Chapter X: Part 10

In the debris were many fragments. Some were of timber and some were of human flesh and bone.

Stretching away directly in front of us was a wide plain, at the far extremity of which against a hill was Monastir, resembling a great cluster of pearls against the dark mountain. The French from the heights of Kisova were shooting down into this plain.

It was terrible; it was grand. It was cruel; it was sublime. My emotions almost overcame me. Major Todorovitch, noticing my agitation, thought I was unstrung and wished to return to the rear.

"Do you not feel well?" he asked me.

"I feel--I feel like a man," I said.

It was the only way I could express myself. I understood now how men fought and died, and were willing to fight and die innumerable times if it were possible for their country. If some of my sisters who cry for peace at any price could have seen the grandeur of this war in a just cause I am sure they would feel as I did.

Major Todorovitch leaped to his feet and grasped both my hands. I thought he would crush the bones.

"Come," he cried, "you are one of us. You shall have the greatest honor of us all."

Dragging me to the edge of the precipice, where had a Bulgarian officer seen him a burst of shrapnel would have greeted him, he planted his feet firmly against a solid rock.

"Lean over!" he cried enthusiastically.

Holding to his hands, my arms straining behind me, I leaned far over the edge of the precipice. I seemed suspended over the very heart of the battle. It seemed for a moment as though the spirit of the war had caught me up and flown with me where the whole fabric of the world conflict was being woven beneath my feet.

"Now," cried the Major, "you are further into Serbia--Serbia reconquered--than the bravest of our brave have been. No Serbian fighting man has yet been so close to Monastir."

The fineness of his compliment could not have been excelled.

I had been told that I might remain upon the summit of Dobrpolje an hour, but the scene fascinated me so and my soldier escorts were so chivalrous that they gave in to me and it was not until nightfall that they dragged me away to the rear, although we had reached the summit about midday.

Once more we were in the backwash of the battle. The roads were lined with stretcher bearers and in the stretchers lay men whose blood dripped through the canvas and stained the dust of the roads--the dust for which they were fighting and dying and suffering the tortures of the damned.

From the _postes de secours_ they were taken to the rear in carts, and the steady rumble of the heavy wheels reminded me of the passing of the tumbrels in the "Tale of Two Cities."

At one point we passed about 800 Bulgarian prisoners and they did not seem at all unhappy at being out of the fighting. It is a commentary on the nature of the Serbians that they gave cigarettes to the prisoners, although the Bulgars have committed nameless atrocities against their foes and have devastated thousands of acres of prune trees, thus destroying a lucrative and immense Serbian industry.

That night Brod fell to the Serbs, but nevertheless I had been that day further into Serbia than any of her fighting sons at that time.

III--A WOMAN OFFICER OF THE CAVALRY

I do not know what silly things Major Todorovitch told Gen. Vassitch, but the General, before all his staff, made me an officer of the First Cavalry, which is the crack Serbian regiment, and a uniform has been sent to me and is on the way to the United States, although there is not enough cloth in Serbia to clothe her own troops. Perhaps when I go back I can use it, for although many an officer offered me a horse, none proffered me a pair of trousers to ride in.

When I was back in Salonica Prince Alexander sent for me and with his own hands pinned on my breast the Order of St. Sava, which is the most coveted of all the Serbian orders.

When I asked him if he really thought I merited it, he said, "I know of no better friend to Serbia than you." I had already held the Kossova medal, which is given only for personal attendance to the wounded, and the Royal Order of the Serbian Red Cross.

Through the kindness of Col. Sondermayer another woman and myself were smuggled into a dinner given to Venizelos, at which no women were supposed to be present. During the course of the dinner Venizelos suddenly turned his head so that he happened to see me and started, as might be expected at a dinner where women were excluded. I also was covered with confusion and could not help showing it.

The next day Col. Sondermayer called with an invitation to visit Venizelos. When we reached his office he was overwhelmed with work, but he rose from his chair and said kindly, "Have I not seen your face before?"

"Yes," I replied, "last night at the dinner when you turned your head and I lost mine."

He laughed, and we were engaged in conversation for an hour. Venizelos entrusted me with a message for the Greeks in America.

"Tell them," he said, "that we need them. If they cannot come to fight they can send money, and it will be used to take care of those who are fighting and those who are left alone after the great battles."

I might refer here to the attitude of the women and even the little children of Serbia and Greece. It is true that the hardest, most cruel burdens of war fell upon the women and the children who are left widows and orphans or who suffer while the men are at the front. It has always been so, but as in every patriotic nation the women are suffering and doing their share as bravely as the men. The soldiers are glad and proud to die for their country, and their women folk and children are proud to have them, despite the sorrow and privation.

It should be a lesson to us in America. Our men and our women and children would be as ready and as willing to bear their burdens, but now in peace and prosperity we should prepare against the time when we may have to take up our burdens so that they may fall no more heavily than is necessary.

Venizelos is above all a Greek.

"I do not care for myself or for what may become of me," he said. "I am working and living and will die for Greece. Greece must live and live in glory and integrity."

Salonica seemed to me the concentrated essence of life. It is a kaleidoscopic scene. You come across the uniform of pretty nearly every nationality, and every known language seems to be spoken. There are soldiers and refugees, Turks and Christians, Greeks and Jews, and the town hums like a beehive day and night. Troops are coming and going, not only white men but negroes, Sudanese, Congoese, Annamese and many others.

