No. 4

_April 14th_, 1917.

DEAR MR. ROOSEVELT,--As the news comes flashing in, these April days,

and all the world holds its breath to hear the latest messages from

Arras and the Vimy ridge, it is natural that in the memory of a woman

who, six weeks ago, was a spectator--before the curtain rose--of the

actual scene of such events, every incident and figure of that past

experience, as she looks back upon it, should gain a peculiar and

shining intensity.

The battle of the Vimy Ridge [_April 8th_] is clearly going to be the

second (the first was the German retreat on the Somme) of those

"decisive events" determining this year the upshot of the war, to which

the Commander-in-Chief, with so strong and just a confidence, directed

the eyes of this country some three months ago. When I was in the

neighbourhood of the great battlefield--one may say it now!--the whole

countryside was one vast preparation. The signs of the coming attack

were everywhere--troops, guns, ammunition, food dumps, hospitals, air

stations--every actor and every property in the vast and tragic play

were on the spot, ready for the moment and the word.

Yet, except in the Headquarters and Staff Councils of the Army nobody

knew when the moment and the word would come, and nobody spoke of them.

The most careful and exact organisation for the great movement was going

on. No visitor would hear anything of it. Only the nameless stir in the

air, the faces of officers at Headquarters, the general alacrity, the

endless _work_ everywhere, prophesied the great things ahead. Perpetual,

highly organised, scientific drudgery is three parts of war, it seems,

as men now wage it. The Army, as I saw it, was at work--desperately at

work!--but "dreaming on things to come."

One delightful hour of that March day stands out for me in particular.

The strong, attractive presence of an Army Commander, whose name will be

for ever linked with that of the battle of the Vimy ridge, surrounded by

a group of distinguished officers; a long table, and a too brief stay;

conversation that carries for me the thrill of the _actual thing_, close

by, though it may not differ very much from wartalk at home: these are

the chief impressions that remain. The General beside me, with that look

in his kind eyes which seems to tell of nights shortened by hard work,

says a few quietly confident things about the general situation, and

then we discuss a problem which one of the party--not a soldier--starts.

Is it true or untrue that long habituation to the seeing or inflicting

of pain and death, that the mere sights and sounds of the trenches tend

with time to brutalise men, and will make them callous when they return

to civil life? Do men grow hard and violent in this furnace after a

while, and will the national character suffer thereby in the future? The

General denies it strongly. "I see no signs of it. The kindness of the

men to each other, to the wounded, whether British or German, to the

French civilians, especially the women and children, is as marked as it

ever was. It is astonishing the good behaviour of the men in these

French towns; it is the rarest thing in the world to get a complaint."

I ask for some particulars of the way in which the British Army "runs"

the French towns and villages in our zone. How is it done? "It is all

summed up in three words," says an officer present, "M. le Maire!" What

we should have done without the local functionaries assigned by the

French system to every village and small town it is hard to say. They

are generally excellent people; they have the confidence of their fellow

townsmen, and know everything about them. Our authorities on taking over

a town or village do all the preliminaries through M. le Maire, and all

goes well.

The part played, indeed, by these local chiefs of the civil population

throughout France during the war has been an honourable and arduous--in

many cases a tragic--one. The murder, under the forms of a

court-martial, of the Maire of Senlis and his five fellow hostages

stands out among the innumerable German cruelties as one of peculiar

horror. Everywhere in the occupied departments the Maire has been the

surety for his fellows, and the Germans have handled them often as a

cruel boy torments some bird or beast he has captured, for the pleasure

of showing his power over it.

From the wife of the Maire of an important town in Lorraine I heard the

story of how her husband had been carried off as a hostage for three

weeks, while the Germans were in occupation. Meanwhile German officers

were billeted in her charming old house. "They used to say to me every

day with great politeness that they _hoped_ my husband would not be

shot. 'But why should he be shot, monsieur? He will do nothing to

deserve it.' On which they would shrug their shoulders and say, 'Madame,

c'est la guerre!' evidently wishing to see me terrified. But I never

gave them that pleasure."

