the emotional, histrionic, Lafayette appreciation with which the
American troops sailed from America, but an appreciation based on
sympathy and a knowledge of deeds and character. I think this spirit
was best illustrated at Christmas when all over France, wherever
American troops were billeted, the rank and file put their hands deep
into their pockets to give the refugee children of their district the
first real Christmas they had had since their country was invaded.
Officers were selected to go to Paris to do the purchasing of the
presents, and I know of at least one case in which the men's gift was
so generous that there was enough money left over to provide for the
children throughout the coming year.
In France one hears none of that patronising criticism which used
to exist in America with regard to the older nations--none of those
arrogant assertions that "because we are younger we can do things
better." The bias of the American in France is all the other way; he
is near enough to the Judgment Day, which he is shortly to experience,
to be reverent in the presence of those who have stood its test. He is
in France to learn as well as to contribute. Between himself and his
brother soldiers of the British and French armies, there exists an
entirely manly and reciprocal respect. And it is reciprocal; both the
individual British and French fighting-man, now that they have seen
the American soldier, are clamorous to have him adjacent to their
line. The American has scarcely been blooded at this moment, and yet,
having seen him, they are both certain that he's not the pal to let
them down.
The confidence that the American soldier has created among his
soldier-Allies was best expressed to me by a British officer: "The
British, French and Americans are the three great promise-keeping
nations. For the first time in history we're standing together.
We're promise-keepers banded together against the falsehood of
Germany--that's why. It isn't likely that we shall start to tell lies
to one another."
Not likely!
III
THE WAR OF COMPASSION
Officially America declared war on Germany in the spring of 1917;
actually she committed her heart to the allied cause in September,
1914, when the first shipment of the supplies of mercy arrived in
Paris from the American Red Cross.
There are two ways of waging war: you can fight with artillery and
armed men; you can fight with ambulances and bandages. There's the war
of destruction and the war of compassion. The one defeats the enemy
directly with force; the other defeats him indirectly by maintaining
the morale of the men who are fighting and, what is equally important,
of the civilians behind the lines. Belgium would not be the utterly
defiant and unconquered nation that she is to-day, had it not been for
the mercy of Hoover and his disciples. Their voluntary presence
made the captured Belgian feel that he was earning the thanks of all
time--that the eyes of the world were upon him. They were neutrals,
but their mere presence condemned the cause that had brought them
there. Their compassion waged war against the Hun. The same is true of
the American Ambulance Units which followed the French Armies into the
fiercest of the carnage. They confirmed the poilu in his burning sense
of injustice. That they, who could have absented themselves, should
choose the damnation of destruction and dare the danger, convinced the
entire French nation of its own righteousness. And it was true of the
girls at the American hospitals who nursed the broken bodies which
their brothers had rescued. It was true of Miss Holt's _Lighthouse_
for the training of blinded soldiers, which she established in Paris
within eight months of war's commencement. It was true of the American
Relief Clearing House in Paris which, up to January, 1917, had
received 291 shipments and had distributed eight million francs. By
the time America put on armour, the American Red Cross, as the army's
expert in the strategy of compassion, found that it had to take over
more than eighty-six separate organisations which had been operating
in France for the best part of two years.
One cannot show pity with indignant hands and keep the mind neutral.
The Galilean test holds true, "He who is not for me is against me."
You cannot leave houses, lands, children, wife--everything that
counts--for the Kingdom of Heaven's sake without developing a
rudimentary aversion for the devil. All of which goes to prove that
America's heart was fighting for the Allies long before her ambassador
requested his passports from the Kaiser.
The American Red Cross Commission landed in France on the 12th of
June, 1917, seven days ahead of the Expeditionary Force. It had
taken less than five days to organise. Its first act was to convey a
monetary gift to the French hospitals. The first actual American Red
Cross contribution was made in April to the Number Five British Base
Hospital. The first American soldiers in France were doctors and
nurses. The first American fighting done in France was done with the
weapons of pity. The chief function of the American Red Cross up
to the present has been to "carry on" and to bridge the gap of
unavoidable delays while the army is preparing.
To prove that this "war of compassion" is no idle phrase, let me
illustrate with one dramatic instance. When the Italian line broke
under the pressure of Hun artillery and propaganda, the American Red
Cross sent representatives forward to inaugurate relief work for
the 700,000 refugees, who were pouring southward from the Friuti and
Veneto, homeless, hungry, possessing nothing but misfortune, spreading
despair and panic every step of the journey. Their bodies must be
cared for--that was evident; it would be easy for them to carry
disease throughout Italy. But the disease of their minds was an even
greater danger; if their demoralisation were not checked, it would
inevitably prove contagious.
