officers' correspondence, the base censorship is lying in wait for
everything and anything in the mail line which the senders hope to slip
through uncensored. It regularly goes over a large proportion of the
mail which has already been vised by company officers. It sifts through
all mail for the army from neutral countries; and finally it censors all
letters in foreign languages, written by men in the A. E. F.--letters
which company officers are forbidden to O. K.
In the exercise of this last-named function lies perhaps the greatest
task allotted to the base censorship. Our army is probably the most
"international" in history, and it sends letters to the base written in
forty-six different languages, excluding English. Out of 600 such
letters--a typical day's grist--the chances are but half will be written
in Italian, followed in the order of their numerousness, by those
inscribed in Polish, French and Scandinavian. The censor's staff handles
mail couched in twenty-five European languages, many tongues and
dialects of the Balkan States and a scattering few in Yiddish, Chinese,
Japanese, Hindu, Tahitian, Hawaiian, Persian and Greek, to say nothing
of a number in Philippine dialects.
A Few Are in German
An interesting by-product of the censors' work is the discovery of
foreign language interpreters within the ranks of the army. One soldier,
for example, wrote in Turkish and wrote so well that the censor handling
the letters in that tangled tongue passed on his name to those higher
up. As a result, the man was detailed to the interpreters' corps where
he is now serving his adopted country ably and well.
Seldom, say the members of the censor's staff, is anything forbidden
found in the foreign language letters. The only striking feature about
them as a whole is the small number that are written in German. In fact
the Chinese letters as a rule outnumber those expressed in the language
of the Kaiser.
Besides all this thousands of letters are sent direct to the base
censors every day, in cases where soldiers are unwilling that their own
immediate superiors should become acquainted with the contents. To
humor, therefore, the enlisted man in a former National Guard unit whose
censoring officer he suspects of trying to cut him out with The Girl
Back Home, the base censor takes the responsibility off the company
officer's shoulders; and the enlisted man feels oh! so much relieved.
Those clever chaps who devise all sorts of codes to tell the home folks
just where they are in France, meet short shrift at the censor's hands.
For example, one of them was anxious to describe a certain city in this
fair land. "You know grandmother's first name," he wrote naively,
thinking it would get by. But the particular censor it came before,
having a New England grandmother of his own, promptly sent the letter
back with the added comment, "Yes, and so do I! Can it!"
Another man was so bold as to write: "The name of the town where I am
located is the same as that of the dance hall on Umptumpus avenue
in ----" well, a certain well-known American city. He was also caught up;
for the censor, being himself somewhat of a man of the world, shot the
letter back with the tart comment: "I've been there, too."
Those two men, however, were more fortunate than the average in having
their letters sent back to them for revision. The usual scheme is for
the censor to clip out completely the portion of the letter carrying the
damaging information. In case, therefore, a man has written something
innocuous--but interesting none the less to his correspondent--on the
other side, he is simply "out of luck." One can see it pays to be
careful.
On the whole--aside from the mania which seems to have possessed some
men to give away the location of their units in France--the censoring
officials declare that the army deserves a great deal of credit for
living up to both the letter and the spirit of the censor's code. They
do, however, find fault with the men who continually "over-address"
their letters--that is, who persist in tacking on the number of their
divisions to the company and regimental designations. This, for military
reasons, is forbidden, but many men seem as yet unaware of the fact.
Many Thank-you Letters
During the first half of January the base censor's office alone handled
more than 8,000 letters a day--two thousand a day increase over
December, due, no doubt, to the thank-you letters which our dutiful
soldier-men felt compelled to write in return for those bounteous
Christmas boxes. In the spring, though more transports will be coming
over, more men will be writing letters, but still the work will go on.
The abuse of the letter-writing privilege by one man might mean the loss
of many of his comrades, so the long and tough job of censoring must be
"seen through."
So, you smarty with the private code to transmit all sorts of dope to
the folks, have a care! No matter how the letters pile up, old Base
Censor, Inc., is always on the job! Like the roulette wheel at Monte
Carlo, he'll get you in the end, no matter how lucky and clever you
think yourself. Or, as Indiana's favorite poet might put it,
"The censor-man 'ull git you ef you
don't
watch
out!"
----
MIRABELLE
----
One striking feature of the war is the number of women and girls engaged
in various kinds of work back of the lines. The British Army has
thousands of them doing clerical work or driving ambulances, while in
the A.E.F. their activities so far have been limited to canteen work
with the Red Cross or Y. M. C. A.
