, agonized and groaning. Some of them came into the Red Cross dressing station, coughing, choking, and strangling. Their faces were green and their chests were heaving. Between gasps, they related an incredible tale.

The Germans had opened up a bombardment of our trenches with some new, but hellish, weapon. A greenish, gray gas had appeared above them, and hung low, instead of rising. It seemed to be heavier than air, and soon it made its way down into the trenches, choking our men and throwing them into a state of terror.

They tried to fan it away with their blankets. But no use, it only spread the gas, which got into their throats and lungs and tortured them beyond all description.

"God knows we will fight like men," they said, "but to be smothered like rats is different. No human being could endure such suffocation. God never meant a man to breathe that stuff and we'll make those hell-hounds pay for it."

But hundreds of poor poilus had already "gone West," and those who escaped were in such a condition of permanent disability and weakness that there was no danger of their making the Germans pay. Many Canadians, too, brave fellows, died that day, but on that day also they became immortal.

The stretcher bearers had seen it all, and now upon the signal, plunged into the work of lifting the sufferers into the ambulances and carrying them back to be treated and cared for. For days this thing endured, until at last the Allies devised a gas mask or respirator which completely nullified the effects of the deadly chlorine, but they paid an awful price before they got it. It is a very simple device, consisting of a long cap of light canvas or similar material, soaked in a chemical solution which absorbs or neutralizes the poison of the gases. The cap has large eye holes with glass windows. The air from the lungs is expelled through a tube which has an outward opening valve, so that you must breathe in through the treated gauze. One's coat is buttoned tightly around the lower end of this cap or "smoke helmet," so that no gas can enter from below. It is put on in twenty seconds and can withstand five hours of the poison gas.

Poison gas! Had the nation of _Kultur_ descended to such fiendish methods of torture? Yes, and to worse ones. It angered me. I had already pulled off my frock coat. I now shed my vest also. I was in process of preparation for the supreme battle--the moral struggle--to decide when a man's a man; to determine what attitude and inward action I should take in regard to this kind of thing. I could see that I must settle that problem sooner or later.

Chapter IX

When Jacques "Went West"

One of the most pathetic of the personal experiences which I had while I was in the service was in my association with a young poilu of about nineteen.

I had become well acquainted with the lad and we had many an interesting talk together, he speaking in his inimitable French manner and I responding in my butchered-up attempt at that language.

One day, however, after we had been speaking of how we were going to get the Germans, Jacques must have become a little careless, and when he went up to his fire step, raised his head a little too high, for he received an ugly skull wound.

Some time afterwards I was by his side and, in a husky whisper, he told me he was seriously wounded. He asked me to bring him a pencil, and said he was afraid he was "done in." He then fumbled clumsily about in the pocket of his grand-tunic, or great coat, until he found a piece of paper. It was in reality a piece of cardboard on which was a photograph of himself taken with his mother some years before. It was old, faded, and discolored, and on the back of it he wrote a message which ran something like this:

Dear Mother--It has been some time since I heard from you. You doubtless know that father and both brothers have been killed in the trenches some time ago. Now I am wounded also, and I may not be able to come to you, as I expected to do next week. But, Mother dear, even if I do not get to see you, don't feel badly anyway because you've given all for _La Belle France_, and I may see you some time--over there--beyond the range.--Lovingly,

Jacques.

Personally I had thought and hoped that his wound was not so serious and it would not be necessary for me to deliver the message to his mother. But he knew better than I. And three days later worse came to worst and poor Jacques "went West." The tragic duty of taking his body back to his lonely mother, somewhere in France, devolved upon me. I also handed her his message, but I could not remain. Her grief was too deep. I fairly ran away from that house.

But that mother's eyes penetrated my soul for days and weeks, and my thoughts, try as I might, could not get away from her lot. In about three weeks I felt a strong pull and I made my way back to her little humble home to see if I could in any way lighten her burden a bit, or perhaps say some word to bring just a little comfort or assuage her heart's grief. When I rapped on the door and she answered and saw who I was, she fairly beamed with pleasure and threw her arms about my neck exclaiming, "Mr. Benson, I am so glad you have come," and then rushing over to the dresser drawer she brought out that worn and faded photograph with her son's message on the back, and as she showed it to me she exclaimed: "I am going to keep it till I die! It's not for the value of the picture, but that message interprets the heart of my boy to me. It tells me that he loves me, and, Mr. Benson, do you know, I wish I might have another husband and three more boys to go and fight for _La Belle France_!"

That's an example of heroism and patriotism for America!

And after that, for several weeks, that little loyal French mother, now alone in the world, sent me regularly some cakes and delicacies, with the message that as she did not have any of her own now to care for, she must try to do her best to help those who were helping France to win the battle for liberty.

Poor Jacques had "gone West." And she need not send him any more clothes or food, but Jacques and his two brothers and his father too, have thrown their lives into the scale, and have added just so many more names to that honor roll, which already is large, of patriots of France. They loved their country. Every man, woman, and child over there does likewise, and France will honor them all eternally.

I pray God's blessing on Jacques' mother now.

Chapter X

"Trench Nightmare"

Often in the long, long hours of the midnight during that period I brooded over the situation. Frequently the wheels of my thought would turn swiftly, and cause me to reflect upon that life in the terrible trenches; in those uncanny and frightful sewers, dug in the ground, cut there in No Man's Land, and, it sometimes seemed, in no God's land, where the guns bark, and the red fire leaps, and the shrapnel hisses, and the howitzers rip and snort in the daytime, and where glassy-eyed rats and vermin sneak and glide, spying upon the fatigued soldier in the night time, ready to finish up the work which the explosive may not quite have ended.

Out there, in those animal burrows, surrounded by mud and blood and bacterial mold, where, week after week, the poor, plucky poilus existed, it could not be called living, and month after month remained in the weird, grim business of killing their unseen opponents by machinery.

I can picture them now lying upon that bank of dirt, some two feet high and eighteen inches wide--the fire step, they call it--which runs along the front side of the trench, six feet in the ground and three or four feet wide, with nothing overhead, or nothing but branches of trees covered with dust and mud.

As I write I can see the entire spectacle: How those men stuck out their rifles through the openings left for them and, at the given signal, fired, never knowing whether they hit and killed their objects.

But those bullets went home, all right.

The list of wounded on either side, at the end of the week or the end of the month, told more tragically than any individual report could tell that those bullets went home. And day after day, and week after week, every three minutes, or every four minutes, those men raised their smoking, reeking tubes of death, and let fly the fatal messengers.

And night after night they had to lie upon that bench bed of dirt and indulge in disturbed sleep, or else gaze out upon that knotted, gnarled mass of barbed-wire entanglements in front of the trenches, as it glistened in the moonlight; that barrier, which, unlike the barbed wire that civilized man--and civilized beast--is accustomed to, has barbs upon it, not one but four inches in length, to rend and tear and catch the flesh of man, and hold him wriggling, writhing and squirming as he tries to charge the enemy, just long enough to give that enemy the chance, from his hiding place over yonder under the ground, to shoot him full of bullet holes.

God, what a nightmare it is! And when an assault was ordered and they charged down the alleyways between the sections of barbed-wire entanglement, they found themselves confronted by storms of bullets from those wicked machine guns, each one of which speaks at a rate of 450 to 3,000 times per minute.

In order to have even a gambler's chance of capturing the enemy's trench, therefore, sometimes it became necessary to abandon the open alleyways and charge right across and "over the top" of those awful masses of barbed wire. This was almost certain death for those of the first ranks. Other lines of men following close upon the first might also be mowed down as well, as they were caught upon the wire, but after a while all the wire is covered up, and all the space is filled between the top of it, waist high, and the earth, with soldiers' bodies, a veritable foundation of human flesh, upon which the following waves of men usually rushed over successfully without becoming entangled.

If fortune was with them, they had some possibility of taking the trench of the enemy.

If they did, what next?

The enemy, or what was left of him, retreated through communicating trenches to others in the rear, of which there are many, planted a stick of dynamite after him, to blow up his retreat, and found himself, in a few moments, a hundred yards back, and intrenched just as solidly as he was before. Perhaps even more solidly, because he had now the men who escaped from the front line trench in addition to the same number in the second line, which now became the first.

Such is war today.

And, because of this method of warfare, the death list is a hundredfold more frightful, and so along that battle line in France, three hundred and fifty miles in length, the weekly toll of human life staggers all conception. The contemplation of it saddens the soul. Nothing but the vision of Liberty and Right triumphant can ever compensate for the slaughtered loved ones.

The piles of dead and wounded men, bleeding, groaning masses of human pulp, rotting flesh and decaying bones, carry disease and fever to ambulance rescue workers and all. These are the black silhouettes which go to make up that grim and gloomy picture, that nightmare of the trenches. These, of course, are the things one sees in his dark and somber moments. But it is not all like this.

Chapter XI

Calm Before A Storm

Section "Y," to which I had been attached, was about this time transferred to a point much farther east and south. They were a jolly bunch of good fellows and always had a sociable time together. As a rule the best of feeling existed between all of the members but I remember one occasion on which the tranquillity of the party came perilously near being upset, temporarily at least. One of the boys was of a rather argumentative turn of mind and would often deny the statements of the other boys apparently just for the sake of controversy. I think he believed that matching wits and defending one's position were wholesome mental exercises. I will not mention his name as there is no animosity whatever between us, but I will say that he went later into the diplomatic service of our country. He had been a kind of soldier of fortune and without a doubt had knocked about the world a lot and seen a number of things. In his time he had been to nearly all the countries of the globe and had been in some colleges and universities.