When I was in Serbia I had scooped up a handful of earth and had treasured it and brought it back with me to Salonica, where I showed it to some Serbs. Tears came into their eyes and they gazed upon it with a reverence worthy of a sacred relic.

One man thrust his hand into it and said, "You have had the honor and the joy, which, alas, I have not had, of setting foot on Serbian soil freed from the invader. But I swear to you by this sacred earth that I will not die until I have kissed the soil of my country. After that----" he shrugged his shoulders.

By now this man, who was a soldier, may have fulfilled his vow, and if so he is happy, though his kiss may have been a dying breath.

"KAMERADS"!--CAPTURING HUNS IN THE ALPS WITHOUT A FIGHT

_An Extract from the Diary of a Lieutenant of Alpine Chasseurs_

_Set down by Henri Viard_

A racy story told by a young French subaltern, showing how six Alpine
Chasseurs bluffed three hundred Huns, with eight officers, into
surrendering without a fight.--In the _Wide World Magazine_.

I--STORY OF SCOUTING IN THE ALPS

At 5 a.m. on a certain day orders were received for an attempt to drive the enemy from certain strong entrenchments.

To baffle observation, we went forward through the woods. Connection between units was very awkward to maintain, and, many a time, the direction would have been lost were we not guided by the sound of the guns. Nothing but the distant booming of Fritz's cannon and the occasional explosion of a shell broke the forest hush. In Indian file, with scouts some distance ahead, we scrambled through the undergrowth, our feet frequently caught by roots and all kinds of clinging impedimenta, our faces lashed by brambles. We were eager and silent. When exasperated by obstacles, the men swore in dumb show. The orders were to keep mum; so mum we kept.

One's imagination was at work, though, and this warpath-treading business was to me a sort of reminiscence. Had I not lived it before? When a boy, reading Fenimore Cooper and similar authors, I sometimes played at "Pathfinder"; now as a man I felt as if I really was a "paleface" leading a surprise party through virgin backwoods after redskins. Of a truth, the savages that had come upon us from the northern prairies were far worse than Sioux, Cheyennes, Hurons, or Kickapoos. They had sung the She-go-dem, they had sent out the tomahawk and yearned for our scalps. Well, we'll have theirs instead.

At last, the two leading companions, Captain B----'s and my own, reached the edge of the woods and espied the village, four hundred yards away, all bright in the morning sun. The bulk of the battalion had not come up yet. Captain B---- turned and asked, "What next?"

"_Allons-y!_" we replied; "the others will follow suit." Accordingly we massed up quickly in two columns, just outside the cover, and then, "Forward!"

A rush, a pounce--we were intent on catching them. Whew! Caught a crab! The hornets had flown--the nest is empty. Where are the brutes? We meant to surprise them, but, by Jove, they gave us an eye-opener.

The solitary thoroughfare descending to the bridge was enfiladed by four machine-guns ambuscaded on the other side of the water. The moment we got into this beastly funnel the hose was turned on and torrents of bullets splashed by. I leapt to the right, my comrade to the left side of the street, and we fell flat into whatever recesses the walls offered. So long as those deadly jets continued the road was impassable. We could only communicate by shouts, but fortunately our vocal chords are sound. The guns made an infernal din. The bullets ricocheted with vicious hisses--pish, whizz, zizz--striking sparks from flints, zigzagging about, grazing the roadway, raising clouds of dust that hung like a fog overhead.

I squatted my Chasseurs behind the church buttresses, and from these shelters they made faces at their comrades over the way and exchanged banter.

"Put your hand out to see whether there is a draught!" yelled one.

"Can't hear. Come and tell dad, ducky," came the retort.

Irrepressible boys! Danger seems to sharpen their wits.

Presently an order reached me--Heaven knows how--to look out and select whatever "combat position" I could for my men.

But what position was I to select? I couldn't see much of a panorama from my hole. I must go out and reconnoitre.

I called for a volunteer, and every man in the platoon answered, "I, sir! I, sir!" Nearest, best heard. A glance at the fellow next to me. It was Pierrat, a brick. He would do. So, my steps dogged by this hardy terrier, I began to play hide and seek from enclosure to enclosure, dodging down towards the river. Now a back yard, now an orchard, had to be negotiated. They were tricky places; you never knew whether you wouldn't come to a dead stop before you were half-way through. From time to time, whenever a fresh bit of shelter is reached, without looking back, I called out to Pierrat: "Keeping on?"

"_Oui, oui_," he answered, and it was a comfort to be sure that my faithful shadow was still at my heels.

II--A DASH ACROSS THE DEATH ZONE

When we were almost at the bottom of the declivity I descried near the bridge, but on the other side of the road, the railway station. A nice position, this--quite my fancy. Suppose we occupied it! But it must be investigated first, and--well, it was on the other side of the road. My rifleman and I took a long look at the building, and calculated the distance between it and us, and cast a wistful look at each other.

"Rum job, sir," Pierrat agreed. Then, after a moment's consideration, he blurted out: "But I've an idea. Let us make the dash together. The odds are that one of the two will get over."

"Quite so," I told him. "Yet, if I'm the one who does not, will _you_ take command of the fellows?"

He hesitated for a second, took another look at me, and then answered, resolutely, "Why not, sir?"

