Chapter X: Part 10

Next morning I set out at 6 to get ahead of the main body of the headquarters staff. The day was magnificent and we slowly climbed foot by foot to the cloud-capped summits of the mountains. Up and up we went, thousands and thousands of feet.

Every few hundred yards we came on bodies of men frozen or starved to death. At one point there were four in a heap. They were convicts from Prisrend penitentiary, who had been sent in chains across the mountains. They had been shot either for insubordination or because they were unable to proceed. Two other nearly naked bodies were evidently those of Serbian soldiers murdered by Albanians.

VII--"I OVERTOOK KING PETER"

Soon after midday I overtook King Peter and his staff. Despite his seventy-six years, he marched on foot with vigor younger men might have envied.

During all the four hours I marched with the royal staff he never once mounted his horse, which a soldier was leading behind him. When we stopped for the night at Bredeti King Peter had a ten hours' march to his credit.

It was at this point I came across the first of Essad Pacha's gendarmes. They had been sent out by that heavy-handed ruler to protect the King and his staff. They were a picturesque lot, many of them barefooted, but there was no doubt about the first class quality of their rifles and revolvers. They wore the Serbian gendarme's uniform--that is, they wore any uniform--of which the Nish government had some months before made them a present of several thousand.

The attitude of the population could not be described as friendly to the Serbians, but at the same time there were no outward signs of hostility. They rarely saluted and showed no desire whatever to offer hospitality. In the case of the royal household and headquarters staff Essad Pacha had requisitioned accommodations, but any one not belonging to one of these units had every chance of faring badly. All they had to depend on were wayside caravanserai.

These huge, barnlike structures consist of nothing but four walls and a roof, the latter generally doubtfully water-tight. Here men and horses were all quartered pell-mell. Everybody annexes as much space as he can get and lights a fire for warmth and cooking. As they have no chimneys, the smoke is left to find its way out through the open doors or the thatched roof. The state of the atmosphere may be imagined.

As my colleague, Paul Dubochet, of the "Petit Parisien," and I had pushed on ahead of the headquarters staff, we had naturally lost the advantage of being billeted by Essad's gendarmes. When we finished the day's march we took our share of floor space, but the atmosphere in an hour generally proved too much for us.

We were therefore compelled to surrender, and, despite the freezing cold and the driving snow, we determined to put up a small tent I received at the time of the destruction of the military stores at Kraguyevatz Arsenal. It was only three feet high and open at the end; hence it was only an indifferent shelter against the blizzard. However, I ordered my man to build an immense fire near the open end, and we went to sleep.

Three hours later we awoke, to find the wretched tent ablaze. We struggled out with difficulty and managed to save most of our belongings, but the tent and the sleeping rugs were gone. There was nothing to do but remain at our camp fire until dawn.

VIII--A THOUSAND MEN AND HORSES OVER A ROCKY GORGE

On the next march a new experience awaited us. The road ran for miles through a rocky gorge, and nothing else. The bed of the river was the only means of travel. There is nothing so nerve-racking as to keep one's eyes constantly glued to the ground, when each step presents a new problem. Of course, every now and then one of the stones would turn under our feet, and this meant a plunge up to the knees in icy water.

So far as the eye could see there was nothing but this rocky bed, winding between towering basaltic cliffs. The task of transporting a thousand men and horses under such conditions was almost superhuman. If the Albanians had been openly hostile not one man would have come out alive.

The Albanian, like most peasants, is grasping and fond of money, but once you cross his threshold your person and property are sacred. I never had the slightest fear once I entered an Albanian house.

On the road everything is possible. The tribes live at war with one another and respect for human life is non-existent. It would have been as much as our lives were worth to travel an hour after darkness. But during the daylight an armed party inspires a certain respect.

The men physically are probably the handsomest in Europe. I have never seen anywhere such beautiful children as those of the Albanians. Not one in a hundred knows how to read or write or has even been more than twenty miles from home.

It was through such a country the Serbians had to transport soldiers, and that with the Germans and the Bulgarians in close pursuit.

The last stages of the march were probably the hardest, as fodder for the animals and food for the men was practically unprocurable. Money difficulties also increased daily, the Albanians refusing to accept Serbian script at any rate of exchange. They would, however, give food and lodgings for articles of clothing, shirts, underwear, socks and boots. On the last stage we had, therefore, to resort to the primitive system of barter, buying a night's lodging with a shirt and a meal with a pair of socks.

IX--WOLVES LIVING ON CARCASSES IN MOUNTAIN PASSES

In the mountains just before Puka I discovered the first trace of wolves. The carcasses of dead horses, which were now numbered by scores, showed signs of having been torn by them. A part of the French aviation corps, which was preceding us, got lost in the snow and darkness, and had to spend the night in the open without protection. A dozen were frostbitten, but no fatal casualties. After six days we finally reached the Drina again, a swiftly flowing stream.

Thence the march to Scutari may be summed up in the word mud--mud of the deepest and most tenacious kind, sometimes only reaching to the ankles, sometimes to the knees, but it was always there.

