[3] All numerals relate to stories told herein--not to chapters in the
book.
[4] (The captain here describes a night of perilous adventures and
escapes on the sea, until morning brought them face to face with death.)
"PASSED BY THE CENSOR"--TRUE STORIES FROM THE FIELDS OF BATTLE
_Experiences of an American Newspaper Man in France_
_Told by Wythe Williams, Officially Accredited to the French Armies on
the Western Front--Paris Correspondent of the "New York Times"_
The brilliant stories of American journalists form an important
part of the literature of the Great War. Mr. Williams is one
of the ablest of these correspondents. His dispatches from the
battle grounds received the commendation of Ambassador Herrick
and Premier Clemenceau of France. At the outbreak of the War
Williams was stationed in Paris. He was refused, with all other
correspondents, any credentials permitting him to enter the
fighting area. He daringly worked his way to the fighting lines,
where he was arrested, returned to Paris as a prisoner of War and
lodged in the Cherche Midi prison, the famous military prison where
Dreyfus was confined. He was released under the intervention of
Ambassador Herrick, but still baffled at getting to the front as
a war correspondent, he volunteered for service in the Red Cross
as an orderly on a motor ambulance. The stories which he tells are
classics in American journalism. They have been collected into
a volume entitled "Passed by the Censor" from which we make the
following selections by permission of his publishers, _E. P. Dutton
and Company_: Copyright 1916.
[5] I--STORY OF THE AMBULANCE DRIVER IN PARIS
I never expected to drive a motor ambulance, with badly wounded men,
down the Champs Elysées. But I did. I have done many things since the
war began that I never expected to do;--but somehow that magnificent
Champs Elysées--and ambulances--and groans of wounded seemed a
combination entirely outside my wildest imaginations.
This was a result of the eight days' parole, after my release from the
Cherche Midi; I was forbidden to write anything concerning my trip to
the battle fields.
During those eight days I came to the conclusion that the popularity of
journalism in France had reached its lowest ebb. In the antebellum days
newspapermen were rather highly regarded in the French capital. They
occasionally got almost in the savant class, and folks seemed rather
glad to sit near their corners of the cafés and hearken to their words.
I found that now, in popular estimation, they were several degrees
below the ordinary criminal, and in fact not far above the level of the
spy. Also the wording of my parole was galling. I could not even write
private letters to my family, without first obtaining permission at
headquarters of the Military Governor.
We had "run into an important turning movement of troops on that trip
to the front" was the final official reason assigned for our particular
predicament. We were dangerous; we might tell about that turning
movement. Therefore the eight days' parole.
Nevertheless, for eight days my activities for my newspaper were
suspended, and even then the hope of getting to the front seemed more
vague than ever. I thought over every plan that might produce copy, and
finally I called on the Ambassador--which was the usual procedure when
one had an idea of front-going character.
"I am weary of the reputation that has been bestowed upon me," I
told Mr. Herrick. "I am tired of being classified with the thugs and
yeggmen. I am tired of being an outcast on the face of Paris. In other
words, for the moment I desire to uplift myself from the low level of
journalism. I desire to don the brassard of the Red Cross."
"Yes," said the Ambassador, "I don't blame you."
"All right," I rejoined, "but as a journalist they won't have
me--unless you give me a bill of health. If you tell them I am not so
bad as I look nor so black as I am painted, I stand a chance. I confess
frankly that I am actuated by the low motives of my profession. I am
first and last a newspaperman and I believe that a Red Cross ambulance
may get me to the battle front. However, I am willing to do my share of
the work, and if I go into the service with my cards face up and your
guarantee--why----"
"Yes," replied Mr. Herrick. "And that goes, provided you will not use
the cable until you leave the service."
I promised. The Ambassador kept his word. A week later, vaccinated and
injected against disease of every character, clad in khaki, with the
coveted badge of mercy sewed on the left sleeve, I was taken into the
ranks of the Croix Rouge as an ambulance orderly. I remained for two
months--first hauling wounded from great evacuation stations about
Paris to hospitals within the walls. Most of our wounded went to the
American Ambulance, when we broke all speed laws going through the
Champs Elysées, en route to Neuilly. Later I was stationed at Amiens
with the second French army, at that time under the command of General
Castelnau. We slept on the floor in a freight station and we worked in
the black ooze of the railway yards. The battle front was still many
miles away.
One morning when the weather was bleakest (it was now December) and
the black ooze the deepest, and the straw from where I had just risen
was flattest and moldiest, I received word from Paris to get back
quick--that at last the War Office would send correspondents to the
front, and that the Foreign Office was preparing the list of neutrals
who would go.
I resigned my ambulance job and took the next train. But I kept my
brassard with the red cross upon it. I wanted it as a proof of those
hard days and sometimes harder nights, when my profession was blotted
from my mind--and copy didn't matter--I wanted it because it was my
badge when I was an ambulance orderly carrying wounded men, when I
came to feel that I was contributing something after all, although a
neutral, toward the great sacrifice of the country that sheltered me.
I shall keep it always for many things that I saw and heard; but I
cherish it most for my recollection of Trevelyan--the Rue Jeanne d'Arc
and those from a locality called Quesnoy-sur-Somme.