A long drive home, through the dark and silent country. Yet everywhere

one feels the presence of the Army. We draw up to look at a sign-post at

some cross roads by the light of one of the motor lamps. Instantly a

couple of Tommies emerge from the darkness and give help. In passing

through a village a gate suddenly opens and a group of horses comes out,

led by two men in khaki; or from a Y.M.C.A. hut laughter and song float

out into the night. And soon in these farms and cottages everybody will

be asleep under the guard of the British Forces, while twenty miles

away, in the darkness, the guns we saw in the morning are endlessly

harassing and scourging the enemy lines, preparing for the day when the

thoughts now maturing in the minds of the Army leaders will leap in

flame to light.

* * * * *

To-day we are off for the Somme. I looked out anxiously with the dawn,

and saw streaks of white mist lying over the village and the sun

struggling through. But as we start on the road to Amiens, the mist

gains the upper hand, and we begin to be afraid that we shall not get

any of those wide views from the west of Albert over the Somme country

which are possible in clear weather. Again the high upland, and this

time _three_ tanks on the road, but motionless, alack! the nozzles of

their machine guns just visible on their great sides. Then a main road,

if it can be called a road since the thaw has been at work upon it.

Every mile or two, as our chauffeur explains, the pavé "is all burst up"

from below, and we rock and lunge through holes and ruts that only an

Army motor can stand. But German prisoners are thick on the worst bits,

repairing as hard as they can. Was it perhaps on some of these men that

certain of the recent letters that are always coming into G.H.Q. have

been found? I will quote a few of those which have not yet seen

the light.

Here are a batch of letters written in January of this year from Hamburg

and its neighbourhood:

"It is indeed a miserable existence. How will it all end? There is

absolutely nothing to be got here. Honey costs _6s. 6d_. a pound, goose

fat _18s_. a pound. Lovely prices, aren't they? One cannot do much by

way of heating, as there is no coal. We can just freeze and starve at

home. Everybody is ill. All the infirmaries are overflowing. Small-pox

has broken out. You are being shot at the front, and at home we are

gradually perishing."

" ... On the Kaiser's birthday, military bands played everywhere. When

one passes and listens to this tomfoolery, and sees the emaciated and

overworked men in war-time, swaying to the sounds of music, and enjoying

it, one's very gall rises. Why music? Of course, if times were

different, one could enjoy music. But to-day! It should be the aim of

the higher authorities to put an end to this murder. In every sound of

music the dead cry for revenge. I can assure you that it is very

surprising that there has not been a single outbreak here, but it

neither can nor will last much longer. How can a human being subsist on

1/4 lb. of potatoes a day? I should very much like the Emperor to try

and live for a week on the fare we get. He would then say it is

impossible.... I heard something this week quite unexpectedly, which

although I had guessed it before, yet has depressed me still more.

However, we will hope for the best."

"You write to say that you are worse off than a beast of burden.... I

couldn't send you any cakes, as we had no more flour.... We have

abundant bread tickets. From Thursday to Saturday I can still buy five

loaves.... My health is bad; not my asthma, no, but my whole body is

collapsing. We are all slowly perishing, and this is what it is all

coming to."

" ... The outlook here is also sad. One cannot get a bucket of coal. The

stores and dealers have none. The schools are closing, as there is no

coal. Soon everybody will be in the same plight. Neither coal nor

vegetables can be bought. Holland is sending us nothing more, and we

have none. We get 3-1/2 lb. of potatoes per person. In the next few days

we shall only have swedes to eat, which must be dried."

* * * * *

A letter written from Hamburg in February, and others from Coblenz are

tragic reading:

" ... We shall soon have nothing more to eat. We earn no money,

absolutely none; it is sad but true. Many people are dying here from

inanition or under-feeding."

Or, take these from Neugersdorf, in Saxony:

"We cannot send you any butter, for we have none to eat ourselves. For

three weeks we have not been able to get any potatoes. So we only have

turnips to eat, and now there are no more to be had. We do not know what

we can get for dinner this week, and if we settle to get our food at the

Public Food-Kitchen we shall have to stand two hours for it."