On this particular evening we were sitting around the tables at our quarters, each fellow telling of some exploit of his previous life, and he had related some strange experiences of his travels. It happened that the night before, when I had made the statement that I once crossed the Atlantic on the _Lucania_ in six days he had flatly contradicted me, saying that the _Lucania_ was a much slower boat. It irritated me to have him contradict me in front of all the boys concerning a thing which I knew I had done. But I let it pass. This night, however, it was different. Heaven only knows how we drifted upon the subject but I happened to make the remark that students at Princeton were compelled to sign a pledge that they would not belong to any secret fraternity while they were members of the school. My friend promptly greeted this remark with the astounding statement, "They do not!" I said, "Well, I went to school there and I was required to sign the paper, and so I ought to know." He still persisted in his denial, placing me in a rather embarrassing position before the other fellows. I got crusty. I said, "Look here, son, you denied a statement that I made last night about a fact of my own life, and now you have done it again. You had better tend to your own business hereafter, and stop trying to make me out a liar, or there is going to be trouble." He said, "What will you do about it?" I replied pugnaciously, "I'll flatten your face, that's what I'll do about it." Of course, he said something about "starting in" whenever I got ready, and so forth, and the argument died down a bit. A moment later when I stepped outside, some of the boys asked me if I knew who I had been talking to. I said, "No, but I'll do what I said I would, anyway. Who is he?" They said, "That fellow is an ex-prize fighter and at one time was in the ring with the greatest pugilist in England." "Is that right?" I said in astonishment, "Well, I don't think I'll slap his face at all, and he can deny any statement I make with perfect impunity." We all had a laugh and in his presence thereafter I was very meek and lamblike. I pulled my horns way in.

After all he was a good fellow and from this moment we got along on the best of terms. We had a good many days of calm about that time and not very much to do but wait for the storm and action of war. Sometimes, to be sure, we would be called out on long trips to the front to bring in some wounded officer or some dignitary but our ordinary duties were to carry from the station to the several hospitals the wounded who came in on frequent trains. The French officials, however, seemed to appreciate our work even though it was quite humble. French courtesy and gratitude are such wonderful things that the officers gracefully accepted the work and praised it anyway, though I have often thought that generosity must have blinded them to the many deficiencies and shortcomings. I sometimes wonder if they do not smile inwardly and, when they are alone, laugh outwardly at the service which we thought quite creditably done. Americans have a way of thinking that their work is superior even though it may not be looked upon as such by others. At any rate ours was done in the best spirit of good will and it was certainly accepted in a similar spirit.

For a while things were comparatively quiet. Then, however, all of a sudden attacks were begun, and the boys had all they could do making trips back and forth carrying the wounded from the front to the hospitals.

Chapter XII

If An Ambulance Could Speak

In silent moments of rest between trips I occasionally would reflect, "If an ambulance could only talk, what tales it would tell!" No doubt, sometimes it would tell of the pleasant occasions and of merry conversation, and then again it would turn to the tragic and the sad. Now it would be of victorious moments, and again it would be of defeat and discouragement. Occasionally it would be gay and glad, and speak of heroism if some slightly wounded man was riding in it and talk joyfully of the hope and gladness in his heart. But far more frequently, I fear, it would tell of blood and pain and hate and death.

[Illustration: _Copyright. Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._

An American Ambulance Ready For Duty.

The ambulance is waiting outside the dressing station. Any moment a call may come and galvanize it into action.]

As an example of ambulance tales there is one little incident which I feel I must relate. After the battle at B----, where the French Colonials of Africa composed the main force of the Allies' soldiers, we had hundreds of these dark-hued men to transport in our ambulances. The slaughter had been terrific, and the wounded men were extraordinarily mutilated.

Two of these Turcos had been loaded into our ambulance and we were waiting for a third passenger, when a German prisoner was brought out on a stretcher. He was very seriously injured, and lay there quiet and pale. One of the Turcos was badly wounded, and the other one not so seriously. We received orders to carry the German wounded prisoner to the same hospital as the Turcos, and so we lifted his stretcher and slid it into the upper story of the ambulance, a suspended arrangement which enabled us to carry three men while otherwise we could have carried only two. There was a considerable distance to be traversed between the station where we received our men and the hospital to which we were told to take them. After we had been on the road for some minutes and were driving along at a fairly good rate, there was a violent vibration and shaking of the car. We switched off the gasoline and threw in the brakes and, bringing the car to a stop, jumped down and ran around to the rear to see what was wrong.

The first thing I saw was a stream of blood trickling down from the stretcher above and soaking the uniform of one of the Turcos in the bottom of the car. I then saw that this fellow had his knife in his hand, and I excitedly asked what was the matter. The other Turco, who was not so badly wounded explained that his partner did not like the idea of having a live German riding in the same car with him, and so he had slipped out his trench knife and with what strength he had left, had rallied and raised himself up enough to thrust it upward through the stretcher and into the back of the German above. There was a smile of satisfaction on the black face of the Turco, who had fallen back exhausted. We unbuckled the straps which held the German's stretcher and slipped it out, but he was already dead. While we were examining him the two Turcos said a few words to each other, and when we were about to start forward they both refused to ride with a dead German in the car. Before we were done with him we had to carry the corpse to the side of the road and bury it there.

We folded up the stretcher, put it back into the car, and again set out. When we got to the hospital several miles farther on, we lifted out the stretchers, but one of the Turcos was dead. He had used up all his strength and life in the great effort he had put forth to kill the hated German, but the other one said he was very contented, and had died willingly and gladly.

Such little incidents of different kinds are continually happening, where millions of men from all classes of society and with different ideals are thrown together, and I am sure any ambulance on the Western front could tell many a thrilling tale if it but had the power. Perhaps it is better that it can not speak.

Chapter XIII

A Ticklish Attack

At one time I was called upon to go to the city of A---- on a particular errand. While there I had a unique experience. I had gotten a permit allowing me to remain there over night, which, speaking accurately, allowed me to leave next day. You have very little difficulty "staying" in a place as long as you stay, but if you do not have a permit you will have your troubles when you try to "leave" next day.

All permits in Europe today read "allowed to leave" such and such a place on such and such a day for another place.

Well, I had gotten my permit to leave A---- on the following day, the 24th. I wandered around over the city viewing the destroyed portions and making the acquaintance of some womenfolk who ran a restaurant, and at last I found a hotel and went to sleep. The next morning after breakfast I left my hotel and made my way up the main street until I came to a narrow alley-like street with tall buildings on either side, into which I entered, bent on investigation. I had not gone more than a hundred feet down this street when I distinctly heard a _boom!_

I did not pay much attention to it, for I thought it was likely some blasting in the vicinity, and presently I heard another _boom!_

I then looked about and saw a man ahead of me leading a horse hitched to a high-wheeled vegetable cart, heavily loaded. He was trying to run and drag along with him, horse, cart, and all. Everybody was running and--well--I guess I ran, too! I don't know just why I did--I know I wasn't scared! But some way a feeling inside of me told me I would rather be in some other place than there. If I was to be killed, I thought it would be more consolation to the folks at home if my body wasn't loaded down with hundreds of tons of brick and mortar. For nine and one-fifth seconds I beat the world's record.

_Boom! Boom! Boom!_

When I got out into the main street again and turned to get my breath, along with a good many other runners, I saw three airplanes dropping bombs down on the city at the rate of a hundred in a little over three minutes, and with the detonations and the reverberations of the anti-aircraft guns which were being fired, added to the explosions of the bombs themselves, it just seemed as though the entire atmosphere was raining bombs. And any way I went, a whole flock of the bombs followed me. I learned later that an important factory was destroyed and that forty people were killed. If they had told me forty thousand, I think I should have believed it. The feeling on such an occasion as this is indescribable. It is not like any ordinary bombardment when you know the enemy is letting you have it from only one side--the front. The sense of utter helplessness when you feel he is all about you and peppering you from a thousand angles isn't comfortable to say the least. That afternoon I strolled about the city taking in the ruined districts, and that evening I set off for my post, complying with the provisions of my pass. If I hadn't left then, I couldn't have gone at all without a lot of difficulty.

Chapter XIV

The Death Of A Comrade

On a certain Friday afternoon at M---- the day had been ominously quiet. Several of the boys had gone out for a little stroll and lunch before retiring, and a few were hanging around the cars. The sun was sinking low in the west and appeared to be loath to drop out of sight. An orderly from the hospital came rushing over out of breath and told us to come quickly. Two boys went with me immediately and as we entered a darkened room we saw our old friend, Gaston, apparently "passing out." Some of us had been pretty well acquainted with him. We went in noiselessly but as soon as we stepped over the threshold he opened his eyes a little wider and smiled faintly. He looked so peaceful that we hated to disturb him. Speaking in a kind of hoarse whisper he said, "I sent for you. I am glad you came. You boys have been good to me and I wanted to thank you. I am lonesome, and I want my mother, too. Pneumonia has set in, but I'll be better--in--a--couple--of--days. How--is--the--battle--go----?" Here his eyes closed and he seemed to sleep. Yes, I can truthfully say he did find sleep. The sleep which knows no waking. But the room was so quiet and he looked so calm and happy as he lay there that it did not seem like death. It only seemed as if some white angel had come down and touched his tired, feeble body and transfigured him. Poor fellow, he had been gassed at the battle of Ypres, and we had met him at the hospital. Several times we had had good visits with him and neither he nor we surmised that his time was so near at hand. He had not appeared to be in pain and he always said he did not suffer. And he was so hopeful to the end.

