Chapter V: Part 5

In the barracks at Sidi-bel-Abbes, where the most cordial and frequently rowdy _bonne camaraderie_ reigns, failures in art, science, literature, and every other walk in life may be found by hundreds. Special cases like that of the gallant Lieutenant-Colonel Elkington, who, after being cashiered by general court-martial, joined the Legion as a simple private at the beginning of the present war and won his way to distinction, are rare. He was in the thick of the fighting in the Champagne country, lay for ten months in hospital badly wounded, and before regaining the confidence of his King and country was personally decorated with the Médaille Militaire and the Croix de Guerre by an officer attached to General Joffre's staff. To find an exact parallel to this instance of reinstatement in the British Army would be difficult. Among the legionaires, however, there have been quite a number of men of the type of the American Daly, an artist and pupil of Gérôme, who lost at Monte Carlo everything his father had given him to pay for his art training in Europe; scores, too, of such enigmas as that fine young fellow who joined the Legion in 1893, served in Tongking, and left in 1898, at the end of his time, when by chance his superiors discovered that he had been first tenor at the Theâtre de la Monnaie at Brussels. Not a note had he sung, not a single reference to music had he made whilst in the regiment! Ah, what stories some of these ne'er-do-wells, drunkards, comedians, and gentlemen with fine manners could tell if only they would consent to open their lips!

V--WHY GERMANS HATE THE FOREIGN LEGION

Many of them, of course, have no tale worth telling, and among these are the deserters from other armies. If we include the Alsatians and Lorrainers who join to avoid service under the hated German flag, they form a very big class indeed. Nearly every year more than a thousand men of the annexed provinces and more than a thousand Germans flocked to the French standard, with the result that the Legion has always been disliked and slandered by Germans. We have before us seven closely-printed pages forming a list of books and pamphlets written by German writers, who, filled with Pan-Germanist hatred and inspired by the virulent libels of anonymous scribes, have endeavoured for the past twenty years to throw mud at a military organization into which so many of their countrymen escaped. This prompts new thought. If German soldiers are so glad to join a body in which life is "a veritable hell upon earth," where men "never taste meat, but only bread and rice," where they "sleep on the bare ground," where "noses, ears, and fingers are cut off for the slightest fault," where they are "buried in the sand to the waist with an iron cage over them filled with hungry rats"--the last idea was stolen by the German slanderers from Octave Mirbeau's "Jardin des Supplices"--what must their life in their own army be like?

As a matter of fact, many Germans who have served in the Legion have had, on their return home, nothing but good to say about it, and have become voluntary recruiting agents for France, hence an increased bitterness on the part of the Huns. A few years ago deserters from the German army became so numerous that a society was formed at Munich, bearing the name "The German Protection Society Against the Foreign Legion." Several times men were arrested for trying to persuade their comrades to join the Legion, but they had to be released, as it was found that they were pure-born Teutons.

And now let us apply the supreme test and look into the fighting record of the legionaries. As military experts are agreed that they are among the finest fighters in the world. Innumerable instances of their stubbornness can be given, and it is the quality which has made them, time after time, invaluable as a "stiffening" whenever it has been considered necessary to draft a number of soldiers of the Legion into a regiment of less experienced troops. "The most pusillanimous of them," said an old French officer, who had seen much service in Africa, to us, "will hold out to the death when side by side with a legionary and inspired by his superb courage."

One of the feats of the Foreign Legion was the taking of Son-Tay on December 16th, 1883, a square brick _citadelle_ protected by a hundred cannon, a moat five yards wide, and hedges of bamboo, and defended by twenty-five thousand men--ten thousand Chinese regulars, ten thousand Black Flags, and five thousand Annamites. As an example of pure bravery, look at the thirty-six days' siege of Tuyen-Quan, which in 1885 was held by six hundred legionaries against twenty thousand Chinese. Few celebrated sieges have attained and none surpassed in horror what took place there. On the occasion of the Camerone affair, in Mexico, sixty-five legionaries, without food or shelter, in an open court and under a tropical sun, held in check for more than ten hours two thousand enemies, three hundred of whom they killed. The word "Camerone" is embroidered on the flag of the Foreign Legion, and if you go to the Invalides you will see on one of the walls, in letters of gold, the names of the three officers who directed that handful of heroes, with the date of the fight: "Lieutenant Vilain, Sub-Lieutenant Mandet, and Captain Danjou; April 30th, 1863."