Most of them are practical individuals doing a lot of good, but
occasionally one slips over imbued with the idea that soldiers are sort
of overgrown bacteriological specimens to be studied and handled only
with sterilized gloves.
Possibly one of the latter inspired a certain A.E.F. private to lapse
into poetry after he had stowed her baggage away and heard her
dissertation on what the camp needed. His verses were:
The ether ethered,
The cosmos coughed,
Mirabelle whispered--
The words were soft:
"I shall go," Mirabelle said--
And her voice, how it bled!--
"I shall go to be hurt
By the dead, dead, dead.
To be hurt, hurt, hurt"--
Oh, the sad, sweet mien,
And the dreepy droop
Of that all-nut bean!
"One must grow," Mirabelle wailed,
"And one grows by the knife.
I shall grow in my soul
In that awful strife.
Let me go, let me grow,"
Was the theme of her dirge;
"Let the sobbiest of sobs
Through my bosom surge."
The sergeant took a lean
On the canteen door
The captain ran away:
"What a bore! What a bore!"
WAR RISK
INSURANCE
February 12 is the
last day to take out
war risk insurance.
DO IT NOW!
----
THE MACHINE-GUN SONG.
----
(As rendered by a certain battalion of Amex
_mitrailleurs_, to the tune of "Lord Geoffrey
Amherst.")
----
We've come from old New England for to blast the bloomin' Huns,
We have sailed from afar across the sea;
We will drive the Boche before us with our baby-beauty guns
To the heart of the Rhine countree!
And to his German majesty we will not do a thing
But to spray his carcass with our hail;
And when we're through with pepp'ring him, we'll make the lobster sing
As we ride him into Berlin on a rail!
CHORUS.
Oh, machine guns, machine guns!
They're the things to rake the Kaiser aft and fore!
May they never jam on us
Till we've gone and won this gosh-darn war!
Oh, machine guns are the handy things to drive the Fritzy out
When he hides back of bags of sand;
And machine guns are the dandy things to put the Hun to rout
If he tries to regain his land.
So just keep the clips a-comin', and we'll give her all the juice
As we speed along our glorious way:
And Von Hindenburg and Ludendorff will beat it like the deuce
When the little old rat-rattlers start to play!
CHORUS.
Oh, machine guns, machine guns!
They're the things to rake the Kaiser aft and fore!
May they never jam on us
Till we've gone and won this gosh-darn war!
----
CAN'T DO WITHOUT 'EM
----
Scene: An A.E.F. cookshack, during sanitary inspection.
Enter, to the cook standing at attention, one major, U.S.M.C.,
accompanied by one major, British Army Medical Corps.
U.S. Major: "Well cook, how's everything going?"
Cook: "Rotten, sir; men are either all sick or away on D.S., and there's
only the mess sergeant and myself to look out for things. You can't get
along without K.P.'s."
U.S. Major (to his British friend): "Major, you told me you knew a good
deal of American Army slang; what would you say our friend the cook
meant by 'K.P.'s'?"
British Major: "K.P.'s? Why, ah-er, I should say that cook was
undoubtedly referring to the Knights of Pythias!"
FAMILY HOTEL, 7, Ave. du Trocadero.
Full board from 10 francs.
HOTEL D'ALBE, Av. Champs-Elysees &
Avenue de l'Alma, Paris.
PATRONISED BY AMERICANS.
----
ONE EYE IS NOT TRUE BLUE.
----
So a Hoosier Patriot Tries to
Return It to Berlin.
----
Paul Gary of Anderson, Indiana, is all American, with the exception of a
glass eye. The substitute optic is alien. Gary tried to enlist in the U. S.
Marine Corps at their recruiting station in Louisville, Ky., but was
rejected when his infirmity was discovered by Sergeant G. C. Wright.
"Didn't you know that the loss of an eye would prevent your enlisting?"
asked the sergeant.
"I thought it might," explained Gary, "but this glass blinker is the
only part of me that was made in Germany, and I want to take it back."
He was advised to mail it.
----
QUITE RIGHT.
----
"Do you suffer from headaches?" queried the M. O.
"Certainly I do," rejoined the hurried infantry officer. "If I enjoyed
them as I do whisky and soda, I wouldn't have consulted you!"--_Aussie_,
the Australian Soldiers' Magazine.
CHRISTIAN SCIENCE
_READING ROOM_
194 Rue de Rivoli.
Open daily 2.30 to 5 p.m.
ALBERTI'S _Grand Cafe_
KNICKERBOCKER
14, Bd des Capucines, 1, Rue Scribe, PARIS.