His life story had been a sad one. Married when very young he had been a farmer on one of those little places so common and yet so unique in France. Things had not gone well with him and his farm had almost been forfeited. He had a family of children but his little twin boy and girl had been killed in a runaway and the shock had prostrated his wife. She had been an invalid ever since. Years had gone by and then when the Germans came, a shell had struck his home killing his wife in her bed and injuring his other boy. A few hours later the Germans entered the place, driving him out of his home, taking his farm. He had barely time to escape being captured, which would have meant service for Germany instead of for France. His heart had been saddened but he was glad to get away and go into the French Army and he had gone back to fight the Germans. He had gone through several battles without being injured but the gas caught him at Ypres. He lived sadly but died peacefully, and we were requested to be present at the last little service over what was earthly of him. They put him in a plain casket covered with a French flag and the procession started down toward the little church.

At this time the Germans were bombing the district quite regularly. On reaching the graveyard we could see dozens of tombstones demolished, and one grave had thrown its occupant to the surface of the earth and it lay there a crumbling, rotting corpse--yet smiling, or at least so it seemed as the pearly white teeth were exposed to full view--smiling in derision, beyond the power of the German and his _Kultur_. Here Gaston was laid to rest.

But war furnishes strange contradictions. It is a continuous panorama of lights and shadows; of beauties and hideous monstrosities. It furnishes some of the truest and bravest acts that history records and it produces some of the foulest deeds of crime. Experiences are so varied. Some evenings, while loafing about the headquarters sitting at little tables writing letters or talking peacefully there was nothing whatever to remind us of battle. Beautiful parks were in front of us, fountains and flowers, and all was quiet and serene. Then a call would come and within an hour or two we would be enveloped in the harsh stern facts of war.

After witnessing the death of our comrade and seeing the shattered cemetery and the decaying corpse sticking out of the grave, all in one day, I felt a bit weird myself. A man's nervous constitution isn't made of iron and even after seeing many morbid spectacles, unless he has become hopelessly hardened, he will still be affected by tragic experiences and brutal scenes. I didn't rest any too well that night after those creepy sensations and the next day my nerves were rather shaky. The grim spectacle which was now to greet my eyes did not tend to quiet me either.

I was sent on quite a long trip to bring in two wounded men of the Colonials, one French, the other British. These two men, Turko and Senegalese, proverbially speaking, were as black as the ace of spades. Neither of them was very dangerously wounded and both were talking cheerfully. One had a leg broken and the other had been caught in the shoulder. As we slid out the stretcher of the first man and placed it on the ground, his knapsack fell off and to my astonishment out rolled the head of a German soldier! The African spoke of it with great satisfaction, turning it over in his hands and boasting of his good fortune, as, I suppose the primitive American Indian boasted of the scalp dangling from his belt. The other fellow, not to be outdone, ran his hand into the cavernous depths of his pocket and brought forth a human eye. It was a ghastly looking object. It seemed to me to be penetrating the soul of the Colonial, but he just laughed and enjoyed very much my discomfiture.

One evening as I was about to "hit the hay," two wounded men came in on foot from the front. They were so weak they could drag themselves along no farther. I was requested to take them to a hospital which was some distance from the place. I got my car ready and saw that everything was right. The night was dark as pitch. The men were put on a _brancard_, or stretcher, and placed in the ambulance. We were making our way toward our destination when we came to a piece of road running through a cut in the hilly country. The road was rather narrow, just allowing enough room for two vehicles to pass. On either side was a great bank fifteen or more feet high. Right in the main part of the cut was a mudhole perhaps a hundred feet or more in length. When we came to this place we were suspicious of it and stopped for a few moments to consider before making the plunge. As we did so a line of motor lorries and soldiers came down from the other direction. I was afraid it was too daring an enterprise but two or three of the trucks got safely through and my fears began to be allayed. A truck now came loaded high with ammunition cases and just behind it two men on horses. Into the mudhole plowed the ammunition truck, and the riders followed close behind. The mud was getting deeper and deeper and the wheels began to clog. An awful tattoo sounded as the driver threw in the low speed and tried to pull ahead. The boys on horseback turned out to go around the truck, which was evidently sticking. As they did so its rear wheel struck a rock and broke short off, upsetting the entire load. In falling down, the shell cases frightened the horses. One of them reared and fell, throwing the rider right under the overturning truck. He was fatally crushed. The soldiers coming up extricated the poor fellow from the wreckage and brought him to our ambulance. I quickly saw that he was "done in." He could talk a little, and he said that it was foolish to attempt to ride around the truck in the narrow space, especially where the mud was so deep.

We doubled back part way on our journey and made a detour. But the mangled man died before we reached our destination. We delivered the other wounded and made the return trip with little difficulty. Later on many soldiers came in on foot over that piece of road but they said that the other trucks had all turned back and gone around another way. They did not dare to brave that awful mudhole. These soldiers were dirty, worn and battle-weary for they had walked from the trenches for miles through the mud, and they plainly showed it too. There was not a spot as big as your hand on them that was not dyed with that cream-colored mud and their faces were speckled with it so that they looked almost as if they had had the smallpox. As one of them turned to leave me, he uttered the words, "Some mud."

Chapter XV

On An Old Battle Ground

In a certain section of the country one could see from a prominent hill across some cities and onward to the edge of the German lines. The region has been much fought over and in fact is an old battle ground. One terribly drizzly day it became necessary to go over to a nearby village to evacuate a hospital. Wild tales had come in about the "strafing" which the town was being subjected to and we were immediately ordered to hurry to the spot. It was said that the Germans were shelling the place with "H. E.'s" from a distance of about twenty miles, with shells of fifteen and seventeen inch caliber. If there is anything which will put the fear of God in a man it is the explosion of one of those "big fellows."

From the frightened faces of the men who had just come from there, I think the whole town had suddenly become a God-fearing people--since six o'clock that morning. They told us that hundreds of people had been killed and that many buildings were in flames. Well, we went to our car and tried to start it but it would not crank. We tried everything we could think of but it was of no use. The chilly night evidently had cooled the engine too much. We heated a kettle of water and fed it into the radiator and poured it over the carburetor. This helped some, for she sputtered a little but the engine did not take enough gas to turn over. Finally after I had taken out all the spark plugs and given them a good cleaning with gasoline, I cranked up and she started off with a bang.

All this time the men who had come in from the burning village had been urging us to hurry. Their impatience added so much to our nervousness that it made us almost angry. Any man who has motor trouble will appreciate it. At last we started the ambulance. Just as we were going out the gate--whish! We picked up a tack and our rear tire was flat! It took me about eight minutes to take off that tire and put a new one on, but it seemed like hours. The men who had been telling us how to do it now climbed into the back of the car and went along with us. We had been on the road only a few minutes when we met a man coming down the road pulling behind him a two-wheeled cart. He raised his hands as a signal to stop. We did. Then, with tears streaming down his face, he began to talk to us, pointing to the cart which was covered with old rag carpet. At last he lifted the carpet and showed us the lifeless body of a woman, of his wife! The body was horribly mutilated, the head and right arm were entirely gone and the left hand was blown to shreds. As the poor man looked at the corpse he became fairly frantic, screaming and moaning. We tried to say some words of sympathy but the only answer he could give us was, _O, ma femme! ma femme!_ We climbed out of the car and while we stood there an old man and a little girl came trudging up--the daughter and father of the woman. They, too, began to cry. Suddenly the old man reeled and fell to the ground. When we picked him up he was dead. He had died of a broken heart. We lifted his body into the cart beside that of his daughter. I never felt so heartless in my life as I did when we left that man and little girl to stumble on with their burden of sorrow.

When we reached the village, the situation confirmed all the rumors. The shelling had stopped, but the burning of the buildings was almost as bad. We drove down the street to the public square and just then over on the opposite corner a large caliber shell came crashing in, striking a school building, exploding and producing a fearful effect. Twelve children were killed and the entire schoolhouse destroyed. The force of these large projectiles is almost inconceivable. Very often a single one will completely annihilate an entire building, reducing it to a pile of bricks, dust and kindling wood. I have seen one of them practically demolish two houses separated by several feet.

Well, at last we got to the hospital. Shells had burst around it but none had struck it as yet, and the few people who were there were badly frightened. We carried a load of wounded back to the base and with the help of the other ambulances after several hours we evacuated the hospital. Before the work was finished, however, the Germans had shelled the road and it became a difficult matter to pick our way along and dodge the craters. A shell burst just in front of one of the cars and covered the driver with fine pieces of stone and dust.

As evening drew on the great volcano-like explosions from the guns in the distance lighted up the sky and made an inspiring and awful spectacle. As the guns belched forth their messages of death one might have thought he was in the midst of a hundred powder factories which were exploding periodically. There was something fascinating about it all, yet frightful, but as I reflected on the capacity for ruin and death which those engines of war possessed, I thought I would prefer to be farther away. The firing ceased as night came on and the atmosphere cleared up. A wonderful red moon rose in the heavens above those awful scenes and for some brief hours brought a feeling of peace and calm.