The first two representatives of the American Red Cross arrived in
Rome on November 5th, with a quarter of a million dollars at their
disposal. That night they had a soup-kitchen going and fed 400 people.
Their first day's work is the record of an amazing spurt of energy. In
that first day they sent money for relief to every American Consul in
the districts affected. They mobilised the American colony in Rome and
arranged by wire for similar organisations to be formed throughout
the length and breadth of Italy, wherever they could lay hands on an
American. On all principal junction points through which the refugees
would pass, soup-kitchens were installed and clothes were purchased
and ready to be distributed as the trains pulled into the stations.
They were badly needed, for the passengers had endured all the rigours
of the retreat with the soldiers. They had been under shell and
machine-gun fire. They had been bombed by aeroplanes. No horror of
warfare had been spared them. Their clothes were verminous with weeks
of wearing. They were packed like cattle. Babies born on the journey
were wrapped in newspapers. There were instances of officers taking
off their shirts that the little bodies should not go naked. A
telegram was at once despatched to Paris for food and clothes and
hospital supplies. Twenty-four cars came through within a week,
despite the unusual military traffic. This ends the list of what was
accomplished by two men in one day.
The great thing was to make the demoralised Italians feel that America
was on the spot and helping them. The sending of troops could not have
reused their fighting spirit. They were sick of fighting. What they
needed was the assurance that the world was not wholly brutal--that
there was some one who was merciful, who did not condemn and who
was moved by their sorrow. This assurance the prompt action of the
American Red Cross gave. It restored in the affirmative with mercy,
precisely the quality which Hun fury and propaganda had destroyed with
lies. It restored to them their belief in the nobility of mankind, out
of which belief grows all true courage.
As the work progressed, it branched out on a much larger scale,
embracing civilian, military and child-welfare activities. In the
month of November upward of half a million lire were placed in the
hands of American consuls for distribution. One million lire were
contributed for the benefit of soldiers' families. A permanent
headquarters was established with trained business men and men who had
had experience under Hoover in Belgium in charge of its departments.
Over 100 hospitals and two principal magazines of hospital stores
had been lost in the retreat. The American Red Cross made up this
deficiency by supplying the bedding for no less than 3,000 beds.
Five weeks after the first two representatives had reached Rome
three complete ambulance sections, each section being made up of 20
ambulances, a staff car, a kitchen trailer and 33 men, were turned
over to the Italian Medical Service of the third Army. By the first
week in December the stream of refugees had practically stopped. Italy
had been made to realise that she was not fighting alone; her morale
had returned to her. This work, which had been initially undertaken
from purely altruistic motives, had proved to possess a value of the
highest military importance--an importance of the spirit utterly out
of proportion to the money and labour expended. Magnanimity arouses
magnanimity. In this case it revived the flame of Garibaldi which had
all but died. It achieved a strategic victory of the soul which no
amount of military assistance could have accomplished. The victory
of the American Red Cross on the Italian Front is all the more
significant since it was not until months later that Congress declared
war on Austria.
The campaign which the American Red Cross is waging in every country
in which it operates, is frankly an "out to win" campaign. To win the
war is its one and only object. What the army does for the courage of
the body, the Red Cross does for the courage of the mind. It builds
up the hearts and hopes of people who in three and a half years have
grown numb. It restores the human touch to their lives and, with
it, the spiritual horizon. Its business, while the army is still
preparing, is to bring home to the Allies in every possible way the
fact that America, with her hundred and ten millions of population, is
in the war with them, eager to play the game, anxious to sacrifice as
they have sacrificed, to give her man-power and resources as they have
done, until justice has been established for every man and nation.
It is necessary to lay stress on this programme since it differs
greatly from the popular conception of the functions of the Red Cross
in the battle area. It was on the field of Solferino in 1859, that
Henri Dunant went out before the fury had spent itself to tend the
wounded. It was here that he was fired with his great ambition to
found a non-combatant service, which should recognise no enemies and
be friends with every army. His ambition was realised when in 1864 the
Conference at Geneva chose the Swiss flag, reversed, as its emblem--a
red cross on a field of white--and laid the foundations for those
international understandings which have since formed for all
combatants, except the Hun in this present warfare, the protective law
for the sick and wounded. The original purpose of the Red Cross still
fills the imagination of the masses to the exclusion of all else that
it is doing. Directly the term "Red Cross" is mentioned the picture
that forms in most men's minds is of ambulances galloping through
the thick of battle-smoke and of devoted stretcher-bearers who brave
danger not to kill, but in order that they may save lives.
