I.

GERMAN GREAT HEADQUARTERS IN FRANCE, Dec. 1.--There is a certain

monotony about the "scientific murder" of the firing line--a routine

repetition of artillery duels, alarums, and excursions which can be (and

are being) vividly described by "war correspondents" from the safe

vantage ground of comfortable cafés miles away. The real human interest

end of this ultra-modern war is to be gleaned from rambling around the

operating zone in a thoroughly irresponsible American manner, trusting

in Providence and the red American eagle sealed on your emergency

passport and a letter from Charles Lesimple, the genial Consul at

Cologne, to keep you from being shot.

For instance, you get some interesting first-hand knowledge as to how

spies can "get away with it," in spite of the perfect German military

system of controls and passes. There is no "spy hysteria" in Germany as

there apparently is in England, judging from the London papers, but none

the less the German authorities know perfectly well that there are

swarms of spies in their midst and are hunting them down with quiet,

typically Teutonic thoroughness.

But the very perfection of the German military machine is its weak spot,

and on this, my second visit to the German Great Headquarters, I was

able to give the astonished authorities a personal demonstration as to

how any smooth-tongued stranger could turn up at even this "holy of

holies." The nocturnal trail led in a military train from Luxemburg over

Longwy to Longuyon, where at 3 o'clock in the morning I met an old

reader of THE NEW YORK TIMES, Herman Herzberger, a wealthy glove leather

manufacturer of Berlin, well known to the trade in New York and

Gloversville.

"What a coincidence," Mr. Herzberger remarked in good American. "I am

going to the front with my wife to see my 18-year-old son, who is in a

hospital at Vonziers. My son, who was in the high school, enlisted as a

volunteer, with practically the whole school, at the outbreak of the

war."

With "constant reader," I boarded a troop transport at Longuyon and

crawled on through the night to the front. It was a reserve battalion of

a Prussian infantry regiment of the line, and a little research work

produced the interesting discovery that it was composed of men who had

been wounded, were recovered, and going back for the second time. They

were delighted to have an American in their midst, and promptly made me

an honorary member. They had no idea where they were going, but eagerly

hoped "they would be back in the trenches by evening."

"Many of us," said a Sergeant, "did not need to come back because owing

to having received serious wounds the first time we were excused from

further military service--but they all came back none the less. Here's

one man who had nine wounds, from bullets and shell splinters, and this

one was shot through the lungs, but you're all right again, aren't you?

and this one is going back, although he has a wife and six children at

home."

It was an interesting revelation as to the morale of the German

reinforcements.

At 9 o'clock in the morning the troop transport stopped for refreshments

at the French village of X, and here a funny phenomenon was witnessed.

From all sides the shrewd inhabitants of the village came running,

scores of them, with bottles of wine. The laughing German soldiers got

out and, negotiating over a picket fence, returned with the refreshments

while the inhabitants made off with German coin. I saw bottles of

champagne change hands here for the sum of 25 cents. In spite of the

cheapness of wine, however, the German soldier is well disciplined and

does not "go the limit"; I have never seen an intoxicated specimen

afield.

One of the soldiers told the following story to illustrate the iron

discipline enforced in the Kaiser's army in the case of the inevitable

black sheep: "A Frenchwoman, who kept a small tavern, came to our

commandant and complained because a Bavarian soldier had wantonly turned

the spigot and allowed a whole cask of red wine to run out on the

ground. After an investigation the offender was found guilty and for

punishment tied to a tree for two hours. To be tied fast by your head

and legs is the most dreaded punishment, because you are disgraced

before all your comrades."

From X I started out on a foot tour, and entered the Grosses

Hauptquartier (Great Headquarters) unchallenged, by the back door.

Journalistically it was disappointing at first, for it was Sunday

morning, and apparently Prussian militarism keeps the Sabbath holy.

There was no interviewing the Kaiser, for he had gone "way down East"

and with him his War Minister, Gen. von Falkenhayn. The courteous

commandant, Col. von Hahnke, was not on the job. Even the brilliant

chief of the press division, Major Nikolai, was out of town when I

called on the Great General Staff.

But there were compensations, for at a turn of the road I saw a more

impressive sight than even the motoring Kaiser--a mile of German

cavalry coming down the straight chaussé, gray horsemen as far as the

eye could see and more constantly coming over the brow of the distant

hill, with batteries of field artillery sandwiched between, while on the

railroad track, paralleling the highway, infantry and heavy artillery

troop trains crawled past in endless succession, as closely together as

subway trains during the rush hour at home. An allied aeroplane,

hovering overhead, would have learned something to its advantage.

I had innocently blundered into one of the most important troop

movements of the war, but how many and where they were coming from or

where they were going to I pledged myself not to disclose. The

inevitable company of cyclists rode at the head of the long column that

was still passing when I went to bed. Next came an imposing staff--then

a mounted band blaring away, then a crack guard cavalry regiment, proud

standard flying, then cavalry less élite, here and there a palefaced

spectacled trooper who looked like a converted theological student.

Whole regiments came riding down the pike singing "The Red, White, and

Black" in unison--a stirring, marching song, which for patriotic fervor

and fighting spirit "puts it all over" the British "It's a Long Way from

Tipperary."