Chapter XVI

The Verdun Attack--Life And Death

Multitudes of people without doubt would like to know what an attack is like, consequently I will try to describe one in the region of Verdun. After serving six hours' notice on the city the Germans' big guns opened up, with large caliber shells at short intervals. Frightened by the fearful bombardment the civil population in multitudes swarmed out of the town and took to the country roads. Thousands of trucks and numbers of guns and soldiers advancing towards the enemy passed these fleeing people. Many _camions_ slipped off the road, turned over, smashed, and were left there, but the procession moved on and on. Horses died and were left to rot on the roadside. Yet the procession bent on grim business never paused. The routes of travel were jammed with soldiers and the rumble and roar of the monster guns of the Teutons dinned into one's ears the message that the world was locked in a death struggle.

Men and munitions are the only things that count in such an hour; and at Verdun in those perilous times so many thousands of noble men were wounded and cast aside that inconceivable numbers were required to take their places and fill the ranks. Such is the wonderful spirit of France that men always are ready to fill the gaps in the line. They go gladly and I believe they will sacrifice thus until the very end.

Peasants were passing by in haste, dragging two-wheeled push carts loaded with the baubles which they counted dear, but which in death are of little value. Coming and going, coming and going, the two processions moved through the weary hours, and still on the horizon the mouths of Hell belched forth their smoke and fire, and across the field was heard the awful rumbling of the guns. Many different kinds of shells were used, producing different effects which could be distinguished by the various colors of smoke emitted in exploding. They also filled the air with strange and nauseating odors, and the crumbling houses sent up enormous clouds of dust.

[Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._

American Ambulances On The Road To The Front.

The cars of the Ambulance Field Service rush through maelstroms of shrapnel and high explosive shells to succor the wounded, and then brave the same dangers to get them to the base hospitals in time to relieve their wounds.]

Without warning out of the night came a battery of guns with a clatter of horses' hoofs and clamor of wheels on the pavement, and in a few brief moments the sky lighted up with hellish explosions, and then died down again. As the night deepened, regiments of soldiers tramped by and passed out of sight. Then from the distance came the awful roar of a fearful "strafing."

The war hospital during a battle is a fearsome place and it always smells strongly of chloroform and ether. At the door of one of them the _brancardiers_ carry the body of a man who has made a heroic struggle in the race against death. His head is battered fearfully and death has won the race. But then--what is death? The commonest figure that stalks around on the earth today. And, after all, it is not so terrible. A little sooner, or a little later, it comes. All must die. Death is not the dreadful thing, nor even the important thing. It is true, as the poet Cooke has said, "It's not the fact that you're dead that counts, but only how did you die."

I am not preaching in this story. I do want to say, however, that death is not important. Death is not an enemy; not on the Western front. Thousands of better men than we, yes, millions, have met this same fellow and boldly gone with him. They all go, but how did you die? That's it. Let the German answer.

Verdun is an old fort and reputed to be one of the most formidable fortifications in the world. Had it not been so it would certainly have been crushed like an eggshell before the German onslaught, for a dozen shells often exploded at the same time, blowing up many buildings, yet the fortress never weakened for an instant. If Verdun had fallen, nothing could have stood. But as Victor Hugo says of Waterloo, "God was passing by and He took charge of things." To our little minds it is all mysterious. Wonderful are the ways of His working, but through one agency or another He always thwarts the designs of evil men and has His way at last.

Verdun was most important. In every war there are certain battles which the historian calls "strategic," certain points which are pivotal, and the outcome of the engagement there is particularly vital. The history and destiny of nations hangs upon them. Such a one was Waterloo a century ago. Gettysburg in the Civil War was another one. In this present struggle the Marne and Verdun have been the outstanding pivotal battles, but they were won! Won by the French, who, as I look at it, were held up and led on by the very hand of God. I am not a military expert, and I have no knowledge or insight that other folk do not possess, but it is my inward judgment that from this time on the battles will be fought east of Verdun. That is to say in the main, I doubt very much if the Germans will push through much farther than they are already and I believe that little by little the Allies will crowd them back along the greater portion of the front until victorious. The world must bear in mind, however, that Germany is by no means weak and that she will not be vanquished without an awful struggle. She may also at places advance her line somewhat, but I think no one need now fear as many did in the beginning that Paris will ever be taken, or that Verdun will fall. It has stood the supreme test!

One must remember, however, that Verdun today is not a beautiful sight. The forts are still intact and from a military point of view that is all that counts. But from an artistic or aesthetic standpoint, the place is sorry indeed. When the Germans sent over their incendiary bombs setting the buildings on fire, and then their hail of shrapnel so the fire could not be put out, they accomplished sad destruction. Broken pieces of glass, bits of shell and upturned cobblestones fill the streets, and battered carts and wagons lie everywhere. Houses are smashed to pieces and smoke-blackened brick and charred timbers, the worthless remains of burned buildings are seen on every hand. From the individual viewpoint Verdun is very sad, extremely so. Thousands of people have been driven from their homes and when they left they had to say good-bye to those homes forever. Multitudes have had loved ones killed while others have lost track of their relatives and probably will never find them. Beautiful edifices, the fulfilment of the artists' dream, have been battered and burned down, and in that city at the present moment Art is not! All this is lamentable.

Yet from the larger point of view, that of France, Verdun is a glorious triumph. From the national and even the world standpoint, Verdun means one more thwarting of the tyrant's design and one more victory for Truth and Right. When we rise above today, and look at things in the light of human progress, our value judgments alter much. The world will not care much whether this or that individual lost his house or farm, for a ruined city will rise again, but the heart of the world leaps with joy when it realizes that the despot has been checked! And even the French individual possesses such an indomitable spirit of patriotism that he will not mourn for his temporal losses just so the future of France is not impaired. The long sacrifice and the enduring suffering are borne by these patient people with remarkable calm. They endure today in silence, their Calvary of war, the bloody Golgotha of France.

Yet I would not have you think that war is all battle. Not all of the hours nor even the days of the men in the war country are taken up with thoughts of horror, or in listening to the explosions of shells, or the carrying of mangled or lacerated men. The war is so gigantic in its operation and it covers so vast an area that millions of the people engaged find themselves many times occupied with the most peaceful thoughts and the most commonplace pursuits. If all of the people engaged were compelled continually to face the cannon and the barbed wire, or to listen to the moans of the dying, and feel that they themselves were apt to be taken off at any minute, they would not be the cool-headed people that they are, but instead would be a crowd of raving maniacs. The person thousands of miles away from the spectacle who only reads about it often gets a wrong impression on this point. Nations are mobilized; multitudes are under arms; thousands are engaged in assisting those who fight intermittently--and no soldier fights except intermittently, a week or so on and several days off--and, consequently, not infrequently there are hours or even days when one takes the even tenor of his way far from the battle front, much the same as he does in times of peace.

On such an evening, I found myself writing a letter, as letters to me of late had been rather scarce. I was sitting in a plain, bare hut with a kerosene lamp, and a peculiar letter it was that I wrote. I had seen some odd writing paper in a little stationery store and had paid a couple of cents for three or four sheets of it. Each sheet was arranged by the manufacturer so as to make a complete letter. If you were to take an ordinary sheet of paper and perforate it on the sewing machine on all four sides about half an inch from the edge, then put some mucilage on that half inch margin and let it dry, folding it across the middle, you would have a piece of this one-letter stationery. As it happened there was a little wording on the outside, and a square for the postage stamp. All you have to do is to write the address on the outside, open it out, pen your missive inside, fold it and wet the edges all the way round, thus sticking it, and you then have your letter so to speak, on the inside of your envelope and the receiver simply tears off the perforated edges, opens it up, and reads.

I was writing on this odd French stationery after a day of idleness. My table consisted of two boards thrown across a couple of sawhorses--a very comfortable table by the way, but the kerosene lamp smelled badly. My thoughts were of America and home. I was in a soliloquizing mood and I also wanted the letter as a souvenir, when I returned. And so I began:

My dear sir, self: U. S. A., When you receive this epistle you will be far away from the scenes which now confront you. You may sometimes think you have it pretty hard staying out here in France away from home and loved ones, having no money, dead broke, and laboring without pay, and often getting little time to rest or sleep. But listen, son, you must realize that you are at this hour in the very midst of the biggest crisis of history. The world has never seen such a moment and if you had missed having a part in it you would have kicked yourself throughout eternity. Your own little life anyway is not an important thing to the world. A few dollars more and a position of ease doesn't make any difference, and if you learn the lesson, my boy, that giving yourself in a noble cause and living for others, is the greatest thing in life you will have found happiness and gained all things. Please take this little suggestion in the proper spirit and set it to work. Also remember that never again in your life will you ever get a reception from anyone which is so beautiful as that which the French people are giving you right at this hour....

At this moment the door opened and a hurry call was brought in for three hundred wounded. A great battle had been fought and our boys were needed at once. I stuck the letter in my pocket and went out. In ten minutes we were on the road. Arriving in the night at the station where the men were to be brought in we were told that the train would not arrive for at least an hour and we knew that that might mean six hours, as it often did. Things were fairly quiet here, but now and then we saw the shell flashes and occasionally heard the booming of the guns. I went into a little structure nearby prepared to wait as long as need be. While sitting there I got out my odd French stationery and began finishing that letter to myself. I wrote:

And may that beautiful French hospitality always be a bright spot in your life. And when your time comes to "shuffle off this mortal coil," whether violently or peacefully, may you remember that many a better man out here has done so courageously for a heroic cause. Take this to yourself. Good-bye.

Sincerely,

Your Friend.

