By Wythe Williams.
[Special Cable to THE NEW YORK TIMES.]
_Paris, June 1._--I have just completed another trip to the front,
probably the most important one accorded any correspondent since the
war began. For several days, in the company of three Paris editors, I
was escorted by an officer of the General Staff through the entire
sector north of Arras where the French have been making brilliant
gains in the last few weeks.
The trip was arranged suddenly by the War Ministry in order to prove
the truth of the French official communiqués and the falsity of the
German reports. I was the only neutral in the party. In fact, the day
before we started I was informed that trips to the front had
temporarily been abandoned because the fighting was too hot to take
correspondents to any place on the line. During the entire time I was
under heavy artillery fire and got more intimately acquainted with
modern war than on all my previous trips to the front. I was
especially fortunate to be picked out by the War Office over all
competitors as the single foreigner permitted to go, for it so
happened that we covered the same sector of fighting as that traversed
last February on my first officially authorized visit to the battle
zone. Thus I was able to make comprehensive comparisons of just what
had been accomplished since that time.
On this trip I covered a large stretch of territory that until a few
weeks ago--some places only a few days ago--Germany had claimed as her
own by right of conquest. I walked through miles of trenches that only
last February I peered at from other trenches through a periscope;
cautiously, because they were then occupied by Germans; fearfully,
because any instant the periscope was likely to be struck from my eyes
and shattered by a hostile bullet.
The result of this long walk taught me many things. First in
importance was that my confidence in the superiority of German
trenches had been sadly misplaced. Since the trench fighting began
after the battle of the Marne we have been regaled in Paris with
stories of the marvelous German trenches. Humorists went so far as to
have them installed with baths and electric lights, but we have all
believed them to be dry, cement lined, with weather-proof tops and
comfortable sleeping quarters, and as hygienically perfect as the
German organization has ever made anything. This belief for me had
been borne out in accounts of the German trench life reported for
American newspapers and magazines.
What I can now say is that the correspondents who permitted this
legend to go over the world must have been grandly entertained by the
Germans in special sections of their trenches set aside as quarters
for the officers. I believe that these trenches, which I saw on this
trip, must compare favorably with any they hold, for they form part of
what is called "the labyrinth." Some of the most desperate fighting of
the war is still going on there, with the French literally blasting
the Germans out yard by yard, trench by trench. In fact, this trench
line was to have formed part of the new boundary line of Germany--they
dug themselves in to stay.
I entered these trenches following a long passage leading from the
rear of the original French lines. I thought I was still in the French
trenches, when suddenly I found myself in a mud ditch, much narrower
than any I had ever traversed. The bottom, instead of being corduroy
lined, was rough and uneven, making very hard walking. I said to the
Major with me, "You must have made these trenches in a hurry; they are
not so good as your others." He replied, "We did not make them. The
Germans are responsible."
Then we came to a wide place where a sign announced the headquarters
of the German commandant. The sides of his underground cavern were all
solid concrete, with cement inner walls separating four rooms. Paper
and artistic burlaping covered the walls and ceilings, and rugs were
on the floors. The furniture was all that could be desired. There was
a good iron bed, an excellent mattress, a dresser with a pier glass,
and solid tables and chairs. The rooms consisted of an office, dining
room, bedroom, and a kitchen, with offshoots for wine, and sleeping
quarters for the orderlies and cook. Kultur demanded that the Kaiser's
office should have the best accommodation transportable to the firing
line, but the fare of the common soldier, I should judge, averaged
quite a third below that of the French--both privates and officers,
all of whom share the common lot, with straw for bedding and either
mud or stars for the roof.
Leaving this commandant's late magnificence, we soon found ourselves
in another wide, corduroy-lined trench, with straw dugouts. My Major,
without attempting any comparison, but merely to get my geography
right, said quite simply: "We are now in the parallel French trench to
that German one we just visited."
All this particular bit of trenches was where the Germans cleared out
precipitately after French night attacks, and without waiting for the
fearful "rideau de fer," or iron curtain, with which the French
usually devastate everything before advancing. Littered through them
were hundreds of unused cartridges, rifles, knapsacks, bayonets, and
clothing of every description. The dead had been taken away just
before our arrival. The prisoners--hundreds of them--we met going to
the rear.
The second great lesson I learned on this trip I already had a good
understanding of from my previous trip. It is that the "rideau de fer"
is the most terrible thing ever devised by man to devastate not only
men but every single object upon which it descends.
This time I saw the results of the "rideau de fer" on another long
stretch of what had lately been German trenches. The "rideau de fer"
is simply the French method of converging artillery fire upon a single
point where they intend to attack or where they are being attacked.
The fact that it is possible is due to the enormous number of guns and
the unlimited supply of high explosive shells.
Behind the entire infantry lines there seems to be an endless row of
batteries of "seventy-fives," close up to the trenches. These terrible
little destroyers can whirl in any direction at will, so when the
order comes for the "rideau de fer" at any point, literally hundreds
of guns within a few seconds are converging their fire there, dropping
a metal curtain through which no mortal enemy can advance.
In this section the French dropped nearly a quarter of a million
shells in one day. Unlike the English shrapnel, which makes little
impression against earthworks, the French use explosive shells almost
entirely.
As I walked over this section after the curtain had been lifted, I was
absolutely baffled for descriptive words. All the earth in that
vicinity seemed battered out of shape. The dead needed no burial
there. Down under the wreck and ruin the dead all lie covered just
where they fell.
Among the places I either visited or at least was able to see plainly,
all of which were held by the Germans at the time of my last trip,
were Saint Eloi, Carrency, Notre Dame de Lorette, Souchez, and
Neuville Saint Vaast, where the fighting still continues from house to
house.