The twenty-five miles between the Drina ferry and Scutari represents physical effort of no mean order. It was the finish for scores of unfortunate pack horses. During the last two days they got practically no food. On these days we found dead horses every hundred yards. When at last, at 4 in the afternoon, we came in sight of the towers and minarets of Scutaria every one heaved a sigh of relief. The streets presented a wonderful sight, being thronged with Serbian soldiers, mixed with French aviators, men of the French and Serbian medical staff and scores of the Red Cross unit--British, French, Russian and Greek.

Scutari's normal population of 40,000 had been increased by 100,000 Serbian and other refugees. Food was running scarce, and there were practically no accommodations. The unfortunate diplomatic corps was scattered all over in such lodgings as could be found for it. The headquarters staff took possession of the Hotel De la Ville. I learned the Danube division, which had entered Albania by Montenegro, had performed the miracle of saving part of its field artillery.

* * * * *

The fate of Serbia was worse than that of Belgium, for to King Albert's subjects there always remained France, England and Holland as havens of refuge. For King Peter's people there was none. On the one hand, the inhospitable mountains of Montenegro offered a barrier which the starving people were powerless to cross. On the other was the desolation of the snow-capped peaks of Albania, with a population sullenly hostile to Serbia and everything Serbian.

But even if they had been willing to welcome them with open arms they could not have helped them, as the mountaineers of Albania live themselves all their lives on the ragged edge of starvation. The catastrophe, therefore, was beyond human aid, and Serbia had to drink the cup of bitterness to the dregs and witness the foundering of all that was left of her manhood and national wealth. It was the death agony of one of the bravest nations in Europe, of a people who had for five long years fought four victorious wars for its national existence, and at last succumbed to a combination of forces three times stronger than itself.

TALES OF THE TANKS--WITH THE ARMORED MONSTERS IN BATTLE

_Adventures as Romantic as Mediaeval Legends_

_Told by the Men in the Tanks_

Here are four tales as strange as "Arabian Nights" direct from the
great battles of the Somme. It was on these battlegrounds that
armored monsters plunged into the enemies' ranks, spitting flame
and death, and creating consternation among the German soldiers.
These armored tractors are an American invention. While the huge
death-machines were constructed in England, they were built on
plans from the United States. It was for divulging secrets about
these tractors that Mlle. Mata Hari, the Dutch-Javanese dancer, was
arrested in Paris as a spy and sentenced to execution.

I--STORY OF A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN IN A TANK ON THE BATTLEFIELD

Monday.--Out for first time. Strange sensation. Worse than being in a submarine. At first unable to see anything but imagined a lot. Bullets began to rain like hailstones on a galvanized roof at first, then like a series of hammer blows. We passed through it all unscathed.

Suddenly we gave a terrible lurch. I thought we were booked through. Lookout said we were astride an enemy trench. "Give them hell!" was the order. We gave them it. Our guns raked and swept trenches right and left.

Got a peep at frightened Huns. It was grimly humorous. They tried to bolt like scared rabbits, but were shot down in bunches before getting to their burrows. Machine guns brought forward. Started vicious rattle on our "hide." Not the least impression was made. Shells began to burst. We moved on and overtook some more frightened Huns. Cut their ranks to ribbons with our fire.

They ran like men possessed. Officer tried to rally them. They awaited our coming for a while. As soon as our guns began to spit at them they were off once more. Infantry rounded them up and survivors surrendered. Very curious about us. Stood open mouthed and wide eyed watching, but weren't much the wiser.

Experience was not altogether pleasant at first. Tank sickness is as bad as sea sickness until you get used to it.

Tuesday.--Off for another cruise. Peppering begun at once. Thought old thing was going to be drowned in shower of bullets. Things quiet down quickly. Silly blighters thought they could rush the tank like they would a fort. Dashed up from all sides. We fired at them point blank. Devilish plucky chaps some of them, for all their madness. The survivors had another try. We spat at them venomously. More of them went down.

The blessed old tub gave a sudden jerk. God in heaven, thought I, it's goodby to earth; but it wasn't. Only some Hun dead and wounded we had skidded into. The rain of bullets resumed. It was like as if hundreds of rivets were being hammered into the hide of the tank. We rushed through. Soon the music had charms, and we got to like the regular rhythm of it.

Suddenly a jolt, and our hearts jolted in our mouths in sympathy. Nothing doing in the mishap line. Only some unwonted obstacle. Heavier "strumming" on our keyboard outside, and more regular. Machine guns at it now. Straddled on as though we like it. A tremendous thud. The whole outfit seemed done for. Nearly jumped out of my skin. Looked at each other and wondered what it was. Still a roof over our heads, thank God.

Wednesday.--Early start. Roughest voyage yet. Waves of fire seemed to break over us. Tremendous crash. Then another, and several others at intervals. Silence for a time. Party of Huns came to meet us outside the village. Very stout old gentleman in front. Thought it was the Mayor and village bigpots to give us a civic welcome. Mistaken. They meant to give warm reception, but not as we understood the word. Let fly with machine guns. Then tried silly boarding tactics. We laughed. Our guns answered theirs.

Tank reception committee dispersed in a cloud of smoke and flame; no trailing clouds of glory. Fat old gentleman only visible member of deputation. Stood openmouthed. Purple with rage. Tank bore down. Old gent started to run. Funnier than a sack race. Old gent flung himself to earth with many signs to surrender.