I folded the top of the letter down over the bottom and wet the edges with my tongue, pressing them together, and put it in my pocket ready to mail. I had just turned around when--rip--bang--a monstrous bomb burst right in the block where I was sitting, tearing a hole fifteen inches in diameter right through the roof, and totally enveloping everyone in blinding, choking dust. The concussion put out the candle and as I had no matches, I just sat there half dazed for several minutes coughing and sneezing and wondering what was coming next. Finally I rubbed my eyes and felt my way out of the place, only to find that one of the cars had been smashed to toothpicks by the shell as it went off.

As I met one of the boys he said, "Where were you?" I answered, "Inside writing a message to myself--but it was a more thrilling message to myself that came, in the way of that explosion."

"Well, I should think so," he replied. "Hereafter you had better not bother writing to yourself; next time I'd write to the other fellow." And I thought it was pretty good philosophy.

Half an hour later the trains came in, bearing the wounded in numbers. By working until one o'clock next day without any food, we finally got the wounded cared for and distributed, there being 400 of them instead of 300 as first reported. Providence, however, appears to have seen to it that men do not suffer when engaged in work of this kind, and I never heard any of the men complain of being hungry. Sometimes, however, at the stations, kind women provided coffee and sandwiches for the ambulance men as well as for the wounded, and when this was so they never went amiss.

Back at headquarters one day an amusing incident occurred. I had bought a beautiful French pipe sometime before which I valued greatly. It happened, however, that I had gone out one afternoon and left it lying on my bed, which consisted of a straw mattress on the floor. While I was gone a couple of French poilus had come in to chat with the other boys. One of the poilus had been imbibing a bit and was feeling pretty good, I guess. He sat down on my bed and two of our boys did the same, thinking to talk and have a little fun with him. While the Frenchman was sitting there his eye fell upon that pretty pipe of mine and he picked it up admiringly, hinting to the boys that he would like to have it. They told him it was not theirs but they felt sure that the owner would not care if he took it. So he put it in his pocket with a wink and laid his cheap, smelly one in its place. He then noticed a little yellow cap on the bed. It was a sort of skullcap affair which the boys all wore when sleeping to keep their heads warm. When Mr. Poilu saw it he expressed a desire to have it also. The boys told him the cap belonged to me but they knew I would willingly let him have it. He took the cap and presently went out.

Imagine my chagrin on returning at being told that one of the poilus had taken my treasured pipe and my nightcap! I did not care so much for the cap but I was very sorry to lose the pipe. I knew that the boys would not be able to identify this one man among all those hundreds who wore long blue coats and red trousers. But fortune was kind. Early the next morning when we were going to breakfast, we passed a large crowd of poilus, and one of our boys began to laugh. He called out, "Benson, there goes your nightcap!" And sure enough, on the head of a poilu, sticking down below his military cap, was the yellow edge of my nightcap. That identified my man, and I rushed gleefully over and smilingly said in my execrable French, "Monsieur, I believe I have your pipe," holding it up to his gaze. He took it, saying, "Yes; thank you." But he did not offer me my pipe, and there was an embarrassing pause. After a moment I said, "Perhaps, Monsieur, you have my pipe?" He smiled again and said, "Yes," and fished it out of his pocket. We both laughed, and I felt so good that I did not ask him for the cap. He's welcome to it. But as for the pipe, I now prize it more highly than before.

Chapter XVII

Barrage, Or Curtain Fire

At this juncture let me run over the development of barrage fire as military critics look upon and explain it.

Petain, the great French general, has given expression to one of the outstanding facts of the present war. He says, "The artillery conquers, the infantry occupies." This, in a few words, is the explanation of that new method of attack by "barrage" or, as the English call it, "curtain fire."

This system of attacking the enemy is a new one and has proven most effective for the Allies. In a nutshell, it creates what might be called a danger zone, or, better still, a death zone, just in front of the advancing soldiers. As the soldiers move on ahead the barrage moves on, or it may be more proper to say that the soldiers move just as slowly as the curtain of fire moves, for if they do not, fatal consequences follow. If they should go too fast they would run into the barrage and would be killed by their own artillery, which is in the rear of the trenches. Occasionally a soldier becomes too enthusiastic and goes too fast for the barrage, and then disaster follows. Accuracy, in time and in range, is the one thing which must be most strictly observed by the men who are conducting the barrage hundreds of yards back of the line.

These men project a hail of shells over the heads of their own infantry and across a thin strip of land parallel to the enemy's trench and directed in the first place at his barbed-wire defenses. This line or belt of bursting shells must be so fierce and continuous as to make it impossible for any man to go through it, or at least so perilous and costly to life that no one in his proper senses would try the hazardous experiment. It requires a rapid firing gun for this kind of warfare, and as armies have not had such guns heretofore, of course, the barrage fire was unknown. It is one of the new things that have been evolved during this war. The French _soixante-quinze_, or "seventy-five millimeter," has been the marvel in gun making which has made this curtain fire possible. It is a gun which shoots very rapidly, which does not displace itself each time it shoots, and which is able to discharge an average of twenty-five three-inch shells every minute without greatly heating up. No gun was ever invented before which could accomplish such a feat.

The older four-inch gun of the French Army, which the seventy-five displaced, could never have shown the efficiency in this direction that the _soixante-quinze_ demonstrates. In the first place its rate of shooting was much too slow, but even if it had been a great deal faster a continuous accuracy was impossible. When it was first aimed its fire could be carefully controlled, but the trouble with it was it threw itself out of place every time it shot. The recoil from such guns is very considerable and the older gun made no provision for it, consequently it had to be aimed all over again every time it was fired because the rebound caused it to dig into the earth and change its entire position. The new _soixante-quinze_ makes careful provision for this factor of recoil and is fitted up like a Ford car with shock absorbers, so that it is ready for the second shot as soon as the first is fired, and for the third as soon as the second is fired. It maintains a fixed position, accelerating very greatly the speed at which it can be fired at any given target. The old four-inch gun fell down just here. The result was that its highest rate of speed was only a quarter of that which could be attained when a field piece was invented, absorbing its recoil and thus leaving its position unchanged. The only limit to the speed of the new gun, therefore, is the rate at which it can be loaded and the degree of temperature it can stand without exploding shells prematurely, but even this latter danger is provided for in this gun, thus keeping it to the minimum. The only elements that prevent absolute accuracy today are slight differences in the shells or perhaps a change of wind, which are, however, practically negligible factors.

Formerly, in the use of the other gun there was the personal variation of the man who aimed the gun quickly, after each shot had displaced or disarranged it, and the other man who assisted him. Each new aiming and shooting of the piece required an absolutely distinct series of movements and thus for every shot there was that much more possibility of error on account of the imperfect coordinating of the two men engaged. In this connection let me say that the curtain fire, which was evolved by the modern quick firing seventy-five, was very soon discovered and quickly adopted and utilized by Germany also.

When first used the purpose of curtain fire was simply to guard or make possible the forward movement of the infantry and was kept well ahead of them, usually one or two hundred yards. It was also uniform all along the line as far as it extended; that is, if it moved ahead a hundred feet at one point it moved the same amount at every other point. It is a ticklish thing at first for men to advance upon the enemy's trenches with their own artillery booming away at their rear and shooting right over their own heads. But the trenches are seldom parallel. Often the country is rough and whereas the enemy may be dug in a hundred yards away at one point, it may be that fifty rods farther down the lines, the trenches are three hundred yards apart. In the main we speak of the lines being parallel, but as a matter of fact they very seldom are so.

During the early days of the war if one of the opponents were going to make an attack he hammered the enemy's position with heavy guns which were concealed or camouflaged perhaps five miles behind the front line trenches. The bombardment lasted until it was assumed most of the enemy's soldiers had taken refuge in the dugouts and were so disorganized that they could not effectively resist. Besides this his trenches would be so battered that the chances of success for the well-planned assault would be the best. The time must be accurately arranged previously. All lieutenants and captains who directed the barrage must keep exact time and have watches timed to the second. My own brother, Brenton, is now a lieutenant of artillery and I had the pleasure of presenting him with a beautiful stop-watch before he went into action.

At the given signal the barrage raised and the doughboys went over the top, hustled down the lanes which had been previously cut in their own barbed wire by the wiring party, made their way across No Man's Land, stooping low as they went, dropping flat to the ground every few yards, and trying to get to the trenches of the enemy before they could be stopped.

But the machine guns of the enemy were found to be too formidable and destructive, and as a result of this experience they learned to use the light artillery which could continue its fire even while the attacking party were moving on, advancing as they advanced. The lighter field pieces were placed within a few hundred yards in the rear of the trenches and used to blind the Germans from protecting themselves, as well as to cover the advancing troops until they took the trench. Then the curtain fire was thrown still farther back behind the German line.

This process plainly was a very delicate one, even in its beginning. It seemed a little nervy to order soldiers to advance while above their heads hissed and barked their own gunners' shells. Sometimes these would burst before they got to the curtain line and casualties would inevitably result. It was rather ticklish business for the men to charge forward even if they were a couple of hundred yards behind such a hail of steel.

Soon, however, another improvement was put into effect and that was to shorten the barrage to sixty yards, letting the soldiers advance with the exploding shells nearer and nearer to their own bodies. Of course, there was great advantage in this, as the closer the troops were to the curtain fire ahead, the better they were protected and the shorter was the time after the curtain was lifted until the troops occupied the trench. Cutting this time down to the minimum made it so much harder for the Germans to emerge from their hiding and resist the oncoming troops. The science of this was at last so well worked out that a gap of less than forty yards lay between the curtain and the troops and sometimes only thirty yards which could be covered in a couple of seconds after the barrage was lifted. Time, of course, is the chief element in the endeavor to get the bulge on the other fellow.

