I emerged into the large open space behind the station. It w

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=LIFE IN THE WAR ZONE=

Table of Contents

Invading the War Zone

Horrors of the Hotel Life in the War Zone

The War Zone by Automobile

Stone Victims of “The Marne”

Le Bienêtre du Blessé

[Illustration: Title page.]

=LIFE IN THE WAR ZONE=

by

GERTRUDE ATHERTON

Published for the benefit of

Le Bienêtre du Blessé, Société

Franco-Américaine pour nos

Combattants.

Copyright 1916

By Gertrude Atherton

By courtesy of the New York Times

LE BIENÊTRE DU BLESSÉ

(In France)

* * * * *

_Présidente d’Honneur_: Madame Poincaré

_Présidente_: Madame la Marquise d’Andigné

* * * * *

_Vice-Présidentes_:

Mme. Ernest Mallet

Mme. la Générale Pau

Mme. la Princesse Poniatowska

Mme. la Comtesse de Roussy de Sales

Mme. la Marquise de Talleyrand-Périgord

Mme. Waddington

* * * * *

_Secrétaire-Général_: M. Prosper Gervais

_Tresorier_: M. Georges Munroe

* * * * *

_Membres du Conseil_:

Mrs. Atherton

Mrs. Bell

Mme. la Marquise de Belloy

Mme. la Marquise de Berckheim

Mrs. Bliss

Mrs. Ridgely Carter

M. le Général de Don Chamoin

Mme. Chauffard

Mrs. Lee Childe

Mme. Cottin

Mrs. William Crocker

Miss Crocker

Mme. Paul Dupuy

Mrs. Deming Jarves

Mme. Gabriel Hanotaux

M. le Vicomte Emmanual d’Harcourt

Mrs. Herman Harjes

Mrs. Harper

Mme. la Comtesse d’Haussonville

Mme. la Générale Hély d’Oissel

Mrs. James Hyde

Mme. la Marquise des Isnards

Mme. la Générale de Lagarenne

Mme. la Générale de Lamaze

Mme. Legueu

Mme. la Comtesse du Luart

Mme. la Marquise de Montebello

Mme. Nélaton

Mme. la Marquise de Noailles

Mme. la Princesse de Poggio-Suasa Ruspoli

M. le Comte Jacques de Pourtalès

Mrs. Georges Rheims

Mme. la Baronne Seillière

Mrs. Lawrence Slade

M. Marcel Trélat

M. le Comte Louis de Vogüé

Mrs. Samuel Watson

M. l’Abbé Wetterlé

Siège Social: 7 Rue Tronchet, Paris (where contributions may be sent

direct—addressed to

Madame la Marquise d’Andigné—if preferred).

LE BIENÊTRE DU BLESSÉ

(American Central Committee)

* * * * *

_Honorary President_:

Mrs. William K. Vanderbilt

_Honorary Vice-Presidents_:

Mrs. Charles B. Alexander

Mrs. Robert Bacon

Mrs. E. H. Harriman

Mrs. Oliver Harriman

_President_:

Mrs. Atherton

_Hon. Secretary_:

Miss Elsa Maxwell

_Executive Secretary_:

Mrs. Holmes Beckwith

_Executive Chairman_:

Mr. John Moffat

_Treasurer_:

Messrs. John Munroe & Co.

30 Pine Street

_Committee_:

Mrs. Frederick H. Allen

Mrs. Nicholas Murray Butler

Mrs. Francis Carolan

Mrs. Henry Clews

Mrs. Wm. Astor Chanler

Mrs. Cornelius C. Cuyler

Mrs. John R. Drexel

Mrs. Charles Dana Gibson

Mrs. Benjamin Guinness

Mrs. Bell Gurnee

Mrs. Cooper Hewett

Mrs. Arthur Islin

Mrs. William Jay

Mrs. Lawrence Keene

Mrs. Otto Kahn

Mrs. Philip Lydig

Mrs. Walter Maynard

Mrs. James Lowell Putnam

Mrs. George Christopher Riggs (Kate Douglas Wiggin)

Miss Lota Robinson

Mrs. Lawrence Townsend

Mrs. Schuyler Van Rensselaer

_Advisory Committee_:

Mr. Frederick H. Allen

Hon. James M. Beck

Mr. Nicholas Murray Butler, _Pres., University of Columbia_

Hon. Joseph H. Choate

Mr. Owen Johnson

The Marquis de Polignac

Mr. George Haven Putnam

The Due de Richelieu

Mr. Frederick A. Stokes

* * * * *

=INVADING THE WAR ZONE=

* * * * *

PARIS, August 8, 1916.

France to-day is sharply divided into two sections; within the greater

you can come and go almost as freely as before the war. All that is

necessary is a sauf conduit easily obtained from your commissaire de

police, which you are never called upon to exhibit. But the other, the

Zone des Armées, in common parlance the war or military zone! There is

only one thing in France more difficult of contact, and that is a member

of the middle or lower bourgeoisie.