Thursday.--Got into the village, and passed down between two irregular rows of wrecked houses. Hundreds of Huns came rushing up from cellars and from behind ruins to see us. Some had eyes staring out of head. Looked surprised and even frightened.

One blighter made a rush at us with a clubbed rifle. Made a terrible swipe at the tank. Smashed his rifle, and made a nasty noise on our roof. Hurt himself more than he hurt us. Off for a joy ride after some nice Huns who took to flight as we came up.

Friday.--Early afloat. Usual showers of bullets and a few shells on the way. Got right across a trench. Made the sparks fly. Went along parapet routing out Huns everywhere. Enemy terrified. Tried to run, but couldn't keep it up under our fire. Threw up the sponge and surrendered in batches.

One cheeky chap said he didn't think it was fair to fight with such things. We said that was our affair, and we could stand the racket Germany cared to make over it. Asked one chap if the thought we should have got permission from the Kaiser before using them. Didn't see the joke. Took about two hundred prisoners. Killed and wounded as many more. Tired out when through.

Saturday.--On the move before breakfast. Terrible crash on first go off. Thought we had collided with a wandering world. Weathered the storm. Got busy on enemy trenches. Rare good sport. Enemy tried a surprise for infantry--Yorkshiremen--advancing to attack. We tried a surprise, too, and ours came off first. Huns weren't pleased. Didn't think it was playing the game according to Potsdam rules.

We waddled into their ambush for the attacking troops. Never saw men so frightened. Fled panic-stricken in all directions. Only a few chaps stayed behind and tried to stop us by machine gun fire. Smashed them to bits and left their machine guns to be picked up by the Yorkshiremen they hoped to surprise.

Went snorting after the enemy wherever we could find them. Their losses were terrible. Later strong detachments tried to make their way back, supported by big guns. Lined up across the road and gave them hot time. Every time they tried to rush through we ripped their ranks to bits. At last they gave it up. Very wise.

Sunday.--Good work of frightening Huns continued. Better day, better deed. Fritz didn't think that. Blighters opened rifle fire on us at two hundred yards. It went like water off a duck's back. Fritz couldn't make it out. Kept up the fire, but got a bit nervy as the blessed old thing kept waddling up to him. Ladled out death as you might vamp out indifferent music from a hurdy-gurdy.

Fritz got fits. No fight left in him. Prisoners scared to death. Some of them acted as though they believed that we used our tanks for making sausages out of prisoners. We had a lot of trouble explaining that once they surrendered they were safe.

Finished an exciting week. Got plenty of fun, but one wants a good rest after a spell with a tank.

II--STORY OF THE TANKS THAT STORMED A CASTLE

_Told by Philip Gibbs, War Correspondent, in France_

After the battle of Flanders the tank pilots have been able to tell the tale of their adventures after a spell of rest, badly needed by the young men, who crawled out of their steel boxes speechless, bruised and dazed.

For seventeen hours one of the tank pilots and his crew stayed out, fighting all the time, and for twenty-four hours another crew went through, not with incessant fighting, but bogged and unbogged, and struggling on and getting into action and slouching back after a good record of achievement.

The tanks have justified themselves again and won their spurs--spurs as big as gridirons.

In the battle of Flanders they had plenty of chance to show what they could do. The way of the allied advance was hindered by a number of little concrete forts built in the ruins of farmsteads, which had withstood the British gunfire. At Plum Farm and Apple Villa and in the stronger and more elaborate fortified points like Frezenberg and Pommern Castle and Pommern Redoubt the German machine gunners held out when everything about them was chaos and death, and played a barrage of bullets on the advancing Allies. Platoons and half platoons attacked them in detail at great cost of life, and it was in such places that the tanks were of the most advantage.

It was at Pommern Castle, east of St. Julien, that one of the tanks did its best. Do not imagine the castle as a kind of structure with big walls and portcullis and high turrets, but slabs of concrete in a huddle of sandbags above a nest of deep dugouts. On the other side of it was Pommern Redoubt, of the same style of defense.

The British were fighting hard for the castle and having a bad time under its fire. A tank came to help them and advanced under the swish of bullets to the German emplacements, lurching up the piled bags over the heaped-up earth and squatting on the top like a grotesque creature playing the old game of "I'm king of the castle. Get down, you dirty rascals."

The "dirty rascals," who were German soldiers, unshaven and uncovered in the wet mud, did not like the look of their visitors, who were firing with great ferocity. They fled to the cover of Pommern Redoubt, beyond. Then the tank moved back to let the infantry get in, but as soon as it turned its back the Germans, with renewed pluck, took possession of the castle again.

The men who were fighting round about again gave the signal to the tank to "get busy" so it came back, and, with the infantry on its flanks, made another assault, so that the Germans fled again.

The Pommern Redoubt was attacked in the same way, with good help from the tanks.

Frezenberg Redoubt was another place where the tanks were helpful, and they did good work at Westhoek.

One of them attacked and helped to capture a strong point west of St. Julien from which a good many Germans came out to surrender. Afterward some tanks went through the village, but they had to get out again in a hurry to escape capture in the German counterattacks.