I shook hands with my new-found successor and, in two leaps the seven-league-booted ogre would have been proud of, we were across the death-zone. Thence, crawling through some gardens, we reached the station unscathed. I got into what had been the waiting-room and the station-master's tiny office. Broken chairs, topsy-turvy tables, lacerated prints, smashed telephone and telegraph fixtures, and empty bottles galore strewed the floor. Wherever Teutons have been, "dead" bottles are certain to be found.

"Drunkards!" grumbled Pierrat, probably feeling very dry.

While I was observing the bridge and mill through the waiting-room's glass door, a stray bullet came crashing in to frame my head in a star of cracks, just under a clean round hole. A fig for aureoles! I'm not a saint yet, nor a hero--which fact I demonstrated instantly by a most unheroic back-start. The place was unhealthy; I would have a look elsewhere. Accordingly I went out on the platform. The part for passengers was too exposed--only fit for express despatch into the other world--but what of the goods department? Merchandise has a knack of lingering on local lines, so provident authorities build weather-proof accommodation for it. This goods depot was a splendid specimen of the sort, with stout, breast-high walls, formerly glass roofed. The glass being already smashed, it would not crash down on the men; but the walls stood, a strong parapet from behind which an efficient fire could be poured into hostile trenches.

I had got my combat position!

The trouble now was to man it. How many of my fellows would live to cross that bullet-swept road? Well, we should see. The first thing was to try and fetch them.

Leaving Pierrat with strict injunctions to keep under cover and have a nap if he liked, but on no account to attract the enemy's attention, I sneaked back somehow to my platoon and ordered a move. "Every man will shift for himself," I told them. "Rendezvous this side of the road opposite the station." I knew Chasseurs could be trusted to find their way through anything. My only doubt was whether I should not be outpaced. As a matter of fact, I was by no means the first in, yet not the last.

When everybody had joined but those whom it would be no use to wait for, I bade them crouch behind me in a line on the verge of the bullet stream, ready to plunge ahead the moment they heard the word.

Presently there came a lull. "Over, lads!"

And over we went. Some did not reach the other side. There are tombs opposite the station, each marked by a little wooden cross with a tam-o'-shanter on top, which will be tended so long as any one of us is left. How many? There was no time to count them just then.

At last we were in the station.

Here I concealed the men behind the parapet, with instructions to cut loopholes and amuse themselves by potting at whatever was worth a shot. At first they did not make much practice. Little by little, however, they spotted places where the Huns offered a target, and then there was sport.

Whenever a silhouette jerked into view, all my Chasseurs giggled for glee. They arranged a sort of rotation between the best shots, and no one would give up his turn to snipe. Pending developments, the more indifferent marksmen watched their comrades' practice, and at each "bull's-eye" a murmur of approval came from the spectators. One of them, a youngster, could scarcely control his excitement. He had a quick eye and, being often the first to catch a glimpse of something, yelped like a boy on his first morning out after grouse. "Here's stuff!" he cried. "Here's stuff!" His neighbour, a steady, unerring killer, suspected of poaching propensities in civilian life, used unconventional language under his breath at each exclamation. At last, as the tyro uttered a shout a little louder than usual, he gave him a vicious kick, bawling, "Hold your row!" The contrast between the advice and the stentorian way in which it was imparted made everybody smile--even the kicked one, who retorted, good-humouredly, "Keep your nerve, mate, or you won't shoot straight!"

Noon. Upon my word, this little game seemed as if it could go on indefinitely, for the Germans, their attention concentrated on the village, which they kept riddling with bullets, had not "registered" us yet.

I contemplated the bridge with longing, greedy eyes, for I felt mad to get to the other side of it. At last I ventured to send a suggestion up to my C.O. Back came the reply: "What's the sense of risking a bearer's life to transmit unnecessary messages? Pocket your pluck and stay where you are."

The time dragged awfully. What would introduce novelty into the situation? I was just "fed up" with it.

III--THE PLATOON AT THE CASTLE WALLS

About 4 p.m. the scene changed. From somewhere, like bolts from the blue, six-inch shells began to shower down, not on us, but in front of us. It made all the difference.

It was our own guns, firing at the Huns, and the first shots, somewhat short, fell in the river, sending up superb water-jets which the now oblique sun illuminated with all the colours of the rainbow. At times, spray splashed down right upon us and, though there is nothing particularly nice about a shower-bath when one is not in the undress for it, we laughed at the quip the sprinkling elicited from a Parisian: "Well spouted, Versailles waterworks!"

But our gunners soon found the exact range, and houses and enemy trenches and their contents began to play fireworks, with stones and pebbles and heads and limbs for stars and rockets. The Huns did not seem to like this; we could see them reel back. After each _rafale_, my men were so elated at the ensuing stampede that most of them popped up in full view over the parapet, cheering like mad, and forgot to shoot.

Presently our C.O. came down to the station and decided that the town should be entered. I had been the first to get near the bridge, and no one disputed my right to be the first across. "Fix bayonets and forward!" My men, highly-strung by protracted tantalization, rushed headlong into the village. I expected the Germans to counter with cold steel, but nothing of the sort happened. Where were the beggars? We searched the buildings. In the mill I found only three blanched Bavarians hidden away behind sacks of flour, and holes were promptly driven through the lot, sacks and all.

