In Salonika, the American consul, the Standard Oil man, and the war
correspondents formed the American colony. The correspondents were
waiting to go to the front. Incidentally, as we waited, the front was
coming rapidly toward us. There was "Uncle" Jim, the veteran of many
wars, and of all the correspondents, in experience the oldest and in
spirit the youngest, and there was the Kid, and the Artist. The Kid
jeered at us, and proudly described himself as the only Boy Reporter
who jumped from a City Hall assignment to cover a European War. "I
don't know strategy," he would boast; "neither does the Man at Home.
He wants 'human interest' stuff, and I give him what he wants. I write
exclusively for the subway guard and the farmers in the wheat belt.
When you fellows write about the 'Situation,' they don't understand it.
Neither do you. Neither does Venizelos or the King. I don't
understand it myself. So, I write my people heart-to-heart talks about
refugees and wounded, and what kind of ploughs the Servian peasants
use, and that St. Paul wrote his letters to the Thessalonians from the
same hotel where I write mine; and I tell 'em to pronounce Salonika
'eeka,' and not put the accent on the 'on.' This morning at the
refugee camp I found all the little Servians of the Frothingham unit in
American Boy Scout uniforms. That's my meat. That's 'home week'
stuff. You fellows write for the editorial page; and nobody reads it.
I write for the man that turns first to Mutt and Jeff, and then looks
to see where they are running the new Charlie Chaplin release. When
that man has to choose between 'our military correspondent' and the
City Hall Reporter, he chooses me!"
The third man was John, "Our Special Artist." John could write a news
story, too, but it was the cartoons that had made him famous. They
were not comic page, but front page cartoons, and before making up
their minds what they thought, people waited to see what their Artist
thought. So, it was fortunate his thoughts were as brave and clean as
they were clever. He was the original Little Brother to the Poor. He
was always giving away money. When we caught him, he would prevaricate.
He would say the man was a college chum, that he had borrowed the money
from him, and that this was the first chance he had had to pay it back.
The Kid suggested it was strange that so many of his college chums
should at the same moment turn up, dead broke, in Salonika, and that
half of them should be women.
John smiled disarmingly. "It was a large college," he explained, "and
coeducational." There were other Americans; Red Cross doctors and
nurses just escaped through the snow from the Bulgars, and hyphenated
Americans who said they had taken out their first papers. They thought
hyphenated citizens were so popular with us, that we would pay their
passage to New York. In Salonika they were transients. They had no
local standing. They had no local lying-down place, either, or place
to eat, or to wash, although they did not look as though that worried
them, or place to change their clothes. Or clothes to change. It was
because we had clothes to change, and a hotel bedroom, instead of a
bench in a cafe, that we were ranked as residents and from the Greek
police held a "permission to sojourn." Our American colony was a very
close corporation. We were only six Americans against 300,000 British,
French, Greek, and Servian soldiers, and 120,000 civilian Turks,
Spanish Jews, Armenians, Persians, Egyptians, Albanians, and Arabs, and
some twenty more other races that are not listed. We had arrived in
Salonika before the rush, and at the Hotel Hermes on the water-front
had secured a vast room. The edge of the stone quay was not forty feet
from us, the only landing steps directly opposite our balcony.
Everybody who arrived on the Greek passenger boats from Naples or the
Piraeus, or who had shore leave from a man-of-war, transport, or
hospital ship, was raked by our cameras. There were four windows--one
for each of us and his work table. It was not easy to work. What was
the use? The pictures and stories outside the windows fascinated us,
but when we sketched them or wrote about them, they only proved us
inadequate. All day long the pinnaces, cutters, gigs, steam launches
shoved and bumped against the stone steps, marines came ashore for the
mail, stewards for fruit and fish, Red Cross nurses to shop, tiny
midshipmen to visit the movies, and the sailors and officers of the
Russian, French, British, Italian, and Greek war-ships to stretch their
legs in the park of the Tour Blanche, or to cramp them under a cafe
table. Sometimes the ambulances blocked the quay and the wounded and
frost-bitten were lifted into the motor-boats, and sometimes a squad of
marines lined the landing stage, and as a coffin under a French or
English flag was borne up the stone steps stood at salute. So crowded
was the harbor that the oars of the boatmen interlocked.