For nearly three months now I have felt like an inverted snob

trying to ingratiate myself with, or even to meet members, of that

curious caste which exists only in France; a caste reserved, proud,

suspicious, intensive, detesting foreigners only less than it does the

aristocracy, and averse from variety of any sort. If you bring even one

letter to society, either in France or any European capital, all doors

are open to you, for society is accustomed to strangers and variety, and

is often bored with itself; which the bourgeoisie, of France at least,

never seems to be. So, if in the course of these and other letters, I

allude, however casually, to princesses and duchesses, spare me the

ready democratic sneer; but if, with affected indifference, I mention

now and again a name without territorial significance, then, if you

like, exchange derisive glances and exclaim: “Aha! So she has ‘got

there’ and would have us believe she takes it as a matter of course.”

However—to return to the war zone.

I made no attempt to enter this proscribed region for six or seven

weeks after my arrival, having the thousand and one phases of woman’s

work in the war to examine. But when these researches drew to a close I

began to plot to get to the front—no other word is applicable unless a

woman happens to be a Red Cross nurse. At first I applied to a number of

eminent Americans on more or less intimate terms with the powers. I

quickly found that, amiable and interested as they were, their own

powers had a limit. It was comparatively easy in the beginning of the

war to go to the front, but the barrier grows deeper every day.

One referred me to a Frenchman of great influence who has a special

liking for Americans. He told me in the friendliest manner that when I

obtained permission to go to the front he would provide me with the

necessary letters, but that as I was an American I must obtain that

permission through my embassy. This I did not even consider. I have

spent a good part of my life in Europe, and long since came to the

conclusion that all American embassies feel they are created for is to

look solemn and important and give receptions. They never by any chance

do anything for other Americans except in times of extreme danger, and

then they behave very well.

I tried one or two members of the haute bourgeoisie without avail,

and then took my troubles to a duchess. There I was more fortunate. The

young Duchess d’Uzès has turned her castle near Amiens into a hospital,

the sixth or seventh she has established since the beginning of the war,

and is therefore on friendly terms with the Service de Santé (the

Military Hospital Service Board). She asked one of its principal

Secretaries to meet me at breakfast, and I was able to disabuse his mind

of any suspicion he might have that I merely wanted to “do” the front,

assuring him that it was my solemn duty to visit the base hospitals in

behalf of a new oeuvre just formed (Le Bienêtre du Blessé), founded by

Countess d’Haussonville, President of the first division of the Croix

Rouge, to supply convalescents in the military hospitals at the front

with delicacies they would be able, in their weakened condition, to

retain.

I told him that, as I had agreed to do the publicity work for this

oeuvre, I felt I should see things at first hand, if only to be able to

make my articles of appeal interesting. He agreed that this was a most

reasonable argument, asked for my permis de séjour and my

immatriculation, and promised that I should have my carnet rouge the

following week and go with the duchess to Amiens.

I waited nearly a month. I received consolatory promises and

nothing more. Meanwhile I could not go outside of Paris, as without my

permis de séjour I was unable to obtain a sauf conduit. (If you lose

your permis de séjour you cannot leave Paris until the end of the war.)

Finally one of the Vice-Presidents of Le Bienêtre du Blessé (the

well-being of the wounded) sent in a petition, and I received a note

from the Ministry of War asking for two photographs similar to that of

my passport, and inclosing a paper to sign. Two days later I was

summoned to the office of the Service de Santé. I had engagements, but I

broke them ruthlessly. We all do when the War Office summons. Royalty

itself would not be considered.

The Vice-President of Le Bienêtre du Blessé who had asked them to

hurry, went with me, and after we had wandered all over an immense

building in the Boulevard St. Germain we finally found ourselves in a

reception room on the top floor. It was filled with patient people, but

we sent in our names and were not kept waiting. There two charming

gentlemen (and no people in the world are as kind and charming as high

officials in France when they are gentlemen) told me I could go to Rouen

and Meaux.

This was a joke. It was like the labors of the mountain to bring

forth a mouse. Rouen is entirely given over to the British, and much as

I admire the British I came to France to write about the French. As for

Meaux, although the battleground of the Marne at any of its points is

interesting to good Americans as the scene of the definite finish of

German hopes of world dominion, my ambition was the “front,” not a slice

of the future tourists’ paradise.

I made known my desires with firmness, and all the eloquence at my

command, being able, fortunately, with these accomplished gentlemen, to

employ my native tongue. “I want to go to Amiens, and at once,” I

concluded.

Alas, if it were only a month earlier—before the battle of the

Somme began. Now it was quite impossible. The Grand Quartier Générale

(brief for Joffre) would never consent. Amiens was too close to the big

guns. I replied pertinently that I had made my application nearly a

month ago. Alas! it took so long for an application of that sort to

progress along the winding ways of Le Ministère de la Guerre. But, of

course, I must see something besides Meaux (I flatly refused to go to

Rouen), and if I would make out a list of other names they would do

their best to get me the necessary permission. I asked my companion to

make out the list, as she knew what base hospitals it would be best for

me to visit in the interests of the oeuvre. She dictated

Châlons-sur-Marne, Vitry, Révigny, and Bar-le-Duc. The last was the only

name with a quickening quality, as it is shelled by taubes every few

days. I added that on my own account I should like Verdun, Nancy, Rheims

and Thann. My new friend was most sympathetic and considerate. He would

do his best, but Verdun—an American lady! He feared the Grand Quartier

Générale would not take the responsibility. He was sure, however, he

could get me something much better than Meaux.