"Here is February once more--one month nearer to peace. Otherwise all is

the same. Turnips! Turnips! Very few potatoes, only a little bread, and

no thought of butter or meat; on the other hand, any quantity of hunger.

I understand your case is not much better on the Somme."

Or this from a man of the Ersatz Battalion, 19th F.A.R., Dresden:

"Since January 16th I have been called up and put into the Foot

Artillery at Dresden. On the 16th we were first taken to the

Quartermaster's Stores, where 2,000 of us had to stand waiting in the

rain from 2.30 to 6.30.... On the 23rd I was transferred to the tennis

ground. We are more than 100 men in one room. Nearly all of us have

frozen limbs at present. The food, too, is bad; sometimes it cannot

possibly be eaten. Our training also is very quick, for we are to go

_into the field in six weeks_."

Or these from Itzehoe and Hanover:

"Could you get me some silk? It costs 8s. a metre here.... To-day, the

24th, all the shops were stormed for bread, and 1,000 loaves were stolen

from the bakery. There were several other thousand in stock. In some

shops the windows were smashed. In the grocers' shops the butter barrels

were rolled into the street. There were soldiers in civilian dress. The

Mayor wanted to hang them. There are no potatoes this week."

"To-day, the 27th, the bakers' shops in the ---- Road were stormed....

This afternoon the butchers' shops are to be stormed."

"If only peace would come soon! We have been standing to for an alarm

these last days, as the people here are storming all the bakers' shops.

It is a semi-revolution. It cannot last much longer."

To such a pass have the Kaiser and the Junker party brought their

countrymen! Here, no doubt, are some of the recipients of such letters

among the peaceful working groups in shabby green-grey, scattered along

the roads of France. As we pass, the German N.C.O. often looks up to

salute the officer who is with us, and the general aspect of the men--at

any rate of the younger men--is cheerfully phlegmatic. At least they are

safe from the British guns, and at least they have enough to eat. As to

this, let me quote, by way of contrast, a few passages from letters

written by prisoners in a British camp to their people at home. One

might feel a quick pleasure in the creature-comfort they express but for

the burning memory of our own prisoners, and the way in which thousands

of them have been cruelly ill-treated, tormented even, in Germany--worst

of all, perhaps, by German women.

The extracts are taken from letters written mostly in December and

January last:

(_a_) " ... Dear wife, don't fret about me, because the English treat us

very well. Only our own officers (N.C.O.'s) treat us even worse than

they do at home in barracks; but that we're accustomed to...."

(_b_) " ... I'm now a prisoner in English hands, and I'm quite comfortable

and content with my lot, for most of my comrades are dead. The English

treat us well, and everything that is said to the contrary is not true.

Our food is good. There are no meatless days, but we haven't any

cigars...."

(_c_) Written from hospital, near Manchester: " ... I've been a prisoner

since October, 1916. I'm extremely comfortable here.... Considering the

times, I really couldn't wish you all anything better than to be

here too!"

(_d_) " ... I am afraid I'm not in a position to send you very detailed

letters about my life at present, but I can tell you that I am quite all

right and comfortable, and that I wish every English prisoner were the

same. Our new Commandant is very humane--strict, but just. You can tell

everybody who thinks differently that I shall always be glad to prove

that he is wrong...."

(_e_) " ... I suppose you are all thinking that we are having a very bad

time here as prisoners. It's true we have to do without a good many

things, but that after all one must get accustomed to. The English are

really good people, which I never would have believed before I was taken

prisoner. They try all they can to make our lot easier for us, and you

know there are a great many of us now. So don't be distressed

for us...."

X is passed, a large and prosperous town, with mills in a hollow. We

climb the hill beyond it, and are off on a long and gradual descent to

Amiens. This Picard country presents everywhere the same general

features of rolling downland, thriving villages, old churches,

comfortable country houses, straight roads, and well-kept woods. The

battlefields of the Somme were once a continuation of it! But on this

March day the uplands are wind-swept and desolate; and chilly white

mists curl about them, with occasional bursts of pale sun.