I formed my platoon up in two small columns, with orders to advance crouching along the dykes on both sides of the road, which was still swept by machine-guns. Suddenly the _crécelles_ ceased rattling, and I perceived against the enclosure wall of the castle a man signalling to us. I did not know for a moment what to make of his gesticulations, but I could see that he wore red trousers. It was "Come on!" that he was signalling. On, then, and the Evil One take the hindmost!

I heard later that the fellow was a prisoner and risked everything to give us a useful hint.

_Pardieu!_ he did. He rendered the battalion an invaluable service that eventide.

The instant I realized the red-trousered signaller's meaning I guessed that something out of the common must be taking place within the castle. With my sergeant and four men, revolver in hand, I bounded at the double ahead of the platoon and threw myself against the entrance door. It crashed open, and I tumbled against six feet of grey-coated "Kultur."

Blood and fury! My left hand flew at his throat, clutched it, and gave it a violent twist, while my right tried to level the shooting-iron between his eyes. They met mine, and something in them made me shout in German, "Do you surrender?" He seemed to hesitate for the fraction of a second; then he gasped in pure French, "That was my intention." I relaxed my hold, and he added, calmly, "_La guerre est une chose effroyable. Je me constitue prisonnier_."

Very civil, I am sure. I felt I ought to bow, for classical language like this knocks a fellow a couple of centuries back. It knocked every glimmer of passion out of me. I recovered self-possession in a jiffy and--to make amends for whatever bad form there might have been in my recent exhibition of excitement--turned round majestically and surveyed the situation with lordly composure.

Jove!

In the huge yard were some three hundred Huns. The sight gave me a start, but I showed no emotion. Why didn't they shoot, though? They looked puzzled.

"I ask for the lives of my men," said the well-bred voice behind me. The tall jackanapes, it appeared, was their _Hauptmann_ (Captain). Was he, then, surrendering the lot as well as himself?

I couldn't believe it, but I acted as if it was a matter of course.

"Granted," I growled, without turning a hair, "but arms down and hands up!"

"Ground arms!" bawled the German's voice. Scarcely had the command rung out when, like clockwork, forward bent three hundred automatons, down went three hundred rifles, and up again to attention stood three hundred disarmed boobies.

"Hands up!" Up went six hundred paws, and three hundred hoarse voices chorused "Kamerads! Kamerads!"

Ripping! I could have yelled with joy at the sight and shouted "Bravo!" But not a sound escaped my lips. Instead I folded my arms and remained motionless, looking very fierce, I dare say.

Wouldn't there have been a hullabaloo if somebody had guessed what thoughts were passing through the poor brain inside that stern figure?

IV--A DARING RUSE--AND SURRENDER

Presently, seven officers stepped out, marched up, fell in behind my prisoner, and extended the hilts of their swords to me. "Keep 'em," I ordered, dryly; "you'll give 'em to my C.O. Now let's move off, and be sharp!"

"May I beg leave to tell my men they will not be shot?" the Captain asked.

"Very well," I told him; "but don't be long about it."

He went towards his docile crowd and gave them the welcome assurance. Evidently they had been taught that the French give no quarter. I wished he would make a speech, for the whole point for me was to gain time so that supports might arrive. Back he came, and I was in a sweat with the perspiration oozing from my temples. When was he going to see that there were only four men, one N.C.O., and my anxious self on the premises?

Having placed my quartette of Chasseurs and the sergeant on guard at the ward end of the archway, so as to prevent any of the rats in the trap peeping out, I went with a thumping heart to the outer door and took a glance up the road. Hurrah! My platoon had crept up along the ditches. "Up with you!" I shouted, and, screening myself round the corner of the gateway, added, in a lower tone, "Do not look surprised." Then, aloud, I yelled: "Prisoners' escort! About-turn!"

It would never do to give the German officers a chance of realizing how enormously their men outnumbered mine, so I quickly returned to where the _Hauptmann_ and his subalterns stood in a disconsolate group.

"You remain with me, gentlemen," I told them. "Make your men form fours and file out."

"Right! Fours! March!"

When the last four passed out--the whole of the idiots leaving their rifles and bayonets in the yard, of course--I ordered "Halt," and with the eight specimens of Hunnish officerdom swinging behind me in step, moved deliberately to the head of the column.

The enemy being now disarmed, I could afford a little more bluff; besides, through an extraordinary piece of luck, there were just enough survivors of my platoon left to make up the exact regulation number for a prisoners' escort.

"Quick march!" I ordered.

Off we moved, the Captain by my side, the lieutenants following respectfully three paces behind.

On the way towards the bridge, I thought I detected from the corner of my eye the _Hauptmann_ giving me, once or twice, a sidelong glance. I pretended, however, not to see, looking steadily in front, watching anxiously for my supports. Here they are! The Colonel has caught sight of us and is advancing rapidly at the head of the battalion.

I heaved a deep sigh, which did not escape the Captain's attention, for he turned to me inquiringly.

"Allow me to introduce you to my commanding officer," I said, with a graceful smile, the full irony of which he probably did not fathom.

I do not think that particular Bavarian has made out to this day how it all came to pass. Let him try and tackle the mystery on the sunny Mediterranean shore, where chivalrous France affords captive officers ample and comfortable leisure.