Close to the stone quay, stretched along the three-mile circle, were
the fishing smacks, beyond them, so near that the anchor chains fouled,
were the passenger ships with gigantic Greek flags painted on their
sides, and beyond them transports from Marseilles, Malta, and Suvla
Bay, black colliers, white hospital ships, burning green electric
lights, red-bellied tramps and freighters, and, hemming them in, the
grim, mouse-colored destroyers, submarines, cruisers, dreadnaughts. At
times, like a wall, the cold fog rose between us and the harbor, and
again the curtain would suddenly be ripped asunder, and the sun would
flash on the brass work of the fleet, on the white wings of the
aeroplanes, on the snow-draped shoulders of Mount Olympus. We often
speculated as to how in the early days the gods and goddesses, dressed
as they were, or as they were not, survived the snows of Mount Olympus.
Or was it only their resort for the summer?
It got about that we had a vast room to ourselves, where one might
obtain a drink, or a sofa for the night, or even money to cable for
money. So, we had many strange visitors, some half starved, half
frozen, with terrible tales of the Albanian trail, of the Austrian
prisoners fallen by the wayside, of the mountain passes heaped with
dead, of the doctors and nurses wading waist-high in snow-drifts and
for food killing the ponies. Some of our visitors wanted to get their
names in the American papers so that the folks at home would know they
were still alive, others wanted us to keep their names out of the
papers, hoping the police would think them dead; another, convinced it
was of pressing news value, desired us to advertise the fact that he
had invented a poisonous gas for use in the trenches. With difficulty
we prevented him from casting it adrift in our room. Or, he had for
sale a second-hand motor-cycle, or he would accept a position as
barkeeper, or for five francs would sell a state secret that, once made
public, in a month would end the war. It seemed cheap at the price.
Each of us had his "scouts" to bring him the bazaar rumor, the Turkish
bath rumor, the cafe rumor. Some of our scouts journeyed as far afield
as Monastir and Doiran, returning to drip snow on the floor, and to
tell us tales, one-half of which we refused to believe, and the other
half the censor refused to pass. With each other's visitors it was
etiquette not to interfere. It would have been like tapping a private
wire. When we found John sketching a giant stranger in a cap and coat
of wolf skin we did not seek to know if he were an Albanian brigand, or
a Servian prince incognito, and when a dark Levantine sat close to the
Kid, whispering, and the Kid banged on his typewriter, we did not
listen.
So, when I came in one afternoon and found a strange American youth
writing at John's table, and no one introduced us, I took it for
granted he had sold the Artist an "exclusive" story, and asked no
questions. But I could not help hearing what they said. Even though I
tried to drown their voices by beating on the Kid's typewriter. I was
taking my third lesson, and I had printed, "I Amm 5w writjng This,
5wjth my own lilly w?ite handS," when I heard the Kid saying:
"You can beat the game this way. Let John buy you a ticket to the
Piraeus. If you go from one Greek port to another you don't need a
vise. But, if you book from here to Italy, you must get a permit from
the Italian consul, and our consul, and the police. The plot is to get
out of the war zone, isn't it? Well, then, my dope is to get out quick,
and map the rest of your trip when you're safe in Athens."
It was no business of mine, but I had to look up. The stranger was now
pacing the floor. I noticed that while his face was almost black with
tan, his upper lip was quite white. I noticed also that he had his
hands in the pockets of one of John's blue serge suits, and that the
pink silk shirt he wore was one that once had belonged to the Kid.
Except for the pink shirt, in the appearance of the young man there was
nothing unusual. He was of a familiar type. He looked like a young
business man from our Middle West, matter-of-fact and unimaginative,
but capable and self-reliant. If he had had a fountain pen in his
upper waistcoat pocket, I would have guessed he was an insurance agent,
or the publicity man for a new automobile. John picked up his hat, and
said, "That's good advice. Give me your steamer ticket, Fred, and I'll
have them change it." He went out; but he did not ask Fred to go with
him.