Finally the British worked out what they call the "creeping barrage." This takes into account the fact that the trenches are never exactly straight and parallel. But here the camera came to the aid of the Allies and it told them just how much deviation from the parallel there was. From these photographs the relative positions of the trenches at any given point were plotted out accurately, showing the irregular shape of No Man's Land and the variation of its width at all the different places. The Allies then dug identical trenches in the rear and practiced on them. This changed the method of curtain fire from "regular" to "creeping." From that time the barrage started in a line which first followed the shape of our own fire trench, but as it moved forward the configuration was altered and it swayed and wriggled like a snake gradually taking the shape of the enemy's trench. Plainly, it required much deeper skill to employ this method, but its advantages were great. Instead of all the gunners shooting in unison at a single command, each one had a different job to perform in order to make the barrage conform with the angle which the trenches made. This is now the general method and has been brought up to a marvelous degree of accuracy as well as speed.

At practically the same time the creeping barrage was conceived, another idea which has also been extremely useful was developed. This was the second curtain of fire to be thrown in the rear of the enemy's trenches to cut off his retreat and to prevent the coming up of reinforcements. The first curtain covered your advance and hindered his resistance, and the second one beyond him kept new forces from coming to his aid with food, munitions, and information.

The method which is used almost universally in attacking today, then, is this.

Big guns "prepare" the way by hammering the trenches of the enemy and simultaneously driving him to the dugouts and bashing in the trenches which shelter him. Your doughboys then go "over the top" and advance, covered by the curtain fire, at first conforming in shape to their own trenches, and little by little wriggling into the form of the enemy's trenches as it comes nearer to them. Closely following the moving barrage is your infantry. Then another barrage in the enemy's rear is cutting him off from reinforcements and after a time the trench is captured and perhaps many prisoners taken. It is not hard to understand from this modern method of attack what the French general meant when he said, "The artillery conquers, the infantry occupies."

[Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._

Allied Troops Charging Through Barbed-Wire Entanglements.

The fighters are under the protection of a perfect barrage. They have just gone over the top and are nearing the enemy's trenches.]

Barraging on the field today is much the same as running a great ocean liner. The man who sees is not the man who does! The lookout or observer has nothing to do with the actual control of the vessel. The battery on the field is pulled up into position by horses, then lined up for action and the horses are hurried back to a safe place. The lieutenant directs the fire and the gunners do the firing, but no one sees his target or his results. Just behind them, a telephone operator receives the messages, sitting perhaps, in a shell hole or a dugout. The battery commander is the man who really bosses the whole job from his observation post. He is well named because he really commands the battery, though from a position perhaps miles in front of the battery. The lieutenant is always listening as the telephone operator is getting his instructions from the commander at the front. In the first place the lieutenant learns roughly the direction in which to shoot, but soon he gets more detailed direction before firing his first shot, which is in reality an experiment. Standing a short distance behind the battery, he plainly sees every gun. Then he shouts, "Ready!" When the command to fire comes over the telephone he issues a signal. The man at the first gun raises his hand, five seconds are counted, and as he drops his hand the gun is fired. Gun number two does the same and so on down the line. The gunner cannot see and does not know anything about the result. The man at the telephone calls out, "Battery has fired."

The only man in all this operation who gives orders and sees results is the battery commander. Usually he can see the target clearly. Sometimes, however, when this is not possible the balloon and the airplane have to do it for him. The battery commander with the telephone operator in his rear knows exactly the way the guns are pointed and the distance to be covered. He can estimate quickly and figure up the necessary corrections, and this message may go back to the battery, "One hundred yards over and fifty yards to the right." The sergeants then again revolve their control wheels.

The Good Book says, "A great ship is turned about by a very small helm." And so does a great gun respond very quickly to the most delicate touch of the wheel. The gauge is very fine and accurate and a hair's difference there means rods of difference where the shell falls. If the initial shot went a hundred yards over, perhaps the second goes one hundred yards too short. The direction is correct. Again in obedience to a message from the commander the little wheels move, and the elevation of the gun is corrected. The third shell, perhaps, goes over fifty yards and the fourth fifty under. Very well, the range is somewhere between those last two shots. "Give 'em hell. Salvo!" shouts the lieutenant: salvo meaning the firing of all the guns at one time.

Sometimes it is not practical to have an observation post located so as to allow the commander of the battery to see the result and direct the shell fire. In this case he has a balloon which is fastened to the earth by a cable and sent up behind the lines and out of range of the Germans. At best it is an uncomfortable position to be in; hung up in a basket maybe four thousand feet above terra firma, with German fliers hovering about and trying to blow you into eternity. It's not soothing to the nerves to say the least, even though you know that if the balloon takes fire, you have a parachute to drop with.

Again the enemy's battery may be situated so that the balloon man cannot find its location. In this case the airplane solves the problem, for it goes to any desired height, then scouts over the enemy's trenches and does the "spotting." Of course, communication with an airplane is not as easy as with a balloon which has wires running to it, but the airplane can send wireless messages down, which are received on the earth, and to make up for the impossibility of the aviator receiving them in return, owing to the noise of his powerful motor, the men on the ground use a system of signals like the wigwag flag method. This is done by large panels which are in distinct contrast to their background, and move according to a certain code.

Chapter XVIII

The Ragpicker

The salvage from a modern battle is a thing which I suppose few people ever stop to think about. Where hundreds upon hundreds of thousands of men have been engaged in shooting iron and steel as fast as they can fire it, the amount of these metals which lies about is something almost beyond conception. And the amount too, which buries itself beneath the surface of the earth is enormous. The money value and military worth of these vast quantities of metal is also a thing which must be taken into consideration. A battle field today is little less than a great ocean of craters which oftentimes touch one another. Most people, if they thought about it at all, would take it for granted that this debris, this wastage, has gone back to earth from whence it came, there to remain until the elements in the soil and water disintegrate and metamorphose the metals from their present form back to their original state in the bowels of the earth. But this is usually not the case.

Walking over a battle ground after a severe fight you may see thousands of shells which have never been shot because the regiment to which they belonged was obliged to retreat posthaste, leaving these as well as other valuable material behind. Frequently the Germans, having been forced out of their positions, have abandoned thousands of unexploded shells and hand grenades. Bayonets lie around topsy-turvy and helmets by the hundreds are to be seen on every hand. Modern rifles dropped by hands that will never hold another and cartridges not fired because the company went forward, perhaps when the Germans beat a hasty retreat, are the commonest of sights upon almost every battle field in Europe. Certainly all of this necessary and vital material cannot be wasted. It must not be allowed to lie unused when it is so essential to the army.

Instead, it is picked up and sorted out, classified and cleaned, and prepared to be used again. Much of it is too dangerous to be left lying about and most of it is too valuable to be ignored. Therefore squads of men are organized, made up oftentimes of the older soldiers, and a few days after an engagement you can see them groping about the earth and stooping over the shell-scarred ground carefully examining it in a most minute and painstaking manner.

In America the scavenger, the ragpicker, and the garbage man are looked upon as very low in the scale of social refinement, but these ragpickers of the battle field are honored and respected by the French Army, because they are conserving the materials which are most vital to the success of the Republic. Much risk is also encountered in this work of salvage and not infrequently these men lose their lives, for shells from the German guns often go beyond their mark.

When stores of supplies are found in good condition, of course they are used at once, if possible, but much of the material must be sent back in motor lorries to be sorted and remade. Some conception of the economic saving accomplished by this work may be formed when you consider that after one battle many tons of copper were gathered up and loaded and sent back to the rear. Thousands of tons of steel and iron were also rescued in the same locality and in addition hundreds of rifles with millions of rounds of ammunition. Of course these materials are remolded and then go back once more to Mother Earth where much of it will again be picked up. At the close of the war, the land which is now being fought over will be of little value for agricultural purposes because it has been so tortured and mangled by the digging of trenches and the gougings of the shell holes, but it will be exceedingly valuable on account of the steel and copper which are buried there.

Scientists tell us that nothing is in reality ever lost or wasted and a battle field gives a most striking illustration of this law of the indestructibility of matter. We are prone to say that war is all waste, and that the enormous quantities of iron and steel, trees and horses (and even men), which are used up become a fearful waste in nature. Yet it is literally true as a thoughtful Irishman said to me in France, "Nature protects the land." In other words, Mother Earth from which everything comes protects and perpetuates herself so that no nation or generation can destroy her. All trees which are battered to pieces and all the flesh which decays and rots, go back to earth once more to fertilize and season it so that in the next generation it will bring forth and bear plentifully. As the Good Book says: "All go to one place; all is of the dust. The body returneth to the earth as it was and the spirit returneth unto God who gave it."

There is no waste in the material universe. The only waste which comes from war materially is for the present generation in that things which were in a form which we could use have been changed to a form less useful but which will be used sometime again. The great waste of war as I look at it is the moral and spiritual waste where men become fiends and go out to conquer and steal and rape and kill, thus using up their spiritual powers and possibilities in destructive enterprises which might have been put toward constructive elevation of the race. Men lose their souls instead of saving them. And yet--the fiendishness of one country brings out the angel of the other in causing men to rouse to duty and to honor and justice, whereas without this incentive who knows but that we might sink down in self-sufficiency and retrograde, thus all of us losing our souls? It seems that all through God's universe there is struggle and strife, and that moral and spiritual fiber require these things for their best development.