So I went off with my carnet rouge, that precious little red book

full of blank permits, only one of which is filled out at a time.

A French friend, Mme. Camille Lyon, went with me to Meaux. The

battlefield of the Marne is one of the most impressive sights in the

world. Imagine vast fields of waving grain broken irregularly, but with

pathetic frequency, by drooping and faded flags marking the graves of

the fallen. On the crosses below the flags there are no names, merely

figures, ranging from fifty to three and four hundred. A small trench

was dug and filled with bodies covered with quicklime, but, in spite of

haste, the mound, the cross, and the flag were not forgotten, and the

identification disks were carefully preserved.

There are also three or four cemeteries, one new, and filled only

with the identified dead—officers, of course; and older graveyards half

filled before the war. These, being surrounded by high walls, had been

used as intrenchments. There are rough holes on all sides, showing that

the little company had been surrounded by Germans, and had crouched,

firing their mitrailleuses through the sheltering walls. The church of

Barcy is a ruin and three or four of the houses, but considering that it

was under fire so many days, it is surprising there should be anything

left of it. The Mayor told us that he and his family and all of the

village people that did not run away had not left his cellar for six

days; and during that time the shells never ceased to shriek overhead.

“However,” he added philosophically, “it was not so bad as ‘70.”

A few days later I was summoned once more to the Ministère de la

Guerre, and my polite and charming friends told me that I was graciously

allowed to go to Châlons, Vitry, and Bar-le-Duc. As for the others,

well, perhaps later. Perhaps—also—when I was inside that Chinese wall

I might persuade some General to take me closer to the front. I sniffed

and grumbled, but received nothing further but sympathy. The particular

official to whom I was turned over for these interviews, and who is the

politest man I ever met, looked up the trains for me, calculated how

much money I had better take, was inspired (fortunately, as it turned

out) to write out a letter asking the military authorities of the zone I

was about to visit to show me every civility, and sent it to receive the

imposing stamp of le Ministère de la Guerre; and then assured me that he

would do his best to get a military automobile for a trip closer to the

lines.

As I am more susceptible to manners than to anything in the world

(I think that is one reason I hate the Germans so, theirs being the

worst in the world), I went away quite happy, and determined to make the

most of this trip. After all, something was sure to happen at

Bar-le-Duc, and Châlons had once been shelled by a long-range gun. I had

no yearning to come to close quarters with big guns, or even taubes, but

I did want to see and hear something after enjoying the comforts of

Paris for three months. During the first week of the battle of the Somme

I could hear the guns distinctly night and day, but otherwise, were it

not for the blind and legless men one meets constantly in the streets,

there would be no external evidence here of war.

I was obliged to go on this trip alone, but although I regretted

that my former charming companion could not accompany me, I reflected

that it did not much matter; the unique experience would suffice. The

great station—Gare de l’Est—was crowded with soldiers as usual. I have

now been on a number of trips outside of Paris and invariably these

stations are packed with men in uniform, all looking healthy and

contented. One passes, also, hundreds of military trains, out of whose

windows are hanging rows of soldiers in “horizon blue.” One wonders if

the whole front is not off on a vacation.

The soldiers travel second and third, the officers first. As my

carriage was full of officers, and the trip to Châlons lasted two hours,

I once more had time to observe at my leisure these men who hold the

destinies of France in their hands. Again I was struck by their height,

not one being under five feet ten, and many six feet and over. Some few

are lanky, weedy, but for the most part they are well knit and very

erect, the result not only of military training but of the outdoor

sports which for the last generation have been more in vogue than ever

among country gentlemen. In coloring they were fair rather than dark,

but seldom blond. They talked very little to one another, unless

standing out in the corridor. I was the only woman on the train, and no

doubt they took me for a spy and observed the warning printed at every

turn: “Taisez-vous. Méfiez-vous. Les oreilles enemies vous écoutent.”

They were all on their way to the front, and might not be alive on

the following day. They looked like men on their way to a week-end

party, and when they did not read magazines and novels went to sleep. It

struck me more forcibly than I have ever received any impression that

this was a race of men of strong nerves. In fact, I doubted if they had

any; certainly not at times when nerves were undesirable occupants. The

Frenchman has arranged his brain in watertight compartments. When he is

at the front or on the way to it he is a fighting machine, businesslike

and unemotional. During his six days’ leave he enjoys himself as

thoroughly as if war had never been; either in his family or otherwise.

Even the poilus, having exhausted their first joy of reunion, sit down

and examine their books, if they happen to be shopkeepers, or mend the

furniture, or plow the fields. I believe it was early in 1914 that some

German General said the war would be won by the stoutest nerves. After

two years of the hardest fighting the world has ever known, and the most

terrific strain ever put upon human endurance, the French have nerves of

pure steel. They are not a fat race, either, like the Germans, and do

their own thinking. What the matter was with Frenchmen in ‘70 is beside

the question. They are invincible to-day.

Châlons looked promising. There were cabs at the station, and a

tram. Having shown my carnet rouge, I was permitted to leave the dépôt,

and the officials stationed there to examine papers directed me to a

hotel with a resounding name: “Haute-Mère-Dieu.” This was situated in a

large square in which there was nothing to be seen but a line of gray

military automobiles and three or four cabs. The upper windows about the

square were all closed. The shops looked very quiet. It was a gray

scene, and the stillness was oppressive, sinister.