LUNCH 7 francs DINNER 8 francs
(wine included)
OFFICERS & SOLDIERS
Equip yourself at
A.A. TUNMER & CO.
1-3 Place Saint-Augustin,
PARIS.
SPORTING OUTFITTER
MEURICE HOTEL
AND
RESTAURANT
228 Rue de Rivoli
Opposite Tuileries Gardens
_Restaurant Open to Non-Residents_
[Illustration: Lieut. A. SMITH
REGIMENT
Private Address]
Solid Silver
IDENTITY
DISCS AND
BRACELETS
KIRBY, BEARD & Co. Ld.
_(Established 1743)_
5, RUE AUBER (OPERA), PARIS
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AND AUTOMATIC APPARATUS
Offers every guarantee.
BARCLAY, 18 & 20, Avenue de l'Opera, PARIS.
_Furnishers of Governments of America, England
and France and of all Centers of Aviation._
Description and Catalogue free on application.
Guaranty Trust Company of New York
Paris: 1 & 3 Rue des Italiens.
UNITED STATES DEPOSITARY OF PUBLIC MONEYS
Places its banking facilities at the disposal of the
officers and men of the
AMERICAN EXPEDITIONARY FORCES
Special facilities afforded officers with accounts
with this institution to negotiate their personal
checks anywhere in France. Money transferred to
all parts of the United States by draft or cable.
Capital and Surplus : : : $50,000,000
Resources more than : : : $600,000,000
AN AMERICAN BANK WITH AMERICAN METHODS
ADAMS EXPRESS CO.
===== PARIS OFFICE =====
28, Rue du Quatre-Septembre.
Every Banking Facility for American Expeditionary Forces
MONEY TRANSFERRED BY CABLE AND MAIL
TO ALL PARTS OF AMERICA AND CANADA
Mail us your Pay Checks endorsed to our order.
WE OPEN DEPOSIT ACCOUNTS WITH YOU FREE OF CHARGE, SUPPLYING CHECK-BOOKS.
----
GERMAN BRANDS
YOUNG MOTHER
WITH AN IRON.
----
Victim of a Violation
Officially Labeled by
Army Authorities.
----
PAINT BADGE FOR OTHERS
----
Children of German Fathers
Catalogued as the Government's
Property.
----
FORCED INTO MENIAL SERVICE
----
An Officer Formerly in British
Army Tells How Kultur
Repopulates Itself.
----
A new and startling story of German atrocities is told by an American
formerly in the service of the British Army, but now attending one of
the A.E.F. schools in preparation for a commission in the American Army.
It is in accordance with other stories of the prostitution of womanhood
which the Kaiser is forcing in order to repopulate the German Empire.
The rapid British advance at Cambria, in November, when towns which the
Germans had occupied for three years were captured before the latter
could deport the civilian population into Germany as is their custom,
disclosed the latest effort of the German army. French women and girls
had been made the victims.
"Among the refugees who passed along the roads making their way
southward farther into France after we made our first big advance were
scores of women and girls, each marked on her breast by a cross in red
paint," said the officer. "These were disclosed when the refugees passed
in front of our medical officers who were inspecting them. All of them
were about to become mothers, and the French interpreter who was
assisting the medicos explained that the cross indicated that German
soldiers were the fathers. The crosses had been painted on them, the
women explained, to show that their children would belong to the German
Government.
This Iron Cross Red Hot.
"One of these unfortunates, apparently not more than seventeen years of
age, had not only been painted but branded with a hot iron so that she
would be marked for life with the sign of the cross. She said that a
German officer would be the father of her child. This officer, the girl
said, had been quartered in her parents' home and she had been forced to
accede to his desires.
"After her health became such that he had no further use for her, she
said, he ordered her to act as his personal servant, doing the menial
work in his chamber. It was not long until she was unable to continue
this and then, angered at her weakness, he ordered soldiers to scour the
paint from her breast and burn the cross into her flesh. When this was
done, she was forced to leave her home and taken to a maternity hospital
which the army had established for other girls and women of the town in
the same condition.
An Eye-Witness on "Kultur."
"I myself saw the girl who had been branded and the others who had been
painted like sheep and heard their stories, as I had been detailed to
supervise the return of the refugees. Thank God, America, by coming into
the war, will help to stamp out this beastly 'kultur' from the world and
make it a safe, clean place to live in for your womenfolk and mine--our
mothers, our sweethearts, our wives, and our daughters. I have a
daughter just seventeen years old," concluded the American grimly.
----
WHEN THE FRENCH BAND PLAYS.
----
There's a military band that plays, on Sunday afternoons,
In a certain nameless city's quaint old square.