VI--FRANCE'S TRIBUTE TO THE LEGION

The bravery of the Foreign Legion has been so conspicuous that on February 16th, 1906, M. Eugène Etienne, then Minister of War, proposed that the flag of the 1st Foreign Regiment be decorated with the Legion of Honour, "in recognition of the acts of devotion, courage, and abnegation which a troop, ever on a war footing, renders to the country in the defence of its Colonial possessions." This was done, and at the Invalides, in a special case, can be seen an old flag of the regiment bearing the date September 24th, 1862, a flag which had been retaken from the enemy, and on the staff of which hangs the Cross of the Legion of Honour, the finest tribute which France can pay to the glorious deeds of the Foreign Legion.

During the present war a further distinction has been granted the marching regiment of the Legion. Authority has just been given the men to wear the _fourragère_, or braid, over the left shoulder. The flag of this regiment had already been decorated with the Croix de Guerre.

The latest recorded exploit of this gallant corps was the capture, at the point of the bayonet, of a fortified village strongly held by the enemy. The men of the Legion held out so vigorously that all the enemy's counter-attacks were beaten off, and seven hundred and fifty German prisoners were sent to the rear.

The British residents in Paris and other parts of France who volunteered for service in the French army and trained at the Magic City in 1914 were drafted into the Foreign Legion, and the survivors have reason to be proud of their old corps.

But the complete history of the doings of the Legion during this war can only be written some time hence. Suffice it to say, in addition to the above facts, that they have been mentioned in army orders no fewer than three times--a distinction not won by any other French regiment. At one time, during the Champagne campaign, they advanced eighteen kilomètres into the enemy's front, and if only there had been reinforcements to back them up there is no doubt a great victory would have been won. The many personal heroic deeds, too, necessitate names and details which will not yet pass the Censor's scrutiny. But one incident, in conclusion, perhaps we may mention, as recorded to us by M. Maurer.

"One of my former men, an Alsatian peasant of the lowest type, speaking only of his own _patois_ and unable to read or write, came to Paris after serving fifteen years in the Foreign Legion. I was instrumental in getting him a place in a public wash-house, where he drew a handcart for the sum of four francs a day, which, by the by, he promptly spent in drink as soon as it was handed to him. As soon as war was declared he was off again to his _métier_. He returned on leave after ten months in the trenches, and came to see me. Judge of my surprise when I found he had become a sub-lieutenant, wearing the Croix de Guerre and Croix Militaire with the three palms! Still unable to speak more than a dozen words in French he explained in his dialect, when I inquired what he had done to acquire such distinctions, that he had killed fifty-two Boches in the most dramatic circumstances. Night after night he had slipped out of his trench, and like a snake in the grass crawled across 'No Man's Land' to the enemy's listening-posts, which are invariably under the charge of experienced officers and picked men. He did his work silently and expeditiously--with a knife. A terrible but true anecdote of this relentless war!"

ADVENTURES OF WOMEN WHO FACE DEATH ON BATTLEGROUNDS

_Little Stories of Woman's Indomitable Courage_

This is a group of little tales of brave women--direct from the
battlefields. They are but typical of the noble deeds of the
mothers and daughters of all nations throughout the war. It has
been estimated that forty thousand women have fought in the
armies--thousands of them in soldiers' uniforms. The first three
stories told here are from the _New York American_, and the fourth
is from the _New York World_.

I--STORY OF ENGLISHWOMAN WHO RISKED LIFE ON RUSSIAN BATTLEFRONT

Mrs. Hilda Wynne has youth, beauty, wealth and fascination--she cast them all into the great pool of the war in Europe, and added bravery to them--a limitless bravery. She wears the Croix de Guerre, the gift of France. King Albert of Belgium decorated her with the Order of Leopold, and Russia honored her with the Order of St. George. These rare distinctions she won by unique service. She drove her ambulance between the first trenches. Back and forth she went, driving her automobile at furious pace with the fire pouring upon her from the allies on one side and the Germans on the other, but a mile separating them. Her unit worked between the first trenches, the only workers permitted to operate on this danger line. Mrs. Wynne and her organization, the Bevan-Wynne Unit, have saved more than 25,000 lives of wounded that but for her speedy aid would have been lost. She then came to America for the specific purpose of interesting Americans in the needs of Russian soldiers.