So far as I understand it, the man thought superior forces had surrounded the castle, leaving no chance of escape. Feeling entrapped and labouring under the delusion that any further attempt at defence would be futile, his anxiety to save his men became uppermost in his mind. As to the men themselves, when they saw their captain surrender and heard no officer order anything, discipline made them remain inactive. The moment the Captain's command to "ground arms" rang out, discipline caused them to lay their rifles down without further thought or ado. One of them, whom I asked what induced them to throw their hands up, replied, as if astounded at the question: "Why, we were ordered to."

But what about the seven subalterns? Of course, they could not see through walls, and discipline, I imagine, made them "follow their leader" like the men.

If so, discipline be hanged! It is a comfort to think that had a French officer been weak enough to behave as their chief did in similar circumstances, there would have been someone there to blow his brains out and lead the company to a sortie. But what is the use of moralizing? Leopards do not change their spots. Besides, a gift horse should not be looked in the mouth, and the _Hauptmann_ did me, at any rate, a good turn.

Before taking leave of him that evening I inquired what he thought of Alpine Chasseurs. His reply is worth recording, the first words so unexpected from one of the inventors of "frightfulness," the last ones eulogistic, after all.

"To begin with," he declared, "your artillery is diabolical. The use of such weapons ought to be prohibited. It is murder! As to your men, they are extraordinary. The way they creep along is inimitable. Hardly has one got a glimpse of them than--_houp-là!_ they are on the top of you."

Then, after a pause, he added, emphatically:--

"They are wild-cats!"

LIFE ON A FRENCH CRUISER IN WAR TIME

_"Les Vagabonds de la Guerre"_

_Told by René Milan_

Translated from the admirably written papers published under the
title "Les Vagabonds de la Guerre" in _Le Revue de Paris_ for
_Current History_. Especially interesting is M. Milan's account of
the part played by wireless telegraphy in the war.

I--STORY OF WAR ON THE ADRIATIC SEA

At last, on the curve of the waves, is marked the outline of the enemy! Alas! They are only torpedo-boat destroyers! Swift and powerful destroyers, I admit, but Austria might very well have offered us an adversary of our own class. But let us be satisfied with the windfall. Too many days have been thrown away against invisible adversaries. These at least are real, living and full of ardour. They gallop toward us, torpedoes pointed; we point toward them our big guns, which cannot yet reach them; the game is equal. Like us, they have run up the battle-flag, and the _Waldeck-Rousseau_, driving over the waters like a thoroughbred, drags with her her cruisers and her two squadrons of torpedo boats to the adventure in which some one must die.

A few minutes pass, packed with anxious silence. The men shut up in the hidden vitals of the ship strain their ears to catch the muffled sound of the first salvo; they may be killed in a moment, if some well-pointed torpedo should touch the cruiser, but they give their whole souls of bronze to their apparatus and their machines, so that nothing may go wrong in this marvelous crisis. Through their range-finders, the gun-pointers watch the distance vanishing by a kind of miracle. Twenty thousand yards--eighteen thousand yards--fifteen thousand--fourteen thousand. Two thousand yards more, and the storm of our artillery will break over our adversary. In three parallel lines the Austrian destroyers pour forth torrents of smoke; they are in solid formation; each line glides over the blue water like a gleaming boa constrictor. Alongside of us our torpedo-boat destroyers have drawn together and are plowing up clouds of foam that sparkle like silver in the sun.

But what do we see over there? The Austrian lines open out, bend upon themselves, and their heads describe a wide curve. Is it possible? They are going away! They refuse to fight! With a raging anguish we all try to persuade ourselves that our eyes are deceiving us. It is a trick of the sunshine, a puff of wind that bends their smoke. * * * Not at all. They have completed their turning movement and show us their heels, looking like three railroad trains speeding away on rails of foam.

Oh! to have our eyes on our revenge for so many useless weeks, and to see it escape just at the limit beyond the reach of our guns! To feel that under our feet our gigantic machines, which, nevertheless, are not weakening, can no longer catch up with the prey whose legs are too long for us! To measure the distance, and to feel it growing greater, a little more each second, like an elastic that is being stretched! Fourteen thousand yards!

Fourteen thousand one hundred. Fourteen thousand two hundred. * * * Ah! we would fain command the waves, hurl a sudden hurricane into the air, churn the sea into foam and billows. Our potent keels would not slow down, but the destroyers would crash against each billow, would go slower, would exhaust their force, and our triumphant dash would overmatch their cowardice.

They flee toward the labyrinth of the Dalmatian Islands, which grow larger before us like a family of ocean monsters rising from the sea. We continue to pursue. Sixteen thousand--seventeen thousand yards. Perhaps the poltroons will be seized with remorse or indecision. But it is not so; their flight is a premeditated ruse. High up in the sky, slipping and gliding among the transparent clouds, a war plane swoops over the French warships, passes along them, and drops bombs that only our skillful dodging makes harmless; they burst opposite our ships. On the surface of the water one of the cruisers perceives the furrow of a periscope! Some lurking submarine has launched its torpedoes, perhaps; our speed has deceived it; no one is touched; we take a flying shot at the streak of foam, which instantly disappears. The submarine plunges into the depths, the aeroplane is already out of sight, and the destroyers are close to the channel of the archipelago. Eighteen thousand yards--nineteen thousand.