This war has changed all that. To-day the Red Cross has to minister
to not the wounded of armies only, but to the wounded of nations. In
a country like France, with trenches dug the entire length of her
eastern frontier and vast territories from which the entire population
has been evacuated, the wounds of her armies are small in comparison
with the wounds, bodily and mental, of her civil population--wounds
which are the outcome of over three years of privation. When the civil
population of any country has lost its pluck, no matter how splendid
the spirit of its soldiers, its armies become paralysed. The civilians
can commence peace negotiations behind the backs of their men in the
trenches. They can insist on peace by refusing to send them ammunition
and supplies. As a matter of fact the morale of the soldiers varies
directly with the morale of the civilians for whom they fight. Behind
every soldier stand a woman and a group of children. Their safety is
his inspiration. If they are neglected, his sacrifice is belittled.
If they beg that he should lay down his arms, his determination is
weakened. It is therefore a vital necessity, quite apart from the
humanitarian aspect, that the wounds of the civilians of belligerent
countries should be cared for. If the civilians are allowed to become
disheartened and cowardly, the heroic ideal of their fighting-men is
jeopardised. This fact has been recognised by the Red Cross Societies
of all countries in the present war; a large part of their energies
has been devoted to social and relief work of a civil nature. Even
in their purely military departments, the comfort of the troops
claims quite as much attention as their medical treatment and
hospitalisation. As a matter of fact, the actual carrying of the
wounded out of the trenches to the comparative safety of the dressing
station is usually done by combatants. A man has to live continually
under shell-fire to acquire the immunity to fear which passes for
courage. The bravest man is likely to get "jumpy," if he only faces up
to a bombardment occasionally. There are other reasons why combatants
should do the stretcher-bearing which do not need elaborating. The
combatants have an expert knowledge of their own particular frontage;
they are "wise" to the barraged areas; they are "up front" and
continually coming and going, so it is often an economy of man-power
for them to attend to their own wounded in the initial stages; they
are the nearest to a comrade when he falls and all carry the necessary
first-aid dressings; the emblem of the Red Cross has proved to be only
a slight protection, as the Hun is quite likely not to respect it.
What I am driving at is that the Red Cross has had to adapt itself to
the new conditions of modern warfare, so that very many of its most
important present-day functions are totally different from what
popular fancy imagines.
The American Red Cross has its French Headquarters in a famous
gambling club in the Place de la Concorde. It is somewhat strange to
pass through these rooms where rakes once flung away fortunes, and
to find them industriously orderly with the conscience of an imported
nation. By far the larger part of the staff are business men of
the Wall Street type--not at all the kind who have been accustomed
to sentimentalise over philanthropy. There is also a sprinkling
of trained social workers, clergy, journalists, and university
professors. The medical profession is represented by some of the
leading specialists of the States, but at Headquarters they are
distinctly in the minority. The purely medical work of the American
Red Cross forms only a part of its total activities. The men
at the head of affairs are bankers, merchants, presidents of
corporations--men who have been trained to think in millions and
to visualise broad areas. Girls are very much in evidence. They are
usually volunteers, drawn from all classes, who offered their services
to do anything that would help. To-day they are typists, secretaries,
stenographers, nurses.
The organisation is divided into three main departments:
the department of military affairs, of civil affairs and of
administration. Under these departments come a variety of bureaus:
the bureau of rehabilitation and reconstruction; of the care and
prevention of tuberculosis; of needy children and infant mortality;
of refugees and relief; of the re-education of the French mutilés; of
supplies; of the rolling canteens for the French armies; of the U.S.
Army Division; of the Military, Medical and Surgical Division, etc.
They are too numerous to mention in detail. The best way I can convey
the picture of immense accomplishment is to describe what I actually
saw in the field of operations.
The first place I will take you to is Evian, because here you see the
tragedy and need of France as embodied in individuals. Evian-les-Bains
is on Lake Geneva, looking out across the water to Switzerland. It is
the first point of call across the French frontier for the repatriés
returning from their German bondage. When the Boche first swept down
on the northern provinces he pushed the French civilian population
behind him. He has since kept them working for him as serfs, labouring
in the captured coal-mines, digging his various lines of defences,
setting up wire-entanglements, etc. Apart from the testimony of
repatriated French civilians, I myself have seen messages addressed
by Frenchmen to their wives, scrawled surreptitiously on the planks of
Hun dug-outs in the hope that one day the dug-outs would be captured,
and the messages passed on by a soldier of the Allies. After three and
a half years of enforced labour, many of these captured civilians are
worked out. To the Boche, with his ever-increasing food-shortage, they
represent useless mouths. Instead of filling them he is driving their
owners back, broken and useless, by way of Switzerland. To him human
beings are merchandise to be sold upon the hoof like cattle. No
spiritual values enter into the bargain. When the body is exhausted it
is sent to the knacker's, as though it belonged to a worn-out horse.