_Told by Hilda Wynne, herself_

I have looked into the eyes of death and seen there many things.

Looking upon the human carnage I have witnessed, from this distance and in the little breathing space I have taken from service to make you Americans know the Russians and their needs better, I testify that I have seen thousands of heroic acts, but the bravest act happened on the Russian front.

I saw two aviators go up to certain death. They were a Russian and a Frenchman. Both were little men. They went up to meet twenty German aeroplanes. It was suicidal. But they had been ordered to go--and theirs was the spirit of the gallant six hundred. I stood near them as they made ready to go. They said nothing. That is one of the lessons you learn in war--not to waste time nor words.

They got their machines ready as a rider tests his saddle straps and stirrups before starting for his morning gallop through the park. A little pothering and fixing of the machinery and they had gone. They went straight up and began blazing away at the German planes. I watched and the cords of my heart tightened, for the German planes, looking like great gray birds with wings wide spread, came closer and closer. They surrounded them. They formed a solid double circle about them. Then they began to fire. And I turned and covered my eyes with my hands, for out of that solid, ominous group two dots detached themselves and fell. A few seconds later what had been aeroplanes were splintered wood and what had been men a broken mass covered by smoking rags.

While this was the bravest act I saw in two and a half years on the firing line, I readily recall the most pathetic. It was the second line of men in the Russian trenches. They were unarmed soldiers. There were no guns for them. They took their places there expecting that the man in front might drop, and the second line man could pick up his gun and take his place. The reports that some of the Russian soldiers have desperately fought with switches I have no doubt is true.

I have seen many of the allies die. They all die bravely. At Dixmude when the fusiliers arrived 8,000 and went out 4,000 there was magnificent courage in death. The Frenchman dies calling upon his God. The Englishman says nothing or feebly jests; just turns his face to the wall and is still. The Russian is mystic and secretive. The Russian lives behind a veil of reserve. You never fully know him. In the last moments you know by his rapt look that his soul is in communion with his God.

One of the deepest, unalterable truths of the war is the German power of hatred. It is past measuring. An example occurred at Dixmude. When we had been there three days we were driven out. I took my car filled with the wounded across a bridge just in time. A second after we had crossed there was a roar, then a crash. A shot had torn the bridge to pieces. Three weeks later to our hospital was brought a wounded German.

"I know you," he said. "We nearly got you at the bridge at Dixmude."

"I remember," I said.

That man's eyes used to follow me in a strange way. Build no beautiful theories of his national animosity disappearing, or being swallowed up in his gratitude. There was no such thought in his mind. The eyes said: "I wish I had killed you. But since I didn't I wish I might have another chance."

This after I had driven away a group of zouaves who had taken everything from him, including his iron cross, and who were debating whether to toss him into the canal then or that night.

It is quite true that the Germans fire upon hospitals. Don't believe any disclaimers of such acts. There have been many of them. The aeroplanes were circling about and above a rough hospital we had constructed and we had to leave it in a hurry. We told the patients of their danger and hurried them into ambulances to take them to a safer spot. One of the patients was a German. Both his arms had been shot away. He was in great pain. I went to his cot and offered to help him.

"Lean on me," I said. But he turned upon me a baleful look.

"No," he said, staggering to his feet. His tormented body reeled as he made his way to the door. "No," he repeated. "I will take no help from the enemy."

It is true that a shell has burst at my feet. It has happened dozens of times. That isn't alarming. If it burst a few feet away I should be killed. Shells glance down and under the ground. That saves one if he is near it. A shell bursting near one is a commonplace in war.

The shells have a disturbing way about them, more disturbing to your plans than your equanimity. Shells prevented my having a nice comfortable illness. In southern Russia one can get little to eat. Coarse black bread is the chief food. It causes unpleasant disorders. I, afflicted with one of them, arranged a table in the corner of my tent. I placed remedies on the table, undressed and turned in, intending to have a cozy illness of a few days. But as I lay there came an angry buzzing. A shell hissed through, carrying away a corner of my tent. That ended my illness. I had no more time to think of it.