Uncle Jim rose, and murmured something about the Cafe Roma, and tea.
But neither did he invite Fred to go with him. Instead, he told him to
make himself at home, and if he wanted anything the waiter would bring
it from the cafe downstairs. Then the Kid, as though he also was
uncomfortable at being left alone with us, hurried to the door. "Going
to get you a suit-case," he explained. "Back in five minutes."
The stranger made no answer. Probably he did not hear him. Not a
hundred feet from our windows three Greek steamers were huddled
together, and the eyes of the American were fixed on them. The one for
which John had gone to buy him a new ticket lay nearest. She was to
sail in two hours. Impatiently, in short quick steps, the stranger
paced the length of the room, but when he turned and so could see the
harbor, he walked slowly, devouring it with his eyes. For some time,
in silence, he repeated this manoeuvre; and then the complaints of the
typewriter disturbed him. He halted and observed my struggles. Under
his scornful eye, in my embarrassment I frequently hit the right
letter. "You a newspaper man, too?" he asked. I boasted I was, but
begged not to be judged by my typewriting.
"I got some great stories to write when I get back to God's country,"
he announced. "I was a reporter for two years in Kansas City before
the war, and now I'm going back to lecture and write. I got enough
material to keep me at work for five years. All kinds of
stuff--specials, fiction, stories, personal experiences, maybe a novel."
I regarded him with envy. For the correspondents in the greatest of
all wars the pickings had been meagre. "You are to be congratulated,"
I said. He brushed aside my congratulations. "For what?" he demanded.
"I didn't go after the stories; they came to me. The things I saw I
had to see. Couldn't get away from them. I've been with the British,
serving in the R. A. M. C. Been hospital steward, stretcher bearer,
ambulance driver. I've been sixteen months at the front, and all the
time on the firing-line. I was in the retreat from Mons, with French
on the Marne, at Ypres, all through the winter fighting along the
Canal, on the Gallipoli Peninsula, and, just lately, in Servia. I've
seen more of this war than any soldier. Because, sometimes, they give
the soldier a rest; they never give the medical corps a rest. The only
rest I got was when I was wounded."
He seemed no worse for his wounds, so again I tendered congratulations.
This time he accepted them. The recollection of the things he had
seen, things incredible, terrible, unique in human experience, had
stirred him. He talked on, not boastfully, but in a tone, rather, of
awe and disbelief, as though assuring himself that it was really he to
whom such things had happened.
"I don't believe there's any kind of fighting I haven't seen," he
declared; "hand-to-hand fighting with bayonets, grenades, gun butts.
I've seen 'em on their knees in the mud choking each other, beating
each other with their bare fists. I've seen every kind of airship,
bomb, shell, poison gas, every kind of wound. Seen whole villages
turned into a brickyard in twenty minutes; in Servia seen bodies of
women frozen to death, bodies of babies starved to death, seen men in
Belgium swinging from trees; along the Yzer for three months I saw the
bodies of men I'd known sticking out of the mud, or hung up on the barb
wire, with the crows picking them.
"I've seen some of the nerviest stunts that ever were pulled off in
history. I've seen real heroes. Time and time again I've seen a man
throw away his life for his officer, or for a chap he didn't know, just
as though it was a cigarette butt. I've seen the women nurses of our
corps steer a car into a village and yank out a wounded man while
shells were breaking under the wheels and the houses were pitching into
the streets." He stopped and laughed consciously.
"Understand," he warned me, "I'm not talking about myself, only of
things I've seen. The things I'm going to put in my book. It ought to
be a pretty good book-what?"
My envy had been washed clean in admiration.
"It will make a wonderful book," I agreed. "Are you going to syndicate
it first?"
Young Mr. Hamlin frowned importantly.
"I was thinking," he said, "of asking John for letters to the magazine
editors. So, they'll know I'm not faking, that I've really been
through it all. Letters from John would help a lot." Then he asked
anxiously: "They would, wouldn't they?"