It can rouse the blood to battle with its patriotic tunes,
And still render hymns as gentle as a prayer.
When it starts "Ave Maria" there is no one in the throng
But would doff his cap, his heart to heaven raise;
And who would shrink from combat when, with brasses sounding strong,
There is flung out on the breeze "La Marseillaise"?
When it starts to render "Sambre et Meuse," the march that won the day
At the battle of the Marne, one sees again
The grey-green hosts of Hundom melt before the stern array
Of our gallant sister-ally's blue-clad men.
And when it plays our Anthem, with rendition bold and clear--
While the khaki lads stand steady--then we feel
That, though tongues and ways may vary, we've found brothers over here,
Tried in war, and in allegiance true as steel.
For it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, packed closely side by side,
Till their color sets ablaze the grey old square;
And it's olive-drab, horizon-blue, whatever may betide,
That will blaze the path to victory "up there."
So, while standing thus together, let us pledge anew our troth
To the Cause--the world set free!--for which we fight.
As the evening twilight gilds the ranks of blue and khaki both,
And the bugles die away into the night.
----
WHEN PACKS ARE LIGHTEST
----
BY CHAPLAIN MOODY.
----
Probably the cow is the least complaining and discriminating of all
animals, yet it is worthy of note that the wise farmer who understands
his cows does everything to make them as happy as possible and studies
their comfort and convenience as far as possible. This is not because he
is a sentimentalist, but for the very opposite reason. He knows his cows
will give more milk and he will get more money therefrom if they are
contented in their bovine minds and not worried by the high cost of
living and other problems.
The expert poultry man will tell you that the frame of mind of his
feathered employes has a very direct bearing on the egg output, and so
he tries to study their happiness.
Recently experiments have been carried on in some factories with
phonographs, and it has been proven that if the fingers of the employes
are stimulated by some music they enjoy, it is possible to get more work
out of them. In some Cuban cigar factories it is the customary thing to
employ a man to read to the cigar makers some story which they like, as,
under these conditions, they work better and faster.
All this is not done out of sentiment, again, but because it contributes
to efficiency. The cow, the hen, the factory girl and the cigar wrapper
do better work for being in a pleasant frame of mind.
While we of the American Expeditionary Forces do not fall into any of
these classes, the same is nevertheless probably true of us. We can be
better soldiers if we are cheerful than we can if we are not. It may be
difficult to see how you can sight a gun any better for smiling or
bayonet a man more effectively when you are cheerful. But if we believe
what we are told, this is so, and, hence, since we all want to be good
soldiers, it becomes a duty toward this end to be happy, just as it is a
duty to wash your face or police your bunk, or to keep your rifle clean.
It is a _duty_ to be happy.
That is all very well and good to say, some one interrupts at this
point, but you cannot be happy when your feet are sore or you do not
have all you want to eat. Or, it would be easy to be happy if the mail
would come, or they would "bust" the Mess Sergeant, or take some other
great step forward in the improvement of the army. But we all know
better.
Our happiness is not dependent on conditions outside of us, but on
our hearts within us, and some of the happiest men have been the victims
of extraordinary misfortune and some of the unhappiest people have been
possessors of great wealth who could have all they wanted. The most
joyous book in the world was written by an old man in prison who had
come to the conclusion that when they let him out they would chop his
head off. Many a man has just grinned himself out of worse fixes than
you or I are ever apt to get into.
There are very few things we cannot laugh at. By laughing, we do not
actually shorten the hike, but we make it seem shorter; we do not in
reality lighten the pack, but we make it seem lighter, and it all comes
to the same thing, for we would rather carry a heavy load and have it
seem light than carry a light load and have it seem heavy. If we laugh
at the cooties when they come, and hunt them with the same merriment
that the French hunt the wild boar, the joke will be on them after
all, for they do not laugh back. And then they won't seem half so
bad. Laughter is a good insecticide.
We American soldiers in France are in for a big thing. Just how big it
is and how long it will last we do not know and no one can tell us. But
we are determined that America shall do her part and that we as
individuals shall do ours and be the best soldiers possible, and this is
some task when we remember how gallantly our Allies have fought. It will
be, in our own language, "some job," and for this reason we must use
every means within our power to accomplish it. So we must not forget
happiness as an asset to efficient soldiering. We will all smile where
the coward would whimper, and laugh where the weakling would whine, and
buckle down to what Robert Louis Stevenson called "The great task of
happiness."