It was not easy to get back in a hurry, as by that hour in the afternoon the rain had turned the ground to a swamp and the tanks sank deep in it with the wet mud half-way up their flanks and slipped and slithered back when they tried to struggle out. Many of the officers and crew had to get out of their steel forts, risking the heavy shelling and machine-gun fire, to dig their way out; and in the neighborhood of St. Julien they worked for two hours in the open to debog their tank, while the Germans tried to destroy them by direct hits.

In a farm somewhere in this neighborhood no fewer than sixty Germans came out with their hands up in surrender as soon as a tank was at close quarters. The story is told that at another place the mere threat of a tank's approach was enough to decide a party of eight to give in. It is certain beyond all doubt that the German infantry has great fear of the "beasts."

In this battle there was not a single case of attack upon a tank by infantry, although we know that they have been training behind their lines with dummy tanks, according to definite rules laid down by the German command.

One fight did take place with a tank, and it was surely the most fantastic duel that had happened in the war. It was queer enough, as I described a day or two ago when one of the British airmen flew over a motor car and engaged in a revolver duel with the German officer, but even that strange picture is less weird than when a German airplane flew low over a tank and tried to put out its "eyes" by a burst of machine gun bullets.

Imagine the scene, that muddy monster, crawling through the slime with sharp stabs of fire coming from its flanks and above an engine with wings, swooping round and about it like an angry albatross and spattering its armor with bullets. It was an unequal fight, for the tank just ignored that waspish machine-gun fire and went on its way with only a scratch or two.

The tanks were in action around the marshes and woodlands by Shrewsbury Forest. Here there was very severe infantry fighting and the Germans made desperate resistance, followed by many counterattacks, so that the progress of the British was slow and difficult and the tanks helped them as best they could.

One trouble of the tanks is their limited vision, and this and the darkness before the battle were the cause of an unexpected collision, which adds to the strange history of the mechanical monsters, so that it is all beyond the wildest flight of imagination.

One of the tanks was crawling up to get into position for attack, and unaware that it was bearing steadily down upon one of those light railway engines which I saw steaming along in the centre of the Ypres salient on the morning of battle. It was grunting and whistling so that it could be heard a mile away, but not a sound of it came to the ears of the pilot and the crew in the tank, where their engine also was laboring with rattle of steel. The tank bore on through the darkness and its mighty battering ram hit the light engine fair and square and knocked it off the rails. There were explanations and apologies and much tugging and heaving with all the powers of a tank before the engine was righted again and went on its way. (Told in _New York Times_--Copyright, 1917.)

III--STORY OF THE TANK THAT FOUGHT A RAILROAD ENGINE

_Told to the Montreal (Canada) "Herald and Star"_

"Hi, Bodger! Just keep clear of my weighing machine! It's only up to a quarter of a ton, and I'm not taking any risks."

Temporary Captain Bodger, R.G.A., turned sadly away from the Ration Depot and lumbered back to his howitzers. He was an excellent officer, and his 8 in. shells reached their address in Bocheland with the precision of a postal delivery. But he weighed 280 pounds, and his girth was threatening his career.

Only yesterday he had walked five miles to a field artillery observing station in the trenches, whence he was to range on a new German redoubt, and had ignominiously failed to get through the tunnel. A party of grinning Tommies had taken 40 minutes to enlarge the entrance for him; the subaltern to whom the observation post belonged had complained of his attracting the attention of the enemy's airmen by waiting outside, and the general, who unfortunately went by, had regarded him with a send-him-to-the-base look in his eye. Something must be done, but what?

Bodger had a light lunch of three chops and a plate of ham, trifled with some suet pudding and cheese, and ordered a second bottle of beer to assist his meditations. But the only idea that emerged was a transfer to Coast Defence, and this involved boat work, which his stomach loathed. With a regretful glance at the empty bottles, he went back to his work.

But in the meantime an intelligence of a higher order had been shaping his destinies. The Army commander, hearing the tale of the tunnel and the observation post, had remarked: "Sound gunner, is he? No use sending him to the Transport; lorries are overloaded already. There's one thing in this Army that's up to his weight, and that's a tank. Shift him over, will you?"

When the great man spoke things moved quickly, and in the battery Bodger met an orderly with a "memo," directing him to report at once to H. M. landship _Mastodon_ for instruction. The _Mastodon_ was a new ship. Her commander, a cavalry major, was pleased to get a good gunnery man who was also useful as shifting ballast. Bodger took kindly to his new duties, and the tank steered sweetly under his sympathetic hand.

A week later the _Mastodon_ took part in a minor push--a little affair of straightening the line.

There was a parapet to get over, and the _Mastodon_, according to custom, cocked up her tail and charged it.

Now if things had gone right the tail should have come down with a whump, throwing her nose up, and she should have cleared the bank like a porpoise jumping. But the glue-like mud piled under her belly, her tail remained up, her nose down, and she hit the face of the bank with a bump like a luggage train in collision. She backed out, but her tail remained high in air.

It was then that Bodger first distinguished himself. He squeezed through a door. Heedless of the bullets which hummed round him, he swarmed up the tail with the determination of a bull walrus and sat on the end of it. There was no mistake about the tail coming down this time. The _Mastodon_ charged again, nose well up, and got over the bank, kicking up a shower of clods behind her.