The work of Christ, Christianity, prospered because it had to struggle for existence, and when a nation or an individual ceases to struggle it goes backward. This thought may be a Job's comforter to those who pay the fearful price and yet we must look at it in this way. Men must fight to get the highest freedom, not lie back and accept their fate, else they have only the freedom of the Germans under the Hohenzollerns. There is always some remnant of salvage out of the most fearful waste. Thus earth goes in a cycle.

Chapter XIX

Camouflage

The system of _camouflage_ which the French have worked out in this war, is something new also. The word has come to mean in America "dodging," "deception," "bunk," or anything that is not out in the open and above board; and that is just what _camouflage_ means in the war in France. It is a method by which things are made to appear to be what they are not, for the purpose of fooling the enemy. It makes an artificial thing seem to be a natural thing so that it will not excite suspicion and draw his fire. When the French place a battery of guns which naturally they do not want put out of commission by the enemy's guns, they have the _camouflage_ artist get busy with his paint and canvas and create a whole lot of little trees or bushes just like the ones which grow in the ground and then under cover of darkness when the enemy can't see them, or when his attention is distracted, they plant the trees, place the guns behind them, and they have a concealed battery.

Snipers are also often hidden in this same kind of a manner. The _camoufleur_ with his magic art of scenery makes a dead horse. He has his head stretched way out on the ground and his legs pointing up in the air, stiff and stark. A great hole or chunk has been torn out of his body, but as it happens, it is never right through the middle part of him because this would not leave protection for the sniper. The horse "conveniently" had the shell strike him on the side. He is placed wherever he will do the most good in the night time and Mr. Sharpshooter, with his noiseless rifle and plenty of ammunition and one day's food, crawls in behind him. There he stays till daybreak. Yes, and a long while after. He must stay there all day long until darkness again draws down a curtain of safety about him, for if he attempted to move out in daylight some sniper or machine-gun artist would instantly pick him off. If he lays low till dark he may fool them and get away all right.

But the camera sometimes discovers things which the human eye would not detect, and the camera is always busy. The air flier might soar above a spot in the enemy's lines and not notice anything wrong or see that there was any object in addition to what was there the day before, but when he snapped the shutter of his camera and the photograph was developed, by comparing it with yesterday's photograph of the same place, he might see that there was an extra horse's carcass lying there. Now he knows there was no cavalry charge through the night, and so he becomes suspicious. Consequently the horse is watched. Perhaps in time, some one sees the man's arm protruding a little, or perhaps a man is picked off without any apparent cause.

Just for luck the enemy takes a shot at the old dead horse and suddenly a man rises and tries to run back. But he stumbles and falls. He is killed. Perhaps he has accounted for a half a dozen Boches during the day and the Frenchman dies happy. That's what he's there for, to sacrifice his life for France in weakening Germany's cruel hold upon his country.

If it was certain that they could account for such a proportion of Germans, ten thousand Frenchmen would willingly step out tomorrow and go into sure death for _La Belle France_ and Liberty! Very often they _camouflage_ roads with evergreen trees so as to hide the view of the motor lorries and _camions_ which are so essential in taking supplies and ammunition up to the front. An old forlorn and battered gun may _camouflage_ a fine new field piece, and sometimes a weather-beaten, broken-down piece of farm machinery may be counterfeited in order to hide an observer, a listener, or a sniper. Such a man must be of a stout heart and not afraid to go over the Great Divide for it is full of hazard. If he is discovered it's all over for him.

Chapter XX

The Heroism Of The Wounded

One poor fellow whose feet were bare, attracted my attention. When I looked at him more carefully I noticed that he had no shirt and I asked him what had happened to him and what had become of his clothes. At first he did not want to tell me, but when I inquired again, with a kind of embarrassed and self-conscious look upon his face Louis related this tale to me.

His old acquaintance and fellow-townsman, Paul, was in the same company with him. Back in the little home town before the war they had been enemies. They had both been bad men, crooks and drunkards, and had at one time tried to kill each other. For years they had hated and had as little to do with each other as possible. It all started over an insignificant something, but nevertheless the dislike had grown until it had become very bitter and each was continually on the lookout to find a chance to do the other a mean turn when possible. They had cursed each other many a time when their paths crossed, but as far as possible they had tried to avoid meeting. But when the war came they had been placed together side by side as comrades in the battle. Their officers had told them that they were not to think of self now, because their fight was for _La Belle France_. Day after day they drilled together and week after week performed the hard labor which was allotted them, side by side, until at last they outgrew their ancient antipathy, and finally became bosom friends. Then they were sent to the trenches. Together they held the line in the same fire bay, and hour after hour both looked into the muzzles of the German guns. They had on different occasions gone "over the top" together, and neither of them had been hurt at all. At last, however, early one morning when the Germans made a mighty charge, fate was against both. The bombardment had been blinding and when the Boches came tearing "over the top" these two sturdy poilus stood their ground and held the enemy back. A German was just about to make a lunge at Louis when Paul, with a spring, jumped in front of him, receiving a bayonet thrust in his lung, and also a terrible wound in his ankle. Louis had been painfully wounded in his left shoulder. His wound was not dangerous but Paul was about "done in," and was breathing hard as he had lost a large amount of blood from the hole in the lower part of his leg. Here the narrator's eyes began to fill with tears.

"I couldn't let the poor fellow bleed to death after he had saved my life. I tore up my shirt into bandages and tied them around his leg, and then so they would not come off and also to keep his feet warm I took my socks and pulled them on his feet. What else could I do? I tried to fix up his injured lung also, but--" and then the tears burst forth and he sobbed like a baby. "It didn't do any good and Paul lies over there now." I glanced over in the direction where he pointed and sure enough there was Paul, bandaged up with strips of shirt and wearing a pair of socks over the bandages. But the black angel had already come to him. He had "gone West."

I talked with the man a little more and he opened up his heart to me. At best life is a strange thing to understand. Here were two human beings who previously, by heredity or environment, or else their own devilishness, had been evil characters. They were known as such by their acquaintances and they knew each other as such. Their lives had been unenviable to say the least, and then at last through war, that fearful and awful thing, each man had been made better and the angel had come out of what before seemed a devil. Not only was Paul a bad man but he had hated the other man and yet here he was doing a noble and self-sacrificing deed and not only that, but doing it for his enemy; giving up his life for his old foe.

And here was the other man, showing a gratitude which was noble towards the man he had hated and who had tried to kill him. He gave up his own shirt and took off his own socks to try to keep warm the feet of the dying Paul and to keep the blood, which meant life, in his body. It did not accomplish the result but my narrator would not take back his socks as he said he wanted the man who died for him to have this little gift and be buried in them. Such heroism is not uncommon in the trenches.

After all there are some compensations even for war. In many instances it may bring out all the hate and the hell that is in a man's heart but I have also seen hundreds of cases where it made men much better than they had ever been before. It made them better men and better Christians; not necessarily of the shouting type but of the kind, of which One said: "He that giveth a cup of cold water to one of these little ones, shall not lose his reward," and again, "Greater love hath no man than this, that a man lay down his life for his friend."

But someone may think I am preaching. Well, if I am, I am preaching the gospel of service and sacrifice, which to my mind is the greatest gospel there is to preach at the present critical hour. I am trying to tell men that they can be better men wherever they are if they will it so. I have known men to go over there from various walks of life, some of them from wealthy homes and high salaried positions to engage in this or that line of work, perhaps relieving suffering without getting anything for their labor, and yet boast that they had received more than they had ever gotten in their lives before, and it was true. They developed a feeling of kinship for the suffering, and a satisfaction in assuaging their pain which was a greater compensation than anything they had ever had or could ever have expected. I have known men to go over in the very trenches themselves and there learn the lesson of self-control and humility which is in reality learning to respect the rights of other people; men who formerly had been accustomed to having their own way in life.

[Illustration: _Copyright, Underwood & Underwood, N. Y._

A Dressing Station Set Up On Newly Captured Ground.

In a very short time after the capture of new territory not only do the infantry and the artillery move up to maintain the new position, but the first-aid dressing stations take their places on the newly captured ground also.]

Out there tonight there are wealthy land owners standing knee deep in mud and water, side by side with their own stable boys and treating them on an absolute equality with themselves. It's a matter of life and death out there, and after all when it gets down to that very little else counts. A stable boy's bullet from the enemy's lines will pick off the wealthy magnate as quick as any other's, and the rich man's usefulness is no greater than his servant's, in the trenches. So they realize this fact and act as though it were true. The only place in all the world today where we have a real Brotherhood of Man is in the Allies' trenches on the Western front. Men display heroism there; but they don't know it. Men are brave out there; but they don't think of it. It never enters a man's head that he has been a hero, it's all duty, all just natural; they couldn't do otherwise. As the wounded Frenchman said about the worse wounded Paul, "I couldn't let that poor wounded fellow bleed to death." There was duty. It had to be done. "So I took my socks and pulled them on his feet. What else could I do?"

After all, heroism and heroes are not always shouted from the housetops and oftener they pass by unmentioned. But Someone knows.