Out of the mist there emerges suddenly an anti-aircraft section; then a

great Army Service dump; and presently we catch sight of a row of

hangars and the following notice, "Beware of aeroplanes ascending and

descending across roads." For a time the possibility of charging into a

biplane gives zest to our progress, as we fly along the road which cuts

the aerodrome; but, alack! there are none visible and we begin to drop

towards Amiens.

Then, outside the town, sentinels stop us, French and British; our

passes are examined; and, under their friendly looks--betraying a little

surprise!--we drive on into the old streets. I was in Amiens two years

before the war, between trains, that I might refresh a somewhat faded

memory of the cathedral. But not such a crowded, such a busy Amiens as

this! The streets are so full that we have to turn out of the main

street, directed by a French military policeman, and find our way by a

détour to the cathedral.

As we pass through Amiens arrangements are going on for the "taking

over" of another large section of the French line, south of Albert; as

far, it is rumoured, as Roye and Lagny. At last, with our new armies, we

can relieve more of the French divisions, who have borne so gallantly

and for so many months the burden of their long line. It is true that

the bulk of the German forces are massed against the British lines, and

that in some parts of the centre and the east, owing to the nature of

the ground, they are but thinly strung along the French front, which

accounts partly for the disproportion in the number of kilometres

covered by each Ally. But, also, we had to make our Army; the French,

God be thanked, had theirs ready, and gloriously have they stood the

brunt, as the defenders of civilisation, till we could take our

full share.

And now we, who began with 45 kilometres of the battle-line, have

gradually become responsible for 185, so that "at last," says a French

friend to me in Paris, "our men can have a rest, some of them for the

first time! And, by Heaven, they've earned it!"

Yet, in this "taking over" there are many feelings concerned. For the

French _poilu_ and our Tommy it is mostly the occasion for as much

fraternisation as their fragmentary knowledge of each other's speech

allows; the Frenchman is proud to show his line, the Britisher is proud

to take it over; there are laughter and eager good will; on the whole,

it is a red-letter day. But sometimes there strikes in a note "too deep

for tears." Here is a fragment from an account of a "taking over,"

written by an eye-witness:

Trains of a prodigious length are crawling up a French railway. One

follows so closely upon another that the rear truck of the first is

rarely out of sight of the engine-driver of the second. These trains are

full of British soldiers. Most of them are going to the front for the

first time. They are seated everywhere, on the trucks, on the roof--legs

dangling over the edge--inside, and even over the buffers. Presently

they arrive at their goal. The men clamber out on to the siding, collect

their equipment and are ready for a march up country. A few children run

alongside them, shouting, "Anglais!" "Anglais!" And some of them take

the soldiers' hands and walk on with them until they are tired.

Now the trenches are reached, and the men break into single file. But

the occasion is not the usual one of taking over a few trenches. _We are

relieving some sixty miles of French line._ There is, however, no

confusion. The right men are sent to the right places, and everything is

done quietly. It is like a great tide sweeping in, and another sweeping

out. Sixty miles of trenches are gradually changing their nationality.

The German, a few yards over the way, knows quite well what is

happening. A few extra shells whizz by; a trench mortar or two splutter

a welcome; but it makes little difference to the weary German who mans

the trenches over against him. Only, the new men are fresh and untired,

and the German has no Ally who can give him corresponding relief.

It has all been so quietly done! Yet it is really a great moment. The

store of man power which Great Britain possesses is beginning to take

practical effect. The French, who held the long lines at the beginning

of war, who stood before Verdun and threw their legions on the road to

Péronne, are now being freed for work elsewhere. They have "carried on"

till Great Britain was ready, and now she is ready.