Bodger stuck to his perch, though the shell-splinters whanged on the armour, and got off with nothing worse than a chipped ear. After this he became a tank enthusiast, and when his major was promoted Admiral of the Fleet and hoisted his flag in the _Mammoth_, Bodger succeeded to the command of the _Mastodon_. He painted her in a beautiful chromatic color-scheme, and fitted a larder and a cushioned beer-bin. He worked up his crew at gunnery till they could hit a Boche parapet while bumping across country. He enjoyed four solid meals a day and ceased to repine at his increasing weight.

The Big Push came on, and Bodger's _Mastodon_ proved the smartest landship in the fleet, while at gunnery she could have given points to the _Excellent_. There came a day when we had pierced deeply into the German lines, and with it came Bodger's chance, which has made his name in the Land Fleet. He saw a locomotive half a mile in front dragging off a couple of howitzers along a light railway, and, regardless of his admiral's warning toots he made for it across the trenches.

Furious Germans tried to rush him as he ploughed through their lines but he held the _Mastodon_ to her course, spouting flame on both broadsides. Field guns were hurriedly turned on him, but the shells missed or glanced from the armour. He headed off the locomotive by a bare 50 fathoms, and, reversing his starboard chain, jockeyed the _Mastodon_ sharply round to meet it.

Now when a 60-ton locomotive hauling double its weight of heavy howitzer, meets a 100-ton tank, both all out, something is almost certain to happen. This time it was the unexpected.

The antagonists stood on their tails, locked for a moment like wrestlers, and then suddenly disappeared from view. The railway crossed a hollow road at the point of encounter and the bridge had given way. Down went the locomotive, wheels uppermost, with the _Mastodon_ on top of it. The trucks with the monster howitzers lumbered up and pitched on top of the heap. But the tank, though dented like an old tin can, was little the worse, and the Germans, who expected to find a wreck, were met by shells and machine-gun fire.

There was no holding our men that day, and they pressed on well beyond the hollow road where the _Mastodon_ had "brought up." When the leading battalion reached her they found Bodger lunching on deck, with a dozen bottles of beer standing ready for his visitors. He was asked to describe his trip across the German trenches, but preferred to expatiate on the perfections of his cushioned beer-bin. "Only two bottles broken, and I believe one of them had gone flat!"

A new 1,000-horsepower tank, carrying a 6 inch gun, is ready for launching, and Bodger will command her. He is looking forward to steering her through the streets of Berlin.

IV--STORY OF THE BATTLE MONSTERS AT FALL OF THIEPVAL

_Told by Percival Phillips, with British Army in France_

The capture of the greatest Prussian stronghold between the Ancre and the Somme involved hard and bitter fighting. Nowhere on the western front have the Prussian troops made stronger resistance against odds or given greater trouble in their underground lairs, dugouts and tunnels. We know now that the Prussian lines yielded many marvellous examples of catacomb work beneath the hills and valleys of Northern France for the shelter of their battalions. The British troops spoke to-day soberly and impressively of scenes in the buried fortress that lies below the blasted ridge.

Two "tanks" played an important part in the capture, but the greatest "tank" story of the day concerns another part of the line--the capture of Gueudecourt; and it is so unusual and so thrilling as to give it precedence over the exploits at Thiepval. This "tank" killed three hundred Prussians who tried to storm it.

The "tank" had assisted in cleaning up Gueudecourt, and infantry followed in its wake through the village, cheering mightily. The shallow cellar shelters held about four hundred prisoners, who gladly gave themselves up, and the business at Gueudecourt was easily finished.

Then the "tank" started on a tour of its own in the direction of a hostile trench beyond the town. Its progress was a signal for other Prussian refugees lurking in the shell craters to signal their submission to the advancing monster.

Majestically the "tank" wallowed forward amid the fluttering of white handkerchiefs that dotted the field shell holes, and hastily scooped out one man from his hiding place. These isolated ones would have been made prisoners in the "tank," but it had neither time nor accommodation. Bigger game lurked in the ground ahead.

It ambled on its lonely advance until a deep, broad fissure in the tumbled earth made apparent the lodging place for many armed men. The "tank's" intention was to sit astride of this trench as a kind of deadly jest, calculated to fill any troops with horror and play its machine guns freely about, but suddenly it halted its engines and stopped.

Instantly the Prussians swarmed out of the earth and buzzed around the "tank" like bees. You must give them credit for unusual courage, for although hidden batteries rained bullets at them they made desperate attempts to storm the travelling fort and to pierce its hide with rifle fire and kill the crew within.

They might as well have attacked a battle ship with spades. The machine guns whirled incessantly and the pile of dead Prussians grew steadily around the monster, but still there were rushes by these foolish men, who clambered to the steel roof and hoisted one another up in the hope of finding loopholes or joints in the armor of the strange beast.

Some of them carried dead men on their shoulders before they themselves were dropped by the hidden gunners. It was a fearful and indescribable sight--this futile combat of men with machinery. The "tank" fought stolidly.

Inside, the crew were filled with joy. Never in their wildest dreams had they conceived the possibility of having Prussians crowding forward to be killed. Never did gunners work their guns more heartily. All they asked was for more Prussians.