However, the hotel was not unattractive. As I entered the vaulted

passageway I saw that it was built about a court, and caught a glimpse

of a pleasant tearoom. Entering a door on the left, I found myself in

the office of the concièrge, and its chair was occupied by a girl of

about twenty-two who was reading a novel. If she had been an American

she would have been chewing gum. I asked her if I could have a room for

the night and she asked me if I had been to the Bureau de Place and

received permission to remain in the town. I could not have a room until

my carnet rouge had been stamped by this dignitary. Could I have a cup

of tea (it was 2:30 and I had missed lunch) and then leave my bag in the

office while I ascertained if I should graciously be permitted to remain

overnight, or be sent back to Paris? She yawned, nodded, touched a bell,

gave an order for tea, and returned to her novel.

I had a very good cup of tea and then went out and hired a cab by

the hour, as I had a letter to the Préfet from M. Joseph Reinach and

also wanted to see something of the town. At the Bureau de Place an

imposing official read my carnet rouge, looked at my picture and record

on the first page, and then turned to me with narrowed eyelids. I drew a

short breath and shifted from one foot to the other. Frenchmen have very

keen eyes and when they half close them you feel as if blinking aside a

knife-blade. If I had had a guilty secret during that trip into the war

zone I should have given it up. Indeed, so often did I encounter this

glance that I began to wonder uneasily if there were not something wrong

with me, if there were not depths of treachery in me that I so far had

not suspected, if I really had not in some moment of aberration

committed a wrong against France. Such is the power of suggestion, of

moving constantly in an atmosphere of suspicion. But I reminded myself

that I had heard a few days since that there was a price on my head in

Germany, and took courage.

“What had I come to the war zone for?” “To visit the base

hospitals.” “Ah?” “No, I was not a nurse. I was inspecting in behalf of

my oeuvre, Le Bienêtre du Blessé. I was also writing a book about the

women of France in war time.” “Ah!” Again that steel blade between

narrowed lids. I bethought me of the letter from the Minister of War.

The atmosphere cleared as by magic. My carnet rouge was stamped, and I

was bowed out not only with the politeness to which I was accustomed,

but with frank pleasant eyes, wide open, and some practical information

regarding the formalities of departure.

After I had called on the Préfet and driven about the gray, silent,

shuttered town, and seen practically no evidences of life but hundreds

of army wagons (there are trenches just outside of the town, but no

permit would take me there), I wondered what I was to do with myself

until the morrow. My object in stopping at Châlons was to make it a

headquarters from which I could visit the other towns, but this, I had

found, was impossible; I could go nowhere that day and return for the

night. It was only 3:30. I had no intention of visiting the hospitals at

Châlons, as there were two at Bar-le-Duc to which I had personal

letters. I told the coachman to drive to the shopping street, if there

was such a thing. He drove to a street in which there were a few shops.

In one I found a Dumas novel and bought it—“Le Collier de la Reine!”

Then I went back to the hotel and once more interviewed the young lady

at the desk. She was still reading the novel, but condescended to

inspect my carnet rouge and to give me her own permission to pass the

night in the hotel. I could not have a front room, however; they were

all taken by officers. She rang her bell, and a servant escorted me

across the court, which contained a stable under one side of the hotel,

and up a rickety staircase to a sombre room on the first floor. I

immediately inspected the bed—I had brought a bottle of turpentine—but

the maid announced with pride that the sheets were washed after every

guest and that the hotel was famous for its neatness. I asked her if the

natural color of the blanket was gray, and she nodded with a reassuring

smile. The linen certainly was clean, and, as a matter of fact, the

turpentine was supererogatory. However, I still harbor doubts about the

blankets.

What was I to do in this war town seventeen kilometers from the

soundless front (I had been told that when Verdun was thundering people

rocked in their beds)? It was too hot to walk and there was nothing more

to see. There was, indeed, no resource but the necklace of Marie

Antoinette.

The room was dark, with a window in one corner. I carried the least

uncomfortable chair to this window, and there, amid the silences of the

tomb and the aromas of the stable, I read a story of 1784. This was the

war zone which it took weeks of plotting and the most powerful

influences to reach.

However, there was still the morrow and Bar-le-Duc.

* * * * *

=HORRORS OF THE HOTEL LIFE IN THE WAR ZONE=

PARIS, August 8.

Looking from the windows of the train between Paris and Châlons, I had

seen little evidence of war beyond the rigid sentries with their upright

guns standing beside the track at intervals of two or three hundred

yards—two beside the bridges which have been rebuilt and are once more

of stone. But on the following day, after passing Vitry, the crosses

among the wheat became abundant, and between Révigny and Bar-le-Duc

there had evidently been no attempt to till the fields, which had a

curious burned look. This, I was afterward told, was due to the

poisonous gases and frequent bombardments. More than half of Révigny is

in ruins, and wrecks strew the way to the far more important town, which

is intact.