[Cartoon: VOLUNTEER VIC'S BIG IDEA BY LEMEN IN THE
ST. LOUIS POST-DISPATCH]
[THANK GOODNESS! IVE GOT ON MY STEEL HELMET THIS RAIN
WOULD GET MY FELT HAT ALL OUT OF SHAPE]
[GEE! THIS THING TURNS ALL THE WATER DOWN MY NECK]
[TIN-SMITH]
[DONT SEE WHY THEY DIDNT THINK ABOUT BUILDING A GUTTER ON
THESE BLAMED THINGS BEFORE]
----
THERE'S A REASON.
----
No more ham or eggs or grapefruit when the bugle blows for chow. No more
apple pie or dumplings, for we're in the army now; and they feed us
beans for breakfast, and at noon we have 'em, too; while at night they
fill our tummies with a good old army stew.
No more shirts of silk and linen. We all wear the O. D. stuff. No more
night shirts or pyjamas, for our pants are good enough. No more feather
ticks or pillows, but we're glad to thank the Lord we've got a cot and
blanket when we might just have a board.
For they feed us beans for breakfast, and at noon we have 'em, too;
while at night they fill our stomachs with a good old army stew. By, by
gum, we'll lick the kaiser when the sergeants teach us how, for, dad
burn it, he's the reason that we're in the army now!--Pittsburgh Post.
----
A DOUGHBOY'S DICTIONARY.
----
Camouflage--Wearing an overcoat to reveille.
Military Road--A large body of land, without beginning or end, entirely
covered by water.
Camion--1. A large, immovable body which one is expected to carry on
one's shoulders through the mud. 2. The thing that brings the mail out.
Army Rifle--Something eternally dirty which must be kept eternally
clean.
Bayonet--A long, sharp, pointed object whose only satisfactory resting
place is the midriff of a Hun.
Pay-day--1. A "movable feast." 2. A time for cancellation of debts. 3.
The date of the return of the laundry one sent away a month and a half
before.
----
THIS REALLY HAPPENED.
----
End of letter: "Goodbye, my dear, for the present. Yours, Jack."
Then--"x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x. P. S. I hope the censor doesn't object to
those crosses."
Added by Friend Censor: "Certainly not! x--x--x--x--x--x--x--x!"
----
KISS FOR RESCUER
OF PIG FROM BLAZE
----
A Beantown Fire-Fighter
Hero of Epoch-Making
Conflagration.
----
"Weee-ah-eeeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"
Private John Doe, late of the Boston fire department, knew something was
up when, on a certain Sunday morning not long ago, he heard that sound
issuing from the second story of the house-barn in which his command was
billeted. Also he saw a thin streamer of smoke, no bigger than Rhode
Island, winding its way out of the house-barn door. He sniffed, then
hollered "Fire!"
"Fire?" echoed some of his bunk mates, coming up the road. Fire? How
could there be fire in a country where not even sulphurous language
served to start the kitchen kindlings? How could there be fire in a
country where only every other match will light at all, at all?
Nevertheless, up they hustled, to see a bit of blaze lapping the edge of
the house-barn door, and to hear, from within, the plaintive cry of
"Weee-ah-eeeeee-ah-eeeeeee!"
"Steady, piggy darlint!" came Private Doe's soothing accents, from the
second story. "Sure an' it's meeself will resthcue yeze from this
burnin' ould shack! You below there! Climb on up an' lind a hand at
pullin' out the hay that's up here, or ilse the whole place will be
burnted down intoirely!"
Enter the Reserves.
Into the barn rushed half of Private Doe's squad. The other half,
calling down the road, summoned a good two companies, which came up on
the double.
At this point entered, front and centre, M. le Maire of the commune,
who, being the owner of the pig in distress, had more than a casual
interest in the proceedings. "The fire engine! The fire engine!" he
shouted, in accents both wild and French. But, since there had been no
fire in the town in fifty years, nobody seemed to know just what he
meant.
Fact! No fire in the town in fifty years! 'Way back in the days of
Napoleon III. there had been a fire, a little blaze, in the town. Think
of that, you insurance men who used to write policies for clothing
dealers on New York's East Side!
When he had sufficiently recovered his avoirdupois, M. le Maire dragged
out of the Hotel de Ville, with the aid of the embattled infantrymen,
_some_ fire apparatus, of early Bourbon vintage. One private who helped
handle it swears that he spotted the date "1748" on the leather hose
which led from a water tank, about twelve by eight by four, toward the
general direction of the fire. The tank, in turn, had to be filled by a
bucket brigade strung along from the scene of action to the village
fountain, about a quarter of a mile away.
Fire a Social Success.