The strange tumult drew the attention of the infantry engaged in cleaning up odd corners throughout Gueudecourt. They ran to the rescue of the "tank," but it did not need rescuing. It was quite happy. The infantry took a hand and beat the Prussians off, or, rather, what was left of them. They took a few discouraged prisoners from a field of battle thick with corpses. At least three hundred Germans lay dead around that "tank."

MY ESCAPE FROM THE TURKS DISGUISED AS A WOMAN

_The Story of a Wonderful Feat_

_Told by Private Miron D. Arber, Army Service Corps_

Whilst living in Jaffa, Palestine, the author--a Russian
subject--volunteered to join the British Red Cross, but before he
could leave, Turkey declared war, and he was arrested and sent to
a prison camp in the interior. From this dreary place he made his
escape, and, cleverly disguised as a Bedouin woman, actually crossed
the terrible desert of Sinai, a distance of two hundred miles, to the
verge of the Suez Canal. On the banks of the Canal, when within an
ace of regaining his liberty, he was seized by Turkish patrols and
turned back into the desert. Sick at heart, he retraced his steps,
secured another female disguise, and--let him tell his own story as
he tells it in that thrilling journal of adventure, the _Wide World
Magazine_.

I--"I WAS A RUSSIAN MEDICAL STUDENT IN PALESTINE"

Before the war I was a Russian medical student. On the outbreak of hostilities between England and Germany I visited the British Consul at Jaffa, in Palestine, where I was then residing, and after volunteering for service with the British Red Cross obtained from him the necessary documents to enable me to take up work with that organization. I was most anxious to leave Palestine at once, as I feared what the Turks might do; but to my dismay I was held up by the Customs authorities, who discovered the official British papers in my pockets.

Just two days afterwards Turkey declared war, and the situation in Jaffa became horrible. The Government confiscated all property belonging to the Allies that they could lay hands upon, and its officials raided the clothing establishments and commandeered the whole stock of material. I even saw such articles as silks and women's hosiery taken away by the Turkish officers--no doubt intended for their wives. Proprietors of horse vehicles were deprived of their sole means of livelihood by the ruthless confiscation of their animals and carts, and all mules or camels found in the streets were also seized to carry ammunition and stores to the Egyptian frontier. Such tradesmen as cabinet-makers and metal-workers were forced to give their services for nothing, and, failing prompt compliance, were thrown into prison, there to remain under the most awful conditions. The Turks made a thorough job of the looting; people in the streets were forcibly relieved of any wearing apparel that had the slightest military use, and their leggings, raincoats, and similar articles were annexed by the Turkish officers. Houses were entered and robbed of bedding, mattresses, and pillows for the benefit of Turkish wounded, and private dwellings and public institutions alike--for example, the Anglo-Palestine Bank--were systematically searched and valuables, money, and banknotes confiscated. The Turk is a past-master in the art of looting.

Two days after the declaration of war orders were received from Constantinople for the expulsion from Turkish territory of all subjects of the Allies. Men, women, and children were accosted in the streets, and proof of their nationality demanded. If belonging to one of the Allied nations they were herded together and conveyed during the night from Jaffa to Egypt in an Italian steamer. The sights witnessed were most distressing, parents being separated from their children and husbands from their wives. A number of small boats arrived during the night to take the people out to the ship, it being impossible to bring a large vessel close in. After the unfortunate refugees had been put in the boats they were taken by the Arab boatmen about half-way to the ship. Here the rowers rested on their oars and demanded large sums of money before completing the journey. In many cases the poor folk were unable to pay.

II--"I SAW ARABS AND TURKS ILL-TREAT THE NUNS"

In a certain hospital at Jaffa--this I know personally to be true--the French nuns there, who had with unceasing care and attention devoted themselves to sick and needy Arabs and Turks, were now rewarded for their past unselfish labors by the grossest ill-treatment, being driven out without any thought as to what was to become of them. One incident in particular well depicts the atrocious treatment meted out to these devoted women by the Turks. An old man who had been at this hospital for twenty years told me that when German and Turkish commandants visited the place they asked the French orderly why the sick Turkish troops had no food to eat, to which he replied that there was no money with which to obtain it. Thereupon these heartless officials ordered the Frenchman to be seized and soundly flogged.

From now onward the position for subjects of the Allies became worse and worse. Directly hostilities began, gendarmes came to our house and took me away in the presence of my mother and sister. It was a terrible parting, as may be easily imagined. The distress of the two women was most pitiful, and I dreaded to think what their fate might be when left unprotected. Because of the natural outburst of anger and sorrow on their part, they were the recipients of further mental punishment at the hands of my captors, one of whom threatened my mother with his rifle in order to increase her terror, while another roughly pushed her aside whilst I was hustled from the scene. In my anguish I struck one of them, but they soon overpowered me and dragged me off.

This was the beginning of my sufferings. When I arrived at the Government buildings with my escort I was told that I was a prisoner of war and was about to be sent away. I was, however, allowed to bid good-bye to my mother and sister, who had followed me there. Afterwards I was carefully searched, permission being refused me to take away any luggage whatever. From early in the morning until ten o'clock at night I was guarded in these buildings; then, a number of other prisoners of war having arrived, we were all taken outside and placed upon donkeys. An escort surrounded us, and we set off inland. We marched away along a route which, fortunately, was already well known to me, for as a tourist in the happy days of peace I had traversed it many times previously.