* * * * *

This was more than the beginning of a new tour of duty [says another

witness]. I felt the need of some ceremony, and I think others felt the

need of it too. There were little half-articulate attempts, in the

darkness, of men trying to show what they felt--a whisper or two--in the

queer jargon that is growing up between the two armies. An English

sentry mounted upon the fire-step, and looked out into the darkness

beside the Frenchman, and then, before the Frenchman stepped down,

patted him on the shoulder, as though he would say: "These

trenches--_all right_!--we'll look after them!"

Then I stumbled into a dug-out. A candle burnt there, and a French

officer was taking up his things. He nodded and smiled. "I go," he said.

"I am not sorry, and yet----" He shrugged his shoulders. I understood.

One is never sorry to go, but these trenches--these bits of France,

where Frenchmen had died--would no longer be guarded by Frenchmen. Then

he waved his hand round the little dug-out. "We give a little more of

France into your keeping." His gesture was extravagant and light, but

his face was grave as he said it. He turned and went out. I followed. He

walked along the communication trench after his men, and I along the

line of my silent sentries. I spoke to one or two, and then stood on the

fire-step, looking out into the night. I had the Frenchman's words in my

head: "We give a little more of France into your keeping!" It was not

these trenches only, where I stood, but all that lay out there in the

darkness, which had been given into our keeping. Its dangers were ours

now. There were villages away there in the heart of the night, still

unknown to all but the experts at home, whose names--like Thiepval and

Bazentin--would soon be English names, familiar to every man in Britain

as the streets of his own town. All this France had entrusted to our

care this night.

Such were the scenes that were quietly going on, not much noticed by the

public at home during the weeks of February and March, and such were the

thoughts in men's minds. How plainly one catches through the words of

the last speaker an eager prescience of events to come!--the sweep of

General Gough on Warlencourt and Bapaume--the French reoccupation

of Péronne.

One word for the cathedral of Amiens before we leave the bustling

streets of the old Picard capital. This is so far untouched and

unharmed, though exposed, like everything else behind the front, to the

bombs of German aeroplanes. The great west front has disappeared behind

a mountain of sandbags; the side portals are protected in the same way,

and inside, the superb carvings of the choir are buried out of sight.

But at the back of the choir the famous weeping cherub sits weeping as

before, peacefully querulous. There is something irritating in his

placid and too artistic grief. Not so is "Rachel weeping for her

children" in this war-ravaged country. Sterner images of Sorrow are

wanted here--looking out through burning eyes for the Expiation to come.

* * * * *

Then we are off, bound for Albert, though first of all for the

Headquarters of the particular Army which has this region in charge. The

weather, alack! is still thick. It is under cover of such an atmosphere

that the Germans have been stealing away, removing guns and stores

wherever possible, and leaving rear-guards to delay our advance. But

when the rear-guards amount to some 100,000 men, resistance is still

formidable, not to be handled with anything but extreme prudence by

those who have such vast interests in charge as the Generals of

the Allies.

Our way takes us first through a small forest, where systematic felling

and cutting are going on under British forestry experts. The work is

being done by German prisoners, and we catch a glimpse through the trees

of their camp of huts in a barbed-wire enclosure. Their guards sleep

under canvas! ... And now we are in the main street of a large

picturesque village, approaching a château. A motor lorry comes towards

us, driven at a smart pace, and filled with grey-green uniforms.

Prisoners!--this time fresh from the field. We have already heard

rumours on our way of successful fighting to the south.

The famous Army Commander himself, who had sent us a kind invitation to

lunch with him, is unexpectedly engaged in conference with a group of

French generals; but there is a welcome suggestion that on our way back

from the Somme he will be free and able to see me. Meanwhile we go off

to luncheon and much talk with some members of the Staff in a house on

the village street. Everywhere I notice the same cheerful, one might

even say radiant, confidence. No boasting in words, but a conviction

that penetrates through all talk that the tide has turned, and that,

however long it may take to come fully up, it is we whom it is floating

surely on to that fortune which is no blind hazard, but the child of

high faith and untiring labour. Of that labour the Somme battlefields we

were now to see will always remain in my mind--in spite of ruin, in

spite of desolation--as a kind of parable in action, never to be

forgotten.