Once more the train, which had started at Paris and was bound for

Nancy, was crowded with officers and soldiers, but a great many

descended at Bar-le-Duc, no doubt to go by automobile to Verdun or by

branch lines to other points near the front. At all events, I left the

train with such a mass of blue uniforms that it was a long time before I

could reach the exit gate, and then, as I was the only stranger, I was

held up until a more important official could be found to inspect my

carnet rouge. As he was very amiable and passed me on promptly, I asked

him to tell me the name of the best hotel in Bar-le-Duc. He threw his

hands up. Mon Dieu! The best! There was a place called Hotel du

Commerce. But! Well, I had been told at Châlons that it was the “least

bad,” and started off with resignation. After all, one is not trained to

expect luxuries in the war zone, and the hotel at Châlons had been

endurable.

I emerged into the large open space behind the station. It was

filled with that curious surging mass of soldiers who in time come to

seem almost like “properties.” There were also two or three gray army

automobiles, but not a cab, not a tram, not a porter. I inquired if it

were possible to find a boy to carry my bag. No. Visitors were unusual.

Boys did not come down to the station in the hope of picking up a franc.

Where was the Hotel du Commerce? A vague sweep of the hand toward the

straggling gray distance. Fortunately, my bag was light, as one takes

the least possible on these incursions, but American women hate carrying

things, and I had also a book and a parasol. However, there was no

alternative and I started off, down a long, winding, dusty road without

trees—the thermometer was about 80, and it was half-past 12—toward the

town.

Like all French towns, it swept about itself in circles, coiled

upon itself, abruptly uncoiled and wandered off into nowhere. As far as

might be possible I kept straight ahead, every soldier of whom I asked

the way replying that he was a stranger also, and knew naught of the

Hotel du Commerce. Finally I met a short fat man in civilian clothes,

who interrupted himself—he was gesticulating violently to a friend who

had arrived on the train—and told me to turn into the long street just

above and keep on. It was a very long street and so many similar streets

branched out of it that it was difficult to know which was which. And it

was dull and dirty and gray and deserted, save for the strolling poilus.

Nevertheless, it had a character of its own! Every hundred yards or

so along the base of the houses I noticed a pile of sand bags and a

poster printed in heavy black letters and numbers: “Cave voutée, pour

100 (or 50) personnes.” It was very hot but my brains were not addled.

Bar-le-Duc is subject to frequent air raids and many have been killed by

the bombs, which do not bury themselves in the earth, by the way, but

explode as they touch and scatter death far and wide. These were the

famous stone cellars into which the population tumbles pêle-mêle the

moment the whistles shriek. I wondered if it would be my lot to spend a

few hours in one of those damp “caves” with a mass of sweltering

humanity. Almost I would brave the taube.

I must have walked fully a kilometer from that station, when,

asking once more to be directed to the Hotel du Commerce, I was told

that I stood before it. I looked up and saw faded letters confirming the

fact, and then along its lower front in search of a door. The only mode

of ingress, a large archway, apparently led to the rear. As I dislike

asking too many questions, I explored this vaulted passageway and came

upon a door at the side. I opened it without ceremony and found myself

in quite the dirtiest cashier’s office I have ever seen. ....

The girl was even more impertinent and indifferent than the one at

Châlons. As girls are now scarce in the war zone, no doubt the few left

become spoiled with too much attention. There was a dining room beyond,

and I determined to banish my midday hunger before entering upon further

adventures. There are two things that the French, no matter of what

degree, morals, manners, or disposition, invariably understand, and

those are politeness and formality. You gain nothing by sharpness or

hauteur; on the contrary, you stand to lose all. When Americans attempt

familiarity with strangers they receive contempt. Bearing this principle

in mind, one can never go wrong in France.

As the dining room beyond and, no doubt, the hotel itself, was

crowded with officers, there was a manifest intention on the young

woman’s part to treat me as if I did not exist. I, therefore, inquired

in my best manner if I could leave my things in the office and have

déjeûner. She nodded and I went into a long, low, crowded dining room,

which, had it not been for the uniforms, would have looked exactly like

a Western eating shed. There was a seat vacant at one of the longer

tables, to which I made my way unescorted. The entire company was waited

on by two boys of about 16. They looked distracted. The tablecloth was

soiled, but I was prepared to accept trifling variations upon ordinary

standards with equanimity. I secured the attention of one of the boys,

and, being left to my own devices for some time, my eyes, after

wandering up and down the room, fell once more upon the table. I made

another discovery. It was covered with flies. Large, torpid, viscous

flies. I had a vision of these flies rising in a dark cloud from the

battlefields of Verdun and traveling to Bar-le-Duc on top of the

hundreds of covered army wagons that go back and forth daily.

While I was digesting this horrid fact a plate of potatoes swimming

in oil was placed before me. I waved it away. Oil to me is more

abhorrent than milk. It was succeeded by a dish of tripe. I covered my

eyes and shuddered. C’est la guerre. Oh, yes. But—Mon Dieu!

I managed to make a spare meal of mutton that tasted as if killed

an hour before, and dry potatoes, but dared not touch the water, and

rose from that table in the least possible time, determined to

accomplish the object of my visit during the afternoon and return to

Paris that night. I did not even want to look at the upper rooms.

Turpentine I felt would avail not in this hotel, which looked a thousand

years old and resurrected from the dead.