At three o'clock the next morning we arrived at an Arab village, where we rested until nine o'clock, when breakfast was served. This consisted of Arab bread--prepared in a couple of minutes from water, flour, and salt--and a small piece of cheese. The inhabitants of this village pelted us with stones and subjected us to most insulting and abusive language.

III--"I WAS TAKEN PRISONER TO AN ARAB HUT AT BEERSHEBA"

After breakfast our journey was continued until the afternoon, when we halted until eight o'clock. Then we started off again, reaching a place called Ber Sheba, or Beersheba, about sixty miles from Jaffa, by the following morning. Here we were all separated, and I was taken to an Arab hut and given a straw mattress to lie on and a filthy blanket to cover me. The same meagre fare--native bread and a small piece of cheese--was again served out to me, and I was left alone. After spending two days and nights in this wretched shelter I was removed to another, which I fully made up my mind was to be the last ere I attempted my escape, which I was continually thinking about.

The stretch of ground allotted to the prisoners-of-war camps was surrounded by a barbed-wire fence some twelve feet high, having only one gateway. The camp consisted of about twenty-five huts, the bulk of these being for the accommodation of the prisoners, and the remainder for the soldiers. Posted to every four of these buildings was a guard consisting of several sentries, stationed at a distance of from twenty to thirty yards from the buildings. Every Friday it was the custom for the soldiers--who were, of course, Mohammedans--to attend the mosque, and on these occasions but few sentries were left to guard the camp; the gate was also allowed to stand open. I therefore decided that, when I had worked out a plan of escape, I would choose a Friday on which to attempt it.

In the camp I had the good fortune to come in contact with other prisoners of war, who generously gave me some of their money, of which I stood in great need, for I knew that money would be absolutely necessary to aid my escape. After a short time, having received various small amounts in this way, I accumulated quite a useful sum.

Although the food was wretched and the accommodation miserable, I must state in fairness that I received much kindness from different Turkish officers, who, perceiving that I was sad and anxious, had compassion on me and tried to console me. When the German officers, however, with their renowned _kultur_, came to know this, they became enraged, and forbade the officers to have anything to do with me. There was much bad feeling, by the way, between the Turks and the Germans, because while the latter enjoyed plenty of luxuries, the former entirely lacked them, and received pay which was totally inadequate to their needs.

About this time many wounded soldiers began to arrive at Ber Sheba from the Egyptian frontier, where, it was very evident, there was "something doing." They were conveyed to our camp in large baskets--each capable of holding ten wounded--slung upon the backs of camels. On arrival at the village, half of the unfortunate occupants were usually dead or dying as the result of the shaking and jostling occasioned by this crude method of transport. As it became known that I was a medical student, my services were utilized, and I attended to the wounded in the hospital. One might have thought this would have secured me better treatment, but as a matter of fact I was brutally ill-used, somebody whom I had offended reporting to the officer commanding that I knocked the wounded about! This ended my hospital career, and I was at once placed under arrest and confined to my hut again. The food provided now consisted of rice, meat, and bread, all served together in a bowl. This latter turned out to be the bowl of fortune for me, for it occurred to me that it would make an excellent improvised implement for removing the earth beneath the wall of my hut, thus providing me with a means of exit when the time came for my "flitting."

IV--"MY PLAN TO FLEE OVER SINAI DESERT TO SUEZ CANAL"

Night and day I brooded over the problem of escape. My original idea was to elude the vigilance of the guards and get out of the camp through its solitary gate, open on Fridays only. Once outside, I intended to proceed to Jaffa, and somehow get on board a ship there. This plan, however, I had to abandon, for a newly-arrived prisoner of whom I made inquiries informed me that there was no boat available at that port. I had, therefore, no alternative but to choose the crossing of the terrible Sinai Desert to the Suez Canal, a distance of approximately two hundred miles. This was a sufficiently formidable undertaking, but even though I risked dying of exhaustion or thirst on the way I determined to try it, if I got the chance, sooner than endure the misery of my life in the camp. By journeying that way I thought I might be able to give the British authorities in Egypt useful information concerning the Turks.

It was obvious to me, of course, that I could not hope to cross the desert, through a region that was full of Turkish soldiers, in my own character--such an enterprise would have been sheer madness. I decided, after much consideration, that my best plan would be to disguise myself as a Bedouin woman.

Let me explain exactly why I chose to take on a female _rôle_--a very difficult one for most men to sustain. Before the war I had impersonated women on many occasions, both on the theatrical stage and on concert platforms in Russia and Turkey--where I appeared under the name of "Valia Pavlov"--in aid of charity. For example, although I had only seen her twice in France, I quite satisfactorily impersonated Mme. Sarah Bernhardt. I can successfully imitate a woman in walking, speaking, and singing, my face, figure and soprano voice lending themselves admirably for these purposes. I knew, moreover, that a woman would be less suspected than a man, would not be closely questioned, and would have more freedom. In other words, there would be less chance of detection.