I reassured him. Remembering the Kid's gibes at John and his numerous
dependents, I said: "You another college chum of John's?" The young man
answered my question quite seriously. "No," he said; "John graduated
before I entered; but we belong to the same fraternity. It was the
luckiest chance in the world my finding him here. There was a
month-old copy of the Balkan News blowing around camp, and his name was
in the list of arrivals. The moment I found he was in Salonika, I
asked for twelve hours leave, and came down in an ambulance. I made
straight for John; gave him the grip, and put it up to him to help me."
"I don't understand," I said. "I thought you were sailing on the
Adriaticus?"
The young man was again pacing the floor. He halted and faced the
harbor.
"You bet I'm sailing on the Adriaticus," he said. He looked out at
that vessel, at the Blue Peter flying from her foremast, and grinned.
"In just two hours!"
It was stupid of me, but I still was unenlightened. "But your twelve
hours' leave?" I asked.
The young man laughed. "They can take my twelve hours' leave," he said
deliberately, "and feed it to the chickens. I'm beating it."
"What d'you mean, you're beating it?"
"What do you suppose I mean?" he demanded. "What do you suppose I'm
doing out of uniform, what do you suppose I'm lying low in the room
for? So's I won't catch cold?"
"If you're leaving the army without a discharge, and without
permission," I said, "I suppose you know it's desertion."
Mr. Hamlin laughed easily. "It's not my army," he said. "I'm an
American."
"It's your desertion," I suggested.
The door opened and closed noiselessly, and Billy, entering, placed a
new travelling bag on the floor. He must have heard my last words, for
he looked inquiringly at each of us. But he did not speak and, walking
to the window, stood with his hands in his pockets, staring out at the
harbor. His presence seemed to encourage the young man. "Who knows
I'm deserting?" he demanded. "No one's ever seen me in Salonika
before, and in these 'cits' I can get on board all right. And then
they can't touch me. What do the folks at home care how I left the
British army? They'll be so darned glad to get me back alive that they
won't ask if I walked out or was kicked out. I should worry!"
"It's none of my business," I began, but I was interrupted. In his
restless pacings the young man turned quickly.
"As you say," he remarked icily, "it is none of your business. It's
none of your business whether I get shot as a deserter, or go home,
or--"
"You can go to the devil for all I care," I assured him. "I wasn't
considering you at all. I was only sorry that I'll never be able to
read your book."
For a moment Mr. Hamlin remained silent, then he burst forth with a
jeer.
"No British firing squad," he boasted, "will ever stand me up."
"Maybe not," I agreed, "but you will never write that book."
Again there was silence, and this time it was broken by the Kid. He
turned from the window and looked toward Hamlin. "That's right!" he
said.
He sat down on the edge of the table, and at the deserter pointed his
forefinger.
"Son," he said, "this war is some war. It's the biggest war in
history, and folks will be talking about nothing else for the next
ninety years; folks that never were nearer it than Bay City, Mich. But
you won't talk about it. And you've been all through it. You've been
to hell and back again. Compared with what you know about hell, Dante
is in the same class with Dr. Cook. But you won't be able to talk
about this war, or lecture, or write a book about it."
"I won't?" demanded Hamlin. "And why won't I?"
"Because of what you're doing now," said Billy. "Because you're
queering yourself. Now, you've got everything." The Kid was very much
in earnest. His tone was intimate, kind, and friendly. "You've seen
everything, done everything. We'd give our eye-teeth to see what
you've seen, and to write the things you can write. You've got a
record now that'll last you until you're dead, and your grandchildren
are dead-and then some. When you talk the table will have to sit up
and listen. You can say 'I was there.' 'I was in it.' 'I saw.' 'I
know.' When this war is over you'll have everything out of it that's
worth getting-all the experiences, all the inside knowledge, all the
'nosebag' news; you'll have wounds, honors, medals, money, reputation.
And you're throwing all that away!"
Mr. Hamlin interrupted savagely.
"To hell with their medals," he said. "They can take their medals and
hang 'em on Christmas trees. I don't owe the British army anything.