II--IN THE WAKE OF A TORPEDO

After a few hours of unquiet dozing I arose, made a summary toilet, ate I know not what food, swallowed hastily, before going on watch. In the middle of the day I found myself on the bridge again. A bright sun was silvering the distance. The three cruisers, deployed in loose order, continued their course toward the south of the Adriatic; behind, almost invisible, the smoke of the naval forces formed a black mane on the horizon. On board, every one who was not on duty was enjoying a siesta. Every one was finding consolation in dreams for the disappointments of the day before, but a few scores of eyes were watching the very calm sea. The _Ernest-Renan_, a few thousand yards away, was following a parallel course.

Something very white suddenly appeared in the furrows of foam. My binocular immediately followed this wrinkle on the water; you would have said a jet of steam, slipping along just under the surface. For a few seconds I hesitated. Perhaps the fin of a porpoise swimming close to the top deceived me. The remembrance of training in peace times brought back to my memory the track of a periscope, and I hesitated no longer.

"Quick! All on the left! Raise to eight hundred meters! Declination, forty! All engines at full speed ahead! Close the bulkheads! Begin firing!"

The cruiser bounds. In the hold the men of the watch close the bulkheads. The artillery fires. The shells fall around the white, moving streak. They burst like balls of dry snow on a blue wall. All the men, awakened from their siesta, all the officers come up on deck. A few meters from our hull passes the fleecy track of a torpedo launched against us. It has missed us, but a big 194 shell (7¾ inch), fired from one of our turrets bursts immediately above the periscope. It plows the water and splashes it up in the air; the stem of the periscope rises, falls, rises again, falls again, as a wounded animal tries to stand and falls again. Then nothing more is seen. The blue waves show only their habitual indolence. Across the void a storm of cheers comes to us from the _Ernest-Renan_; they have seen the shell tearing up the water, and they are certain that the explosions have crushed in the submarine.

We are going fast, so fast that in a few seconds the cruiser is far from the place of death. The guns turn and follow it, ready to fire again, but nothing shows any more.

"Cease firing! As you were! Open the bulkheads! Resume your course! Engines at sixty revolutions!"

III--DIVINE SERVICE ON A WARSHIP

Every Sunday, divine service is celebrated on board--a serious, simple ceremony. Around the movable altar, flags stretched make stained-glass windows of bunting; the vault of the church is formed by the low whitewashed ceiling of the space between decks; to right and left, the partitions of the cabins, the white stems of the smokestacks, form the metal walls of the shrine; the parti-coloured tubes, steam pipes, well-polished cocks, cast red and yellow reflections; chairs for the officers, benches for the crew, are grouped to a depth of eight or ten yards. He comes who so desires. A bugle call announces services, and whoever is not on duty, either comes or stays away. While the priest is accomplishing the holy rites, you hear in the hold the breathing of the engines, the snoring of the ventilators; above your head, on deck, patter the sailors of the watch; the big Adriatic rollers slap against the hull and the quivering of the rapidly moving cruiser makes the altar tremble.

IV--THE BOOTY OF THE HIGH SEAS

Above the horizon appear the masts, smokestacks, and hull of a ship. Whether her conscience be troubled or at rest, she knows she cannot escape our speed, and does not try to fly. At 5,000 yards her flag informs us of her nationality. English or French, she may go ahead. If she is neutral we show her the international signal:

"Stop immediately!"

And stop she must. If she looks like going on, a blank cannon shot warns her not to play with fire. If she pretends not to understand the invitation, a shell falls just ahead of her, and lets her know we are not joking. If her screw continues to revolve a rap or two on the hull lets her know that the affair is serious. They always stop in time.

The cruiser comes to, within gun range of the suspect. In an instant one of our boats is lowered into the water, the crew seize the oars; the officer on duty, armed with a sword and a revolver, and with a big register under his arm, jumps into the boat, which pushes off.

"Captain, kindly range on deck all persons on board! Let each have his identification papers in his hand. I shall inspect them in five minutes!"

Stewardesses, stewards scatter through the cabins, which are filled with a sudden stir. In the midst of a concert of exclamations, murmurs, and laughter, feverish fingers dive into portfolios and bags. Travelers whose souls are white immediately find what is wanted; the ladies fix their hair, hastily dab a little powder on a suspicion of sunburn, and give themselves a finishing touch. The whole thing is tremendously amusing to them. Just as if it were on the stage! It would not take much to make them put on their prettiest dresses. But the officer is getting impatient, and the Captain is apologizing; one passenger cannot find his passport, which he thinks he has left in his trunk. Exactly! the story is an old one! But let this German quarry climb up, just as he is!

Finally, every one is drawn up in two or several lines--like a row of blind men holding out their trays, each one holds his passport. The men are extremely serious, almost indignant, and, behind their foreheads, you can divine silent tempests; they are on the watch for an imprudent word, in order to invoke their Consuls, their Ambassadors, and the inviolable rights of neutrals. A vain hope. The officer sharply scans them, and turns over their papers with a careful finger. Stamps and paragraphs are in order, and also the description; the passports, the certificate of nationality, do not smell of trickery. But there is no touchstone like language; a few words, a few phrases, tell many secrets to expert ears, and hesitation shows guilt where the papers show innocence.

"Be so good as to tell me where you come from. Be so good as to tell me your name and your birthday. Have you been long abroad? Be so good as to answer in your own language. What is your profession?"

You must question pointblank, in different ways, and be careful not to carry on the conversation. No discussion, an instantaneous judgment, and you pass on.