It was a Roman holiday for the French inhabitants of the town of ----,

who lined the roads en masse quivering with suppressed emotion and

happiness, thinking they were eyewitnessing a great German retreat. "Our

French soldiers will soon be here again," they whispered to one another.

But it wasn't a retreat--it was one of those mysterious strategic shifts

you read about in the papers without really realizing what it means till

you see it--great masses being rushed from one battlefield to another on

the long line.

For weeks these same regiments had been daily "decimated," "cut to

pieces," and otherwise badly mauled by English war correspondents, but

you would never have suspected it. Bearded dragoons and Uhlans were

still able to sit up and smoke big Hamburg cigars as they rode along,

the horses looked fresh, the guns of the batteries were spick and span,

the men seemed to have "morale" to spare; they looked as if they were

just going for the first time--and not coming from the scrimmage.

By way of digression and as illustrating the military "discipline" on

which the Germans pride themselves so, the following whimsical interlude

took place in front of the sacred portals of the Great German Staff: A

famous German professor of philosophy, adorned in civil life with the

high title of Privy Councilor, 65 years old, white-haired,

white-bearded, and with big yellow horn-rimmed spectacles, incongruously

wearing the field gray uniform whose collar and shoulder straps

indicated that he was an unterofficier of the reserve regiment of a

German university town well known to Americans, was waiting patiently

outside of the guarded gate in company with a young Feldwebel (a

non-commissioned officer of higher rank.) The old philosophy professor

had enlisted with practically his whole class at the outbreak of the

war, but on account of his age was not sent to the front with them at

the time, but finally was allowed to go with a transport of four

automobile loads of gifts and supplies for the regiment. He and the

Feldwebel had to hang around outside while the Lieutenant in charge went

inside to do the talking in the Great General Staff Building. Presently

the old philosophy professor ransacked his pockets, produced an apple,

clicked his heels together in regulation fashion and, saluting his young

superior, (infinitely inferior in the civil social scale,) said: "Am I

permitted to offer you an apple, Herr Feldwebel?"

His ranking superior acknowledged the gift with curt military punctilio,

then added respectfully, "I thank you, Herr Privy Councilor."

In the afternoon a forced march of two miles brought me to the handsome

villa occupied by the foreign military attachés, where Major Langhorne,

the American expert, was again found in good health and spirits, and

particularly happy because in a couple of days he was again to see some

real fighting. The Great General Staff continues to give our military

attaché every possible opportunity to see things for himself and give

Uncle Sam the benefit of the military lessons to be learned from the big

scrap, no matter which way it goes.

Today I again dropped in on the Great General Staff and found it not

only at home, but very much interested on discovering that I had no pass

to come or go or be there at that time. The wartime mind of Prussian

militarism is keen and right to the point. It saw not the chance of

getting publicity in America, but the certainty that other more

dangerous spies could come through the same way. By all the rules of the

war game, Prussian militarism would have been thoroughly justified in

treating me as a common spy in possession of vital military secrets, but

it courteously contented itself in insisting on plucking out the heart

of the journalistic mystery. All attempts at evasion and humor were

vain--here was the ruthless reality of war. It was the mailed Prussian

eagle against the bluff American bird of the same species, and the

unequal contest was soon ended when Major Nikolai, Chief of Division

III. of the Great General Staff, stood up very straight and dignified

and said: "I am a German officer. What German violated his duty? I ask

you as a man of honor, how was it possible for you to come here?"

The answer was quite simple: "The German military machine was so perfect

that it covered every contingency except the most obvious and guarded

every road except the easiest way. All you have to do is to take a

passenger train to Luxemburg, and hang around the platform until the

next military train pulls out for Belgium or France, hop aboard, and

keep on going. In case of doubt utter the magic phrase, 'I am an

American,' and flash the open sesame, the red seal of the United States

of America--to which bearded Landsturm guards pay the tribute of

regarding it as equally authoritative as the purple Prussian eagle

stamped on a military pass."

Followed a two-hour dialogue in the private office of the chief of the

Kaiser's secret field police, as a result of which future historians

will find in the Kaiser's secret archives the following unique document,

couched in Berlin "detectivese" and signed and subscribed to by THE

TIMES correspondent:

Secret Field Police, Great Headquarters, Dec. 1, 1914.

There appears the American war correspondent, and at the

particular request of the authorities, explains:

On Saturday, Nov. 30, I arrived at Trier on a second-class

ticket at about 10:30 P.M. There I bought a third-class ticket

and boarded a train leaving about 11:10 P.M. and reached

Luxemburg at about 12:15 A.M. I did not go into the railroad

station, but, trusting to my papers, boarded a military train

leaving at 12:45 A.M., going over Longwy to Longuyon, where I

arrived at 3:30 A.M., Sunday. There an official whose name I

do not know took me to a troop train and made a place for me

in the brake box. I left the train at X and went on foot to H

(the Great Headquarters,) where I reported myself to the Chief

of Police.

I recommend that a sharper control be exercised on the station

platform at Luxemburg, as it is a simple matter to avoid the

only control which is at the ticket gate, by simply not going

out and therefore not having to come in.

The lot of the professional spy will be harder in the future. Meanwhile,

I expect to shake the dust of the German Great Headquarters from my

reportorial feet early tomorrow morning, for pedestrianism is not a safe

pastime in the war zone.