It owes me. I've done my bit. I've earned what I've got, and there's
no one can take it away from me."
"You can," said the Kid. Before Hamlin could reply the door opened and
John came in, followed by Uncle Jim. The older man was looking very
grave, and John very unhappy. Hamlin turned quickly to John.
"I thought these men were friends of yours," he began, "and Americans.
They're fine Americans. They're as full of human kindness and red
blood as a kippered herring!"
John looked inquiringly at the Kid.
"He wants to hang himself," explained Billy, "and because we tried to
cut him down, he's sore."
"They talked to me," protested Hamlin, "as though I was a yellow dog.
As though I was a quitter. I'm no quitter! But, if I'm ready to quit,
who's got a better right? I'm not an Englishman, but there are several
million Englishmen haven't done as much for England in this was as I
have. What do you fellows know about it? You write about it, about the
'brave lads in the trenches'; but what do you know about the trenches?
What you've seen from automobiles. That's all. That's where you get
off! I've lived in the trenches for fifteen months, froze in 'em,
starved in 'em, risked my life in 'em, and I've saved other lives, too,
by hauling men out of the trenches. And that's no airy persiflage,
either!"
He ran to the wardrobe where John's clothes hung, and from the bottom
of it dragged a khaki uniform. It was still so caked with mud and snow
that when he flung it on the floor it splashed like a wet bathing suit.
"How would you like to wear one of those?" he Demanded. "Stinking with
lice and sweat and blood; the blood of other men, the men you've helped
off the field, and your own blood."
As though committing hara-kiri, he slashed his hand across his stomach,
and then drew it up from his waist to his chin. "I'm scraped with
shrapnel from there to there," said Mr. Hamlin. "And another time I got
a ball in the shoulder. That would have been a 'blighty' for a
fighting man--they're always giving them leave--but all I got was six
weeks at Havre in hospital. Then it was the Dardanelles, and sunstroke
and sand; sleeping in sand, eating sand, sand in your boots, sand in
your teeth; hiding in holes in the sand like a dirty prairie dog. And
then, 'Off to Servia!' And the next act opens in the snow and the mud!
Cold? God, how cold it was! And most of us in sun helmets."
As though the cold still gnawed at his bones, he shivered.
"It isn't the danger," he protested. "It isn't that I'm getting away
from. To hell with the danger! It's just the plain discomfort of it!
It's the never being your own master, never being clean, never being
warm." Again he shivered and rubbed one hand against the other.
"There were no bridges over the streams," he went on, "and we had to
break the ice and wade in, and then sleep in the open with the khaki
frozen to us. There was no firewood; not enough to warm a pot of tea.
There were no wounded; all our casualties were frost bite and
Pneumonia. When we take them out of the blankets their toes fall off.
We've been in camp for a month now near Doiran, and it's worse there
than on the march. It's a frozen swamp. You can't sleep for the cold;
can't eat; the only ration we get is bully beef, and our insides are
frozen so damn tight we can't digest it. The cold gets into your
blood, gets into your brains. It won't let you think; or else, you
think crazy things. It makes you afraid." He shook himself like a man
coming out of a bad dream.
"So, I'm through," he said. In turn he scowled at each of us, as
though defying us to contradict him. "That's why I'm quitting," he
added. "Because I've done my bit. Because I'm damn well fed up on
it." He kicked viciously at the water-logged uniform on the floor.
"Any one who wants my job can have it!" He walked to the window,
turned his back on us, and fixed his eyes hungrily on the Adriaticus.
There was a long pause. For guidance we looked at John, but he was
staring down at the desk blotter, scratching on it marks that he did
not see.
Finally, where angels feared to tread, the Kid rushed in. "That's
certainly a hard luck story," he said; "but," he added cheerfully,
"it's nothing to the hard luck you'll strike when you can't tell why
you left the army." Hamlin turned with an exclamation, but Billy held
up his hand. "Now wait," he begged, "we haven't time to get mussy. At
six o'clock your leave is up, and the troop train starts back to camp,
and--"