The true prizes, the genuine booty, you recognize by sure symptoms--Germanic faces, Teutonic accents, harsh or honeyed answers, stammered explanations. In vain do they disguise their names and hand us forged writings, their Germanic race leaks through all their pores. They are hurrying to foment rebellion in Egypt or Tripoli; they are on their way to the Balkans to do their work; to burrow underground in India or China. Invariably they have Swiss or Dutch passports, but their certificate of nationality, brand new, is fresh from the printing press, and reminds you of false coins, too new and shiny. Suspects! The officer goes down to their cabins. Under the mattress, behind the washstand, in the folds of a counterpane, lie the incriminating papers. Enemies!

From this point, one must go on decisively, gracefully, in the French fashion. The officer halts in front of the German, addresses him by name, lays a light finger on his sleeve or shoulder, and says, without raising his voice:

"I arrest you. Follow my sailor, who will take your baggage and put you into the boat."

Cries, explosions of anger, insults must not disturb him. He must add nothing. What has been said has been said.

V--STORY OF THE WIRELESS AT SEA--THE SECRET LANGUAGE

We have on board an ear that never sleeps; it is the wireless telegraph. The apparatus is buried in the depths of the hold; a padded cabin isolates the operators from the noise of the machinery and the cross-currents of discord. From watch to watch the telegraphers pass over the receiver to each other, and the finest murmurs never escape their vigilance.

The air vibrates in an uninterrupted concert. Coming from stations near or far, from ships wandering on the Atlantic or close at hand, calls, conversations seek out their way; the ether transmits them instantaneously. The powerful antennae of the Eiffel Tower, of Ireland, of Germany, of Italy, or of Constantinople dominate with their noisy throats the feeble whispers. With their full force, to any distance, they launch the official news of the great ordeal. If some one talks too loudly, 500 or 1,000 kilometers away, (300 to 600 miles,) they raise their tones, throw more strength into their voices, until the interrupters become silent.

A tacit agreement alternates their messages. The German does not obstruct the Frenchman, the Turk waits until Malta has finished. Madrid, talking to Berlin, rests while London speaks. For these great stations, controlled by their Governments, send out only announcements of the first importance, such as the whole world should know, and they wish neither to confuse nor to be confused. Reports from the front, happenings at sea, diplomatic or financial transactions, plans or insults, circulate in all languages, and you can be certain that the newspapers will not publish them. If by chance the reader of newspapers finds them in his daily sheet, it will be a week or a fortnight later, in a garbled, unrecognizable form.

Sailors hear every bell and every sound; while the rest of the world must be content with the meagre, delayed communications authorized by the censorship, the sailor already knows. His griefs and joys precede the griefs and joys of the anxiously waiting millions. Ireland announces a simple movement of Russian strategy, but Norddeich--the German post--clamors to all the echoes of a German victory, an advance, the capture of thousands of prisoners. Norddeich laconically explains some event at sea, but Eiffel sets his biggest sparks cracking, announcing to Moscow, to Newfoundland, to the Sudan and the Red Sea the disaster at sea that has befallen some Teutonic force. In how many days, with how many changes, will the public read these bits of news? At every hour of the day and night we receive them brutal and imperious.

No illusions are permitted to us. Our enemies do not lie too grossly in these proclamations destined for their Ambassadors, their Consuls, the innumerable agents who uphold the prestige of Germany throughout the world; it is vital for Germany that these men should receive authentic information, which they will make the most of in their bargainings. There is nothing in common between the rhapsodies of her newspapers or of the Wolff Agency and her wireless announcements. At the most, in the case of defeats, she sends out statements made carefully vague. But this very vagueness makes us prick up our ears, and within a few hours London or Paris confirms the English or French victory.

Outside the Chancelleries and Governments, there are no day-to-day records of the war except on warships. We discuss squarely over flags placed exactly where they ought to be; our forecasts, our hopes are rarely deceived. And if the obligation of secrecy did not impose silence upon us we could tell our friends many a bit of news.

But underneath the great tenors of wireless telegraphy whisper the myriads of baritones, basses, members of the chorus. Thus in the tropical forest the roaring of lions by no means hinders the dialogues of insects and rodents; this network of lower voices gives the jungle its deep life. The slender tones of talking ships fill the atmosphere of the sea with a mysterious animation. A big liner, come from tropical seas, announces her passage of such and such a frequented cape. A torpedo-boat patrolling toward Gibraltar tells Port Said about the ships which it has sighted. This torpedo-boat has not got strong enough lungs to shout to the other end of the Mediterranean; it calls Bizerta or Toulon, who answers, takes its message, and relays it forward, like a rebounding ball, to the antennae of Malta, to the masts of a French cruiser in the Ionian Sea, to the wires of a Russian ship in the Ægean, and finally it reaches Port Said. A mailboat announces its position, a squadron asks for orders, a naval attaché or an ambassador sends out information gained by spies; the Resident General of Morocco is sending wheat to Montenegro; the main guards give warning that a submarine is in sight; colliers ask to be told exactly where they are to meet certain cruisers; the whole Mediterranean taps the antennae of the Commander in Chief as a swarm of subalterns tap at the door of military headquarters.

No disorder, no discord in these gusts of whisperings. Like the musicians in a well-drilled orchestra, all these talkers speak at the minute, at the second previously fixed for their turn; chronometer in hand, the telegraph operators watch for the instant allotted to them, and immediately send forth trills of short, brief notes; whether they have finished or not at the end of their period, they stop and wait, for immediately a distant voice begins its part, and would protest violently if any one prevented its speaking. The whole extent of the Mediterranean is divided into sectors, the time is cut up into fragments, and no one is allowed to break the silence if the pre-established table bids him keep still.