Now it is easy enough for a prisoner to decide that he will escape disguised as a woman; the difficulty is to put the plan into execution. But I knew what I was about, and I thought I saw my road to success, though it was one that needed careful negotiation. Every day I was allowed a few hours for exercise outside the camp, escorted, of course, by my own particular guard. Having a good knowledge of Arabic, I had the opportunity, while stretching my legs in this way, of conversing with the Bedouins who dwelt in the neighborhood. The soldier who accompanied me was, fortunately for me, quite ignorant of the language of these people. This was a real stroke of good fortune, and materially helped me in laying my plans. If I was to cross the desert in the guise of a Bedouin woman I should need the assistance of these folk, and I neglected no opportunity of making good friends of them. To this end I gave them small sums of money from time to time, taking care not to reveal to them in any way my intentions, for my knowledge of their character led me to believe that, should I require any favor of them later on, they would not refuse it to me, and so it turned out.

After a lot of preparatory work of this kind--most of it done under the very nose of my unsuspecting guard--I finally selected the man I thought could be relied upon to help me. He never for a moment suspected my intention to escape, as I carefully explained to him that I wanted to obtain an outfit of female attire to enable me to make a journey to see a friend of mine who was a prisoner of war near the Suez Canal. He swallowed my story in its entirety, and in his guileless simplicity was convinced that I should return after accomplishing my errand. He arranged to supply me, when I notified him that I was ready, with a complete outfit "borrowed" from his wife, and to set me on my way to Suez.

It was now "up to me" to devise a means of getting out of my hut and clear of the camp. I have already mentioned my possession of a bowl, with which I intended to dig a tunnel under the side of my hut. Let me now describe the hut itself, in order that my position may be quite clear.

My prison was constructed of wood and canvas, the form of the interior being to all intents and purposes that of a bell-tent. The skin was of canvas, lined with wood clamped together with stout iron strips. There was a door to the hut, with a strong lock, in which the key was turned upon me after every visit from my guard--twice to three times daily. Directly I had fixed things up with the Bedouin I started digging my tunnel. Sometimes the sentry disturbed me during my excavations, but as I was always on the alert, his approach, followed by the click of the key in the lock, gave me sufficient warning to fling my mattress quickly over the hole, take my seat on a box, and look up calmly when he entered, thus avoiding rousing his suspicions. There was little danger to be apprehended from the outside, owing to the great height of the grass and weeds which grew all around the hut. Scraping laboriously with my precious bowl, distributing the scooped-up material carefully over the earthern floor of the hut so as not to attract attention, and on the _qui vive_ night and day, I worked at my burrow for three whole days. The tension I underwent during this period, and the constant anxiety that tortured me, are quite indescribable. I worked like a fiend; I had fully determined that I would not remain in the camp any longer even though death waited for me outside.

V--"I MAKE MY ESCAPE DISGUISED AS A BEDOUIN WOMAN"

My tunnel being completed, I fixed the hour of departure with my Bedouin friend, arranging for him to be waiting at a specified spot about two hundred yards away. The time appointed was in the dead of night--at 12.30 A.M., to be exact--and as the hour approached I worked myself into a feverish state of excitement. I became terribly nervous, thinking of the risk I was about to take and the journey that awaited me if I got free. I realized, almost for the first time, the manifold difficulties of my enterprise, and I told myself I was only going to my doom. Then, as the hands of my watch moved steadily onward, the reaction came, and I grew calm and confident. Courage was needed to make this dash for freedom--well, I would show courage. The moment for action came, and swiftly I removed the mattress that had hitherto concealed my secret passage, put my head through the aperture, and peeped out to survey my surroundings.

So terrible was the tension at that moment that the very grasses which waved in the faint night breeze and the leaves that rustled in the trees caused me to start as though my plans had been discovered; I saw myself, in my mind's eye, thrown back into my cage and subjected to all the humiliating punishments and sufferings that would inevitably have followed. So much was I overcome by my feelings at this moment that I wept for very fear, and, kneeling down, prayed fervently to my Maker to give me back the courage which I felt was leaving me and restore the strength of mind and body that alone could see me safely through that never-to-be-forgotten ordeal.

When the nerve-storm passed I quietly emerged from my hiding place and crept silently away through the grass, making for the point where I was to meet my Bedouin Good Samaritan. I passed through the open gateway in the fence without accident, and arrived at the rendezvous quite breathless. Thank Heaven! My friend was there, and to my surprise and joy he had secured for me a camel, upon which I was to continue my flight.

My joy at this first success is indescribable. There was no time to be lost, however, so I speedily divested myself of my prison attire, which, upon the advice of my Bedouin friend, I carefully buried. I then dressed myself with all possible haste in the disguise my friend had procured for me.

This consisted of a Bedouin dress of some blue-colored stuff with white spots, and resembled an overall or woman's nightgown, secured around the waist with a red sash. The head-dress was a small loose-fitting green bonnet, which had stitched to it a cheap black cotton substitute for woman's hair. Suspended from my ears were large brown polished wooden earrings and droppers, and over all I threw loosely a large piece of thin black veiling, resembling a shawl, which covered the whole of my head, face, and figure, leaving only my eyes showing. My feet were left quite bare. No facial make-up was necessary, my skin being smooth and quite as brown as any Bedouin's. Being thoroughly familiar, from my various impersonations, with the adjustment of a woman's dress, I was able without difficulty to put this costume on in the dark, and I was greatly helped by the fact that before the war my parents had employed a Bedouin servant whose dresses I had worn on the occasion of various carnivals.