The entire attitude is materialistic and degrading. Evian-les-Bains,
the once gay gambling resort of the cosmopolitan, has become the
knacker's shop for French civilians exhausted by their German
servitude. The Hun shoves them across the border at the rate of about
1,300 a day. From the start I have always felt that this war was a
crusade; what I saw at Evian made me additionally certain. When I was
in the trenches I never had any hatred of the Boche. Probably I shall
lose my hatred in pity for him when I get to the Front again--but
for the present I hate him. It's here in France that one sees what a
vileness he has created in the children's and women's lives.
I took the night train down from Paris. Early in the morning I woke
up to find myself in the gorges of the Alps, high peaks with romantic
Italian-looking settings soaring on every side. At noon we reached
Lake Geneva, lying slate-coloured and sombre beneath a wintry sky.
That afternoon I saw the train of repatriés arrive.
I was on the platform when the train pulled into the station. It might
have been a funeral cortége, only there was a horrible difference: the
corpses pretended to be alive. The American Ambulance men were there
in force. They climbed into the carriages and commenced to help the
infirm to alight. The exiles were all so stiff with travel that they
could scarcely move at first. The windows of the train were grey with
faces. Such faces! All of them old, even the little children's. The
Boche makes a present to France of only such human wreckage as is
unuseful for his purposes. He is an acute man of business. The convoy
consisted of two classes of persons--the very ancient and the very
juvenile. You can't set a man of eighty to dig trenches and you can't
make a prostitute out of a girl-child of ten. The only boys were of
the mal-nourished variety. Men, women and children--they all had the
appearance of being half-witted.
They were terribly pathetic. As I watched them I tried to picture to
myself what three and a half long years of captivity must have meant.
How often they must have dreamt of the exaltation of this day--and
now that it had arrived, they were not exalted. They had the look of
people so spiritually benumbed that they would never know despair or
exaltation again. They had a broken look; their shoulders were crushed
and their skirts bedraggled. Many of them carried babies--pretty
little beggars with flaxen hair. It wasn't difficult to guess their
parentage.
As they were herded on the platform a low, strangled kind of moaning
went up. I watched individual lips to see where the sound came from.
I caught no movement. The noise was the sighing of tired animals.
Every one had some treasured possession. Here was an old man with
an alarm-clock; there an aged woman with an empty bird-cage. A boy
carried half-a-dozen sauce-pans strung together. Another had a spare
pair of patched boots under his arm. Quite a lot of them clutched a
bundle of umbrellas. I found myself reflecting that these were the
remnants of families who had been robbed of everything that they
valued in the world. Whatever they had saved from the ruin ought to
represent the possession which had claimed most of their affections,
and yet--! What did an alarm-clock, an empty bird-cage, a pair of
patched boots, a string of sauce-pans, a bundle of ragged umbrellas
signify in any life? What utter poverty, if these were the best that
they could save!
There was a band on the platform, consisting mainly of bugles and
drums, to welcome them. The leader is reputed to be the laziest man
in the French Army. It is said that they tried him at everything and
then, in despair, sent him to Evian to drum forgotten happiness into
the bones of repatriés. Whatever his former military record, he now
does his utmost to impersonate the defiant and impassioned soul of
France. His moustaches are curled fiercely. His brows are heavy as
thunderclouds. When he drums, the veins swell out in his neck with the
violence of his energy.
Suddenly, with an ominous preliminary rumble, the band struck up
the Marseillaise. You should have seen the change in this crowd
of corpses. You must remember that these people had been so long
accustomed to lies and snares that it would probably take days to
persuade them that they were actually safe home in France.
As the battle-song for which they had suffered shook the air their
lips rustled like leaves. There was hardly any sound--only a hoarse
whisper. Then, all of a sudden, words came--an inarticulate, sobbing
commotion. Tears blinded the eyes of every spectator, even those who
had witnessed similar scenes often; we were crying because the singing
was so little human.
"Vive la France! Vive la France!" They waved flags--not the
tri-colour, but flags which had been given them in Switzerland. They
clung together dazed, women with slatternly dresses, children with
peaked faces, men unhappy and unshaven. A woman caught sight of my
uniform. "Vive l'Angleterre," she cried, and they all came stumbling
forward to embrace me. It was horrible. They creaked like automatons.
They gestured and mouthed, but the soul had been crushed out of their
eyes. You don't need any proofs of Hun atrocities; the proofs are to
be seen at Evian. There are no severed hands, no crucified bodies;
only hearts that have been mutilated. Sorrow is at its saddest when
it cannot even contrive to appear dignified. There is no dignity
about the repatriés at Evian, with their absurd umbrellas, sauce-pans,
patched-boots, alarm-clocks and bird-cages. They do not appeal to one
as sacrificed patriots. There is no nobility in their vacant stare.
They create a cold feeling of bodily decay--only it is the spirit that
is dead and gangrenous.