Besides, the guilty parties are quickly found out. Just as the fingers of a blind man acquire surprising sensitiveness, so the operators' ears distinguish the timbre, the tone, the musical value of the chatters whom they have never seen. For the initiated the electric radiations have a personality like human speech. Two posts, two ships have distinct voices, pronunciations. This one talks with a sputter, the other speaks with solemn slowness; the voice of one suggests a match scratched on sandpaper, another buzzes like a fly, another sings small, like the flight of mosquitoes. It is a concert almost magical. In his padded cabin the operator hears and distinguishes the whirr of the cricket, the squeak of the violin, the rasped wing-cover of the beetle, the hiss of frying, which the fantastic electricity is sending forth, hundreds of leagues away. It flickers, ceases, begins again; you would say a goblin symphony in some wide wilderness, and yet the least of these vibrations is a message of war, of life and of death.

And indeed they are careful not to talk without saying anything. They all use only secret languages. This perpetual chatter contains no word, no phrase which any one can understand unless he possesses the key on which rests the safety of ships. Cipher, cipher, cipher, nothing.

OVER THE TOP WITH THE AMERICANS IN THE FOREIGN LEGION

_Told by Donald R. Thane, of the Foreign Legion of France_

Back from the trenches, where he fought in the Foreign Legion of
France, Donald R. Thane, an American boy, was wounded and "gassed"
all in the same day. Mr. Thane has seen Mars in his blackest moods;
he has seen him at play and laughs at some of the grim jests of the
war god. His gossip of the trenches--or rather some of it--just as
he told it, nervously, and coughing now and then, for his lungs are
still raw from the gas, gives an American boy's view of the war and
what is going on "out there."--Courtesy of the _New York Herald_.

I--STORY OF AN AMERICAN BOY IN FRANCE

I was walking through Belgium when the war started. Things began to get hot and I went over to Paris. It was there that I enlisted in the Foreign Legion.

Why did I do it?

Well, I'm not going to pull anything about wanting to rescue France, or being fired by the flame of liberty or anything like that. They asked a negro prizefighter--an American--the same thing. He ruefully regarded the many bandages that adorned his more or less mangled body, and said:

"Well, sah, I guess mah curiosity got de best ob mah good sense."

Looking back on it, he answered for me, too.

As soon as I enlisted I became a number. It was No. 38,606, and I think that when we started to fight there were about 65,000 men in the legion. I don't know how many there are now. I do know that regiments have been so decimated that they were consolidated. You must not think of a regiment of the legion, however, as you do of an American regiment with a fixed number of men. I have seen Zouave regiments with 43 companies and about 240 men in each company.

I was assigned to the First regiment of the legion, where there were a number of other Americans, about whom I will tell you later. If the Americans had all enlisted at about the same time probably they would have had a separate regiment, but as they came in separately they were scattered throughout the legion.

They sent us down to Lyons for about a month of training, which was a lot more than was given at first. Some of the men practically got uniforms and then went into the trenches. I knew a French sergeant whose brother enlisted and was killed ten days later.

At Lyons wounded officers and non-coms, taught us soldiering without an interpreter. All the commands were given in French, and the drill masters executed them as they gave them. Lots of the boys didn't know a word of French, but they soon learned to execute all the movements, commence firing, cease firing, rush and retire, to the French commands. That was all the officers cared about. All we needed was to be able to fight in French.

II--IN A LITTLE WOOD NEAR LASSIGNY

My regiment was stationed in a wood a little way south of Lassigny, and for a time everything was very pleasant. The Prussians couldn't see us, and we had to fear only an occasional shell which came our way. The Boches had a habit of combing the whole line once every morning and once or twice toward evening. I suppose it was just so we wouldn't get too "cocky."

The regiment was divided into three parts. One-third stayed up in the outpost trenches and did a little patrol work in the woods. A second part was in the second-line trenches, repairing them and ready to move up if an attack came, and the third part was in the rear washing up and resting.

The men on outpost had to be pretty careful, because sometimes at night the Boches would move up and throw a few grenades or take some pot shots at them, but on the whole we were pretty comfortable in the woods at Lassigny, getting used to the sound of shell fire and occasionally experiencing what it is like to have some one shoot at YOU, purposely--to kill you.

But this came to an end. One day the Prussians began to pay a great deal of unsolicited attention to our sector. Their artillery hammered at us incessantly all day and all night. We knew an attack would come when the artillery fire ceased, and more and more men were moved into our trenches all the time.

I was sorry for the outposts, who had little or no protection against this kind of fire, but who had to stay out in the front to see when the attack started. The French officers seemed to know about when the assault was due, and one night they moved us out of the woods into a more exposed position. Here we huddled in bombproofs about thirty feet below the surface of the earth.

Shells were bursting all around us. We could hear the earth and stones thrown up by the explosions come rattling down on the roof of our shelter, and we always looked up at the raftered ceiling and wondered if it was going to hold. To die here like rats in a trap was not what we expected. I had never been in an attack and I dreaded it, but I thought surely it must be better than this sitting here, waiting for the top of the ground to fall down and crush me.