I returned to the office. There was now an older woman there, and,

chastened by years and the rivalry of youth, she answered my questions

amiably. No, there was not a conveyance of any sort to be had in the

city. How, then, was I to find the Commissaire of Police and have my

carnet rouge viséd, how visit the hospitals, which were out of town? She

could not say. Then I bethought me once more of the letter given me by

the War Office. I would go straight to military headquarters and ask

them for an automobile. She vaguely directed me, and once more I started

forth, leaving my things in her charge. The woman had told me to turn to

the right. As I was leaving the girl called out that I must turn to the

left. I revolved with that helpless feeling one has occasionally in the

war zone, and they both began to talk at once, as is the habit of French

people of that class when giving advice. If they had been ten they would

all have talked at once and advised me differently.

I escaped to the street and, seeing a white-haired man standing in

front of a provision store, I went over and asked him to direct me. This

he not only did intelligently, but ran a block after me bare-headed to

tell me of a better turning. I walked quite half a mile and finally

reached a fine building situated in a park. I entered the grounds

without hindrance, but a soldier barred the way when I attempted to pass

under the arch that leads to the offices about the courtyard. He looked

amazed. I showed my carnet rouge. He drew his eyelids together and I

encountered the familiar steel. I was not to be overawed by a common

soldier, but to save time I showed the letter. He had been quite polite,

but now he relaxed his military mask and smiled. The entire staff was

out for lunch and I could not enter until their return, but if I would

graciously sit under the trees——.

It was cool under the trees and I was glad to rest. The soldier

sent me an encouraging smile occasionally and finally made a triumphant

signal indicating that the military nabobs were coming. A moment later

several imposing figures marched past. They were chatting amiably and I

was thankful that destiny had so arranged matters that I was to ask my

favors of them after lunch. I knew they had not déjeuned at the Hotel du

Commerce.

I was summoned to the presence immediately. They acted exactly as I

had anticipated, for they were Frenchmen, and gentlemen, and of

exceeding importance. Of course they read the letter at once; in fact, I

shoved it under their noses before they had time to say “How do you do?”

and when I asked for an automobile assented promptly.

“Will you give your man orders to get me back to the station for

the 5:20 train?” I asked. “I will not sleep in that hotel or eat another

meal there if I have to walk back to Paris.” They laughed

sympathetically and assured me that I should accomplish the object of my

visit in comfort and take my train. The chauffeur would take the best of

care of me.

So it proved. I visited both of the great hospitals, Savonières and

Hôpital Central, inside of an hour, for a military automobile goes like

lightning and turns aside for no one. The former hospital is situated in

a beautiful park some distance from Bar-le-Duc, and the greater one in a

cup of the hills, and looks like a new Western mining town. There are

some twenty or thirty barracks, two of concrete; but it is so

unmistakably a hospital and nothing else (in France) that a taube

recently had no difficulty in picking out the main building and dropping

a bomb in the operating room. It killed two men on the tables.

It is not my purpose to describe the hospitals here. I visited them

in behalf of Le Bienêtre du Blessé, and later, when writing more fully

of that oeuvre, shall describe these and other military hospitals which

receive the wounded straight from Verdun. There had been few during the

last two or three days, they told me, and the guns were still silent.

My amiable chauffeur then took me for a drive within the city

limits, and once more I saw a silent shuttered town. No doubt the

greater part of the population had been evacuated (military euphemism

for turned out), but I saw thousands of military wagons (camions) and a

signpost with an arrow painted on it and the words “à Verdun.” It

brought it pretty close, but I reflected that this was about as close as

I would get. As we approached the station I observed that the roof

looked as if it had been through a hurricane, and my driver nodded. Yes,

they dropped a bomb there every once and a while. They usually came

about 5 o’clock. It was now 3 and I had two hours and twenty minutes to

wait in that station.

However, it was easy to get out of, the sky was so blue and clear

that the taubes could be seen a long way off, and I certainly did not

propose to wait until 5:20 in that hotel. I had retrieved my belongings,

visited the police, and there was nothing to do but make myself as

comfortable as possible and read Dumas.

The station was already packed with soldiers waiting for various

trains. They move so constantly, these poilus, they produce an

impression of indescribable confusion. I have never seen them betray the

least excitement, any more than I have ever surprised an expression of

anxiety on their cheerful faces, but the repose of their officers is

unknown to them. Their bodies and their tongues never cease from

movement. I often wonder if they ever feel tired. They look as if they

could endure Verduns for the term of their natural lives.

There was a small first class waiting room and I took refuge in it.

An officer was asleep on a bench. Another was talking to his mother and

there were two other women in the room. Presently there entered a

drunken Algerian soldier. He was very drunk and he carried a gun almost

as tall as himself. As he was out of place in a ladies’ waiting room two

poilus entered and attempted to induce him to leave. He shouted defiance

and, lifting his gun, flung it to the floor with a crash. It made such a

noise that the soldiers without surged to the doorway. It is to our

credit that not one of the women jumped. He repeated this performance

four times, and we sat quite still and looked at him with curiosity.

If any one had told me a month earlier that I should sit unmoved

while a drunken soldier flung a loaded gun on the floor in front of

me—twice it pointed directly at me—I should have dismissed him as a

contemptible flatterer. But there is something about this military

area—well you simply experience no sensations at all. You are in the

zone of death. Human life has no value whatever. You, too, suddenly

become as callous as if inoculated.