The greatest peril I encountered was not from shells. I have said that one becomes used to them. One of the greatest dangers I faced was on a dark night drive along a precipice in the Caucasus. It was while the plan to bring troops through Persia to Russia was expected to be successful. I went ahead with some ambulances. It was necessary to take two Russian officers across the mountain. I offered my services. The road was an oddly twisting one. On one side was a high wall, on the other a precipice whose depth no one calculated. But as I allowed myself to look into it at twilight I could see no bottom to it. We started on the all night drive at dusk. The precipice remained with us, a foot away, most of the distance. Had my car skidded twelve inches the story would have been different.

Then, too, I wandered once within the Turkish lines, mistaking them for our own. But amidst a courteous silence I was allowed to discover my mistake and escape without harm.

I think I owe my opportunity to do my bit, in the way I have, to the fact that I arrived in Flanders a few hours before the fight and the officers were too busy to send me back. I had seven automobiles, and knew how to use them. I took them to Dixmude and offered the automobiles and my services to the cause. I established headquarters at Furnes, which is seven miles from Nieuport, eight from Dixmude and twenty from Ypres. I drove along the Yser Canal to the parts of the field that were under the heaviest fire, for there, I knew, my cars and I would be most needed. For a year I worked for the relief of the wounded of the French armies. Then I went to Russia, where I found the need of help and the sacrifice of life because of lack of that help, almost inconceivable. The French armies have 6,600 ambulances. The Germans have 6,200. Russia, with a firing line of 6,000 miles has but 600 motor ambulances.

I established dressing stations in the mountains. Some of these were 10,000 feet above the sea level. There, on the canvas stretched between two horses, the wounded were brought, or so they started. For many of them died in the long journey, every step of which was torture to a wounded man.

The most exciting experience I ever had was on the Galician border. We could approach the battle line only along the Tranapol road, which ran for fifteen miles directly under German guns. I was speeding along it with an ambulance full of wounded soldiers when a shell struck the roadside and exploded, tearing a great hole in the earth fifty feet away. The concussion stopped us. Then we went on. I travel on my luck. Some time, I suppose, I shall travel too far.

I have given all my fortune to the work. That is what we should do--give not what we can afford, but all we have.

II--STORY OF THE "SPY-TRAPPERS" OF ENGLAND WHO CAUGHT CARL LODY

Everybody has heard of the tremendous ramifications of the German military spy system, which had every move of England's army and navy under observation, every gun emplacement mapped out and knew every order given to the army before it reached the subordinate officers.

Englishmen were powerless to shake off this spy danger, which penetrated into every branch of national life, but English women took up the matter, brought the most dangerous spies to trial, put the others under armed guard and in various other ways made the lives of spies and suspected spies a burden to them.

They have proved that women are the only efficient "spy trappers." The leaders of the undertaking are women of title, for they alone would have the authority, means and prestige to carry out such a difficult and far-reaching work.

The organizer and "chairman" of the committee that has been rounding up the spies is Lady Glanusk, wife of a peer and officer, a woman of keen mind and very determined, yet tactful personality. Other members are the Duchess of Wellington, who is president; the Duchess of Beaufort, the Duchess of Sutherland, the Marchioness of Sligo, Countess Bathurst, the Countess of Lanesborough, Viscountess Massereene and Ferrard, Viscountess Combermere, Viscountess Cobham, Lady Vincent, Lady Leith of Fyvie, Mrs. Harold Baring and others.

Among them are some of the most notably beautiful women in English society and others who are distinguished by their winning personality. Perhaps the most striking beauty is the Viscountess Massereene and Ferrard, whose husband is the chief of a celebrated Irish family. Equally attractive in her way is the young Duchess of Sutherland, whose husband is the largest landowner in Scotland and the United Kingdom.

Another member of the committee noted for her beauty is Mrs. Harold Baring, who was formerly Miss Marie Churchill, of New York. Her husband belongs to the famous English banking family that possesses four peerages. Lady Leith of Fyvie, is another American born member. She was Miss Marie January, of St. Louis. Womanly intuition and womanly guile exercised by these attractive "spy trappers," on many social occasions, have led many Germans to make admissions they would never have made to a man.

Before the war thousands of Germans were in positions of trust in England, ranging from heads of banks down to such positions as butlers in prominent English families