Chapter XXI

The Treacherous "German Souvenir"

The word "souvenir" means a remembrance. The Huns have certainly left a number of things which will be remembrances of them for a long time to come. At one of the battles near S---- after a successful charge in which the French had succeeded in capturing the first and second line German trenches, the boys found some of these souvenirs. One of them, a lad of twenty-two, picked up a fountain pen which had apparently been dropped by some soldier in the hasty retreat. The young poilu started to examine the pen and in doing so unscrewed the cap from it. Just as he had it about off, an awful explosion occurred and the fellow's face was blown half off, and his right hand was torn to pieces. We carried him to the hospital where he was treated by the surgeons but he hardly came to consciousness and the next day died in horrible agony.

Two days later another Frenchman discovered a watch hanging on a nail. It was a cheap thing without any intrinsic value, but when he saw it he thought it would be a nice little relic of the war and reached up to take it down. It went off with a boom and as a result he has no eyes. That will be his remembrance of the savage Huns to his dying day. He had been through many months of war and seen much severe fighting, but the only thing he will remember about the enemy is their treachery. Sometimes in war even the vanquished will praise the gallantry and the bravery of the enemy and will acknowledge that the fight was a fair one, but all the way through the present conflict the evidence against the Germans has been more damning and conclusive than has been brought to light against the most savage peoples that ever lived. Primitive Indians have done some fearfully horrible deeds in days gone by, but the Indian never had a fraction of the ingenious power for deviltry that the followers of Attila possess. A chair was found in one of the dugouts and when a soldier sat in it he was blown to atoms. There was not enough left of his body to be recognizable and the pieces were gathered together and buried in a nameless grave.

One British Tommy started to move a shovel which was found to be connected with wires leading to a large amount of high explosives. It happened that the connection was not good and fortunately he received no harm, but he came within an ace of being blown to pieces. The Germans in their retreat left behind them poisoned food and flour and very often poisoned the water in the wells. No man is allowed to taste the water from any of the wells until it is thoroughly and carefully analyzed for strychnine and other deadly poisons.

On one occasion some Frenchmen saw a picture hanging on the wall of a captured dugout. It was noticeably crooked and their first impulse naturally was to straighten it. For some reason they did not do so immediately, but a few minutes later a Belgian boy took hold of a corner of it to pull it straight. He was killed outright and several others were stunned by the terrific explosion which crumbled the walls and buried two men with earth. The shelling of cathedrals and the burning of homes are only insipid pastimes to the Germans.

Sometimes clocks are arranged and the explosions are delayed, and the clock will tick away for days before it sets off the treacherous bomb. The I. W. W. anarchists have nothing on the Huns for sneaking, murderous trickery. Germs of one kind and another were frequently discovered in bedding and hay, and all of it had to be burned. The placing of germs in court-plaster and bandages in this country is but a faint echo of the similar atrocious deeds done over there.

Cases of high explosives were found under road beds, so that when any heavy weight passed over them they would go off. Men have now been appointed to study and investigate all these suspicious murder traps and report them, for the double purpose of forewarning the Allied soldiers and of bringing undisputable evidence into the peace conference. These enemies of civilized man must not be allowed to emerge from this conflict without a day of reckoning for their deeds, whether they be good or whether they be evil. One good German I did know of on the Western front, and I will not withhold the highest praise from him. His name was Kellar. Together with another wounded German named Bauman he had been taken prisoner. They were both transported to the hospital and put into adjoining beds. The hospital physician was examining and caring for Bauman, and in doing so stepped over to a little stand for an instrument, whereupon Bauman drew a concealed revolver from under the sheet and shot the doctor. Everybody rushed up to see what was the matter, but hardly ten seconds passed before Kellar drew a revolver and shot Bauman dead. He then said that his company had orders to conceal their weapons and do such things, but he said he was human, and when he saw the kind and gentle doctor shot down by the patient whom he was caring for, it made him so mad that he didn't care if Bauman was a fellow-German, and so he shot him and was glad of it. That man ought to be an American.

Chapter XXII

The Nigger'S Nose

The surgeons in France are doing most wonderful things and it must not be forgotten, that along with all the awful phases of the war, with all the pathos and the horror, there are many brighter incidents and many humorous episodes.

For remember, the war today is just a national life. The whole existence of these countries is thrown into the war and for the time being, that is the natural course of life. So they live for war, the same as another nation lives its existence for money, art, or anything else. The individual's life goes on just the same, only the conditions are changed.

And everybody is equal over there in the Allied armies. The English gentleman is fighting beside the French negro, or Turko, as he is called, and when wounded, lies in the next bed to him.

It's a wonderfully democratic arrangement.

One of those negroes amused me greatly. He was a big husky fellow with kinky hair and thick lips, a typical negro, only he spoke French instead of English. This French negro had had his nose shot entirely off. I had previously helped carry him into the hospital and he was indeed a dreadful sight to behold. A piece of shrapnel had got him and he came very nearly "going West."

But the doctors took him and labored with him day after day, and week after week. They took a piece of bone out of his side and some skin from another place and by working, and grafting, and rubbing, they finally brought out a new nose on the fellow, and he used to boast in front of his black pals that when they got back to Africa he would have the edge on all of them with those swarthy girls because his comrade's noses were big and flat and he now had a better looking one in place of his old flat one.

Many a little incident of a similar nature happens, both in the hospitals and on the field, and the men even though badly "cut up" are not all the time groaning; and the nurses even though very sweet and gentle are not constantly weeping. They'd soon be shipped back home if they were. They go about their work and do it, just as a doctor does at home.

A good many cases of mutilation were found which were just as bad as that of the negro, and which in the beginning seemed just as hopeless. We carried in one British Tommy who had his entire lower jaw blown off. He presented a fearful spectacle. He was put to bed and very carefully prepared and treated to get his body into proper shape for the operation. This required some days. Then those confident surgeons started in on him. Day by day they built a jaw for him, taking a piece from here and another from there and by skillfully massaging and rubbing they by and by, got him fixed up, and then the most skilled dentists in the world took him in hand and put in teeth for him so that today you cannot discern that he was ever badly mutilated. All you can see is a little mark from the left corner of his mouth and a very small scar from the right corner. He lisps just a little also, as his tongue was partly shot away.

In cases where the limbs are fractured, or where certain positions must be maintained while the patient is lying in bed, a clever device has been arranged.

A frame which holds up the several parts of the body is attached to the bed, or is a part of the bed, and in this frame are many pulleys with ropes and weights attached. When the wounded soldier who is all "broken up" is laid in this bed, his arm is laid in a form, and the form is lifted to the proper position and held there by the weight over the pulley. Some positions are necessary for rapid healing; some are necessary for comfort or for avoiding intense pain. By this arrangement, invented by Dr. Alexis Carrel, any portion of the body can be lifted to any height or angle and kept there as long as necessary. It is a very ingenious apparatus, at the same time simple and of inestimable value.

Chapter XXIII

Getting By The Consuls

From the very beginning I had had an overwhelming desire to go to Belgium. Somehow that country has gripped the imagination of the world and mine as well. Neither did I think of any of the drawbacks, but simply said, "I'm going to Belgium for relief work." I had not been successful in being assigned to any unit before I left the States, so I started for France en route for Belgium on my own initiative. Mr. Bryan gave me a passport, but when I arrived in France Ambassador Sharp urged me to remain and serve there, as he thought it would be extremely difficult to get into Belgium when men were needed in France, and while I did as he advised, I never gave up the idea of going to Belgium. I had seen enough of German _Kultur_ to whet my appetite and change my peaceful views, but now I wanted to get the evidence from the Huns themselves in the country which they were governing. Consequently it was this, which at the time impelled me to ask for a leave of absence and to apply for a pass out of France. I wanted to go to Belgium, but now for a different purpose than formerly.

I got a ten days' leave, but the only possible way of going was by way of England, thence to Holland, and from there over the Belgium border. I had my troubles. Of course I kept pretty mum as to where I intended to go. I went to the American Consul and got my passport _visé_, that is, stamped or O. K.'d. I then had to go to the French Consul and ask him to _visé_ my passport. Inasmuch as I was going to England, which was an allied country, it was not very difficult to persuade the French Consul to let me go. I then had to go to the English Consul and get his consent to enter England. He did not seem very formidable and I finally got past him also. My reason for going to England I told him, was "en route to Holland." You have to have a reason for doing everything. But since England was not my destination, but only "en route," my reason did not need to be very definite and was accepted.

When I got to Dieppe, a British soldier or young officer I believe he was, who had had several "Bass' Ales," took me under his wing and undertook to see me through. He told the customs man that I was one of their boys from the front and all right, as I was going home to Blighty. Consequently I had little difficulty there. I was still wearing my ambulance uniform, which much resembled theirs, although I had a civilian suit in my grip. I wore the uniform so as to get the benefit of the special rate on the railroad, namely, one-fourth fare. As I sat down to have a chat with this Englishman he was so good to me that I got quite confidential. We had been talking about the brutalities of the Germans in Belgium. I said, "I'm on my way to Belgium now, I'm going around behind the German lines to see the Huns as they are." "You don't say so!" said he. "Yes," I said, "I'm going over to Belgium to see with my own eyes the picture of devastation." He didn't take it well. He got a little excited and said, "Well you better not, in fact I'll see to it that you don't go over to the German lines. I'll have you know that we're not funnin' in this business." I saw that I had got in bad. I always did have trouble in that way. I couldn't keep my mouth shut and whenever I opened it I put my foot in it. I began to back up. I don't remember just what I said, but I suddenly became very conciliatory and gave him