He was led out, and I opened my book. But the room was very warm. I

asked the doorkeeper to let me wait for the train on the platform beside

the tracks. Of course he refused. Petty officials never deviate from

their cast-iron rules. However, he was a réformé, with one arm, and I

determined to take a base advantage of him. The next time he had

occasion to open the door I was behind him, and I walked out and seated

myself on a bench in the fresh air. “Now,” I said, “here I am, and here

I shall stay. What are you going to do to me?” For a moment he scowled

at me, then shrugged his shoulders and walked away. A few moments later

the other women followed my example, and we sat and talked, occasionally

glancing up through the shattered glass roof; particularly as the hour

of 5 approached.

One of the women, who looked like a farmer’s wife, judging by her

dress and the large basket she held on her lap, told me that she had

come from the south of France to the Hôpital Central just too late to

see her boy, who was dead of typhoid fever. Once or twice she looked as

if she were going to cry, but did not. The mothers of France are stoics

these days.

No taubes appeared, and I slept in Paris. The next day I took my

wrath to the War Office. I now have a promise of a military automobile

for a trip to Révigny, Nancy and Remiramont. No Rheims, no

Verdun—unless we can cajole some General within the lines. It is

astonishing the high value the French place upon the life of a mere

woman. James M. Beck visited Amiens on his way from England to Paris,

and within two days of his arrival went off on a tour of the immediate

front. The day after his return, off he went again with Owen Johnson, to

call on General Joffre. I reminded my friends in the War Office that men

were as easily killed as women, even American men. But they seem to

think that the explosion of an American woman, especially if she

happened to be “of a prominence,” would make too much noise in the world

to be agreeable. They have trouble enough on their hands.

* * * * *

=THE WAR ZONE BY AUTOMOBILE=

PARIS, August 18.

Once more I was summoned to the War Office, this time to be informed

that although they wanted me to feel satisfied and really see something

of the great drama, they would not take the responsibility of sending me

so far into the military zone unless I obtained the personal escort of

an American Army officer. And where, I demanded, was I to find an

American Army officer in Paris? They suggested the American Clearing

House.

I took my troubles to Mr. Beatty, through whose hands, expert and

generous, so many millions’ worth of donations have passed for the

benefit of afflicted France, and who seems to respond automatically to

the most unreasonable demand. For me he produced an American Army

officer six feet high, very imposing and distinguished, and the matter

was settled.

We started on the following Tuesday—Major C., Mme. Lyon, a

mechanician, and our driver, Monsieur G. B., whom I shall call the

Lieutenant to avoid confusion, although as a matter of fact, and to his

natural chagrin, there were no stripes on his sleeve. Refused for the

army on account of an accident to his shoulder in boyhood, which

prevented him from handling a gun properly, he had offered his services

as driver at the outbreak of the war. Like many others, he anticipated a

short war, or he would have gone as interpreter to the British Army (he

is an Oxford man); that way lies promotion, and for the driver there is

none. As he is a young man, wealthy, pampered, living his own life in

his own way up to August, 1914, he is now no doubt enjoying the novel

experience of hard and incessant work, constant danger and unremitting

discipline, with no hope of reward. It was our gain, for he was

altogether charming, and it was impossible to pity him, as, gay and

grim, he certainly was determined to do what he could do for his

country.

The Marquise d’Andigné (who was Miss Goddard of Providence), the

President of Le Bienêtre du Blessé, was to have been one of the party,

but as she was detained at the last minute I was asked to visit the

hospitals in her place and ascertain which had received supplies and

what each needed most. We started at 7:30 from Paris in admirable

weather.

Traveling by automobile in the war zone is far more complicated

than by train. Even in a gray military car, with two men in horizon blue

on the front seat, you are held up at the entrance and exit of every

town and hamlet, and often half way between, by the sudden appearance of

a sentinel in the middle of the road, holding his gun horizontally above

his head. He is accompanied by two others, who examine your papers, and

if they possess the average quick intelligence of their race they make

short work of it. If the first in authority happens to be slow,

conscientious, and suspicious, he will pore over the papers for five

minutes, and not infrequently disappear with them into his hut. Once

they held us up so long in the blazing sun that our Lieutenant, who was

not a patient mortal, poked his head into one of these tiny headquarters

and demanded what was the matter, while even Major C. had visions of

being turned back. They would give no answer until the Lieutenant made a

second invasion, and then they informed him that they could not

understand why the papers indicated four men and one woman in the party

and the automobile contained two women. Mme. Lyon’s first name is

Martin! Why they could not have come out and asked instead of wasting

their time and ours can only be explained by the fact that to a

Frenchman time is nothing.

All this, save for the heat, concerned me not at all. I had not a

second’s responsibility on this trip. Major C. and the Lieutenant

carried the papers, and although I am a feminist and admit no

inferiority to man except in the matter of physical prowess, personally,

when I have a man to take care of me, I am as meek as a lamb. He is

welcome to all the responsibility and all the work. I never worry him by

a suggestion. Our American officer in his khaki uniform, sitting like a

ramrod on one of the single seats of the tonneau, inspired both

curiosity and respect and spent a good part of his days returning

salutes.

Our adventures were almost too insignificant to mention. I, alas!

am a mascot. If I were taken to the front and given the hospitality of a

trench I am positive that the guns for some inscrutable reason would be

paralyzed. It has always been as if some mysterious force surrounded me,

permitting me to see all that is necessary for my work at a safe

distance, but saving even my nerves from shock. During the San Francisco

earthquake I was in Berkeley! It is very annoying. I should have liked

an adventurous life.