I found the same efficient, imperturbable army that I discovered
previously, all absolutely sure of complete victory not very far off.
I got an illustration on this trip of the imperturbability of the
French soldier in such a way as I never before believed existed. We
were walking along a country lane to a turning where a trench boyau
began. Just at the turning the nose of a "seventy-five" poked across
the path. Although the gun was speaking at its high record of twenty
shots per minute, several soldiers lolled idly about within a few
yards, smoking cigarettes. We stood off at an angle slightly in front,
but about thirty yards away.
It was evening. We could see the spurt of flame from the mouth of the
gun as the shell departed to the distant Germans.
Across the road in the direction the gun pointed was a field. There,
almost in the path of the gun, which, instead of being raised at an
angle, was pointed horizontally, and only fifteen yards away, I saw a
man grubbing in the soil. He seemed so directly in the path of the
shells that I don't believe they missed blowing off his head by more
than two feet. But he just grubbed away, almost on his hands and
knees. If the gunners saw him they paid not the slightest attention,
but just calmly went on firing.
One of our party called the situation to the attention of an officer,
who immediately began dancing up and down, calling to the man to "Come
out of that before you are killed."
The man then raised his head and looked our way. He was a soldier. His
cap was slanted over one eye, his pipe dangled from his mouth, and his
face wore an expression of irritation. Seeing the officer, he saluted,
but did not trouble to stand up.
"What are you doing there?" the officer called. The man raised his
dirty fist to his cap, and said, "Digging carrots."
As we gasped our astonishment he calmly went back to his grubbing,
this time, it seemed, slightly nearer to the flash of the cannon than
before.
Another impressive sight afforded me was the manoeuvres behind the
lines. I do not mean strategic manoeuvres bearing upon real
operations, but manoeuvres such as were held in previous years--mimic
warfare within the sound of real war and only a couple of miles away.
Approaching the front, we were continually passing through these
manoeuvres. I calculated that I saw thousands of soldiers playing at
war and snapping empty rifles who the day before stood in the trenches
firing bullets, and who will do it again tomorrow. The manoeuvres come
during "days of repose" from the trenches, when the men know they at
least have that day more to live. Every field, every road was full of
them.
We motored along country lanes preferably to the main highways, where
our autos would be more easily discerned by the German aeroplanes
constantly hovering about. In these lanes we found lines of men
sneaking along, sometimes crawling inch by inch, to surprise an
imaginary enemy down around the bend. In the fields we saw charges and
counter-charges from trench to trench. We saw cavalry manoeuvres
across the open country and cavalry on foot facing each other in long
lines along the roadsides, fighting desperately with lance and clubbed
carbine.
Occasionally a real shell would come popping over from somewhere to
tear a hole in the roadside to make our automobiling more difficult.
In fact, we discovered that during "Joffre's offensive" days of repose
mean drill, drill, and more drill, and when the men are not drilling
many of them are guarding prisoners.
Along other roadsides we saw hundreds of prisoners, usually in charge
of a cavalry company marching them to the rear. At one place we
stopped and talked with them--several could speak French. There were
many well set up, fine-looking fellows, who seemed perfectly content
to do no more fighting. About a dozen under one guard were across the
road in a meadow, tossing a tennis ball about, laughing and joking.
Others were eating luncheon. It was just 1 o'clock. They had the same
fare as their captors, the only difference in service being that the
captors got theirs first.
Our officer talked to the Captain of the guard, who explained that his
lot of about 400 had just been taken at Neuville Saint Vaast. Our
officers then talked to the prisoners. I was surprised to note the
extraordinary decency of their attitude and conversation. There was no
boasting, no arrogance, no animosity. On the contrary, I heard one
Captain telling the prisoners considerable they apparently did not
know about the progress of the fighting in that neighborhood. He
smiled as he talked, and concluded by telling the men they would be
well fed and well treated.
I also noted the attitude of the prisoners. As a French officer
approached the German soldier, true to his years of iron discipline,
leaped to his feet and stood rigid as a poker through the talk, but
never the raising of a hand to cap, never the salute to the Frenchman.
I strolled down the road and found another with whom I was able to
talk. He was a non-commissioned officer, young and very intelligent. I
told him I was an American, which aroused his interest. He wanted to
talk about America. He had friends there. I asked him:
"How long do you think Germany can hold out against so many enemies?"
He stood very straight, looked me directly in the eye, and said:
"Germany knows she is beaten, but she will fight to the last
cartridge."
He spoke French. His final words, "La derniere cartouche," rang out.
His eyes flashed. Several others crowded about.
Just then a company of Spahis cavalry came clattering down the road--a
more ferocious-looking lot I have never seen--and disappeared in a
cloud of dust. All of us turned to look, the prisoner remarking: "I'll
say one thing, though: we never thought we would have to fight men
like those."
Coming from the trenches at night, we waited in a little hamlet about
a kilometer in the rear for our automobiles. About 1,000 soldiers were
there, waiting to return to the trenches in the morning. They
completely surrounded us, singling me out for observation on account
of my khaki clothes. I heard one ask our Captain about me. The
Captain replied that I was a correspondent of THE NEW YORK TIMES.
Many had never seen an American before. I was conscious that I was an
object of intense curiosity.
I saw one little chap pushing through the crowd. He stood before me
and thrust out his hand. "Hello!" he said. I thought his "Hello!"
might be French quite as easily as American, so I merely returned his
handshake. He grinned, and then said in perfectly good "American":
"You forget me, huh?" I admitted my shortcoming in memory; but his
beard was very thick and stubby and his uniform was very dirty. I
complimented his linguistic ability. He waved his arms, saying: "Huh,
didn't I live eight years in little old New York?" Then he came still
nearer, saying: "You don't remember me, and I have served you many a
cocktail. I don't know your name; but I am sure."