Nevertheless, the trip, which lasted four days, was more than

interesting. It was as unlike traversing the war zone by train as

possible. In the first place the roads, which I expected to see (and

feel) cut to pieces by the enormous amount of artillery and heavy

camions that have rumbled over them constantly during the last two

years, were in perfect condition. I don’t know when they work on these

roads, but while we were in the war zone there was but one short stretch

under repair, and they were as dusty as California roads in Summer time.

We must have passed during these four days no less than several thousand

of these covered army wagons, great and small, which convey to the front

every war commodity from soldiers to beef. I asked our Lieutenant how

many of these camions France possessed and he said that, although he had

never seen the amount stated, each was numbered and he had seen numbers

as high as 130,000. This, of course, included every sort of vehicle, and

we saw many kitchen wagons. The cooks, by the way, are among the heroes

of the war and perish in large numbers.

If I was forced to complain of an unnatural calm during my first

two visits into the war zone I had my fill of noise and incessant motion

on this trip. Aside from the gray lumbering camions in their clouds of

dust, there were, every few miles, “parcs” of artillery, the famous

seventy-fives, hundreds of them, either undergoing repairs or awaiting

demand. Of course, these parcs were filled with soldiers and their

officers, and, indeed, before the end of those four days, it seemed to

me that there must be as many men in the further precincts of the war

zone doing practically nothing as there were at the front.

In certain of the larger towns, which for obvious reasons must not

be named, the streets were so packed with soldiers that the car was

obliged to crawl. All of these men were frankly loafing. Some of them

were resting after the prescribed number of days in the trench, but as

many more had never been to the front at all. They were ordered into the

war zone that they might be on hand when needed, but meanwhile they were

amusing themselves as best they could, and the majority looked bored. In

one beautiful little town through which the Germans did not pass during

their retreat from the Marne, I saw a number of soldiers seated on the

banks of a stream fishing. Their only excitement they owe to the

frequent visits of the taubes, but whether they avail themselves of the

cellars hospitably marked “Cave Voutée,” I forgot to ask. Probably not.

Every estaminet, every restaurant and the “terrasse” before it with

the little round white tables, was crowded, as well as the twisted

streets and the frequent “place,” with these soldiers in their faded

blue, which, at a distance, seems to melt before your eyes. They hung

from the windows, they gossiped at the pump, they mused on the bridges,

and they were lined up in the fields just outside the towns, practicing

arm exercise, one, two, three, four. Officers also strolled about, three

and four in a party. Even in the villages, those old gray villages

consisting of one long crooked street, widening to a “place” in the

centre and embracing several “farms,” there were often many soldiers

home on leave, smoking in front of their houses or playing with their

children.

On the other hand, we passed through many more of these villages

without seeing a man. The women sat out of doors sewing, and the

children swarmed. It is the bourgeoisie which has reduced the birth rate

in France. The aristocracy and the poor have large families. Ever since

my arrival I have heard almost daily of working class families of

anywhere from five to sixteen children. In the great valleys through

which we passed these children played bareheaded, but in the Vosges,

where it rains most of the time, all the little boys wore military caps.

I also saw a large number of soldiers in the peaceful fields beside

the noisy roads, and was told they had been sent by the authorities to

help with the harvesting. I shall always be glad that I have seen “with

my own eyes” something of the immense number (and I saw but one small

section of the zone) of men that France still has at her disposal, and

has not yet been able to use. And, as I have said before, they are

nearly all big fellows. It is only the men of the south, of the Midi,

that are small, and by no means all of those.

An amusing story came from Bulgaria while I was in Paris, and was

sent by Joseph Reinach to Figaro. The Crown Prince of Germany invited

the two older sons of the Bulgarian King to visit his headquarters

before Verdun and be present at its downfall. The young men accepted the

invitation, remained a month, then, very much bored, excused themselves

and went home. “What impressed you the most?” their father asked. They

replied simultaneously: “The resistance of the French.”

The fields devoid of soldiers were a picturesque sight with the

women in blue print frocks and white sunbonnets. Old and young, they

were hard at work harvesting, and the children played among the stacks.

In some of the hotels where we stopped either overnight or for luncheon

we saw officers and their families, who had joined them here to save two

or more precious days of their short leave. And there was more than one

bride and bridegroom. Strange honeymoon, within sound of the guns that

promised a quick disunion. The faces of the older wives looked

philosophically happy, but those of the young women were drawn and pale.

Life was beginning in tragedy; and no doubt twenty years hence they will

be as torn with anxiety for their absent sons.

It was in a large and handsome hotel in Nancy (the less said about

the average hotel in the war zone the better) where we spent the first

night of our journey that I saw so many of these couples and reunited

families; as it was as admirably run as in times of peace, I should like

to give its name, but forbear lest it incur the just wrath of the enemy.

Nancy is little over five miles from the front, so that the roar of

the guns may be heard plainly. It is bombarded by cannons now and again,

but I missed one of these delicate attentions by two days. The “caves”

are indicated by the double cross of the House of Lorraine, for Taubes

are among the daily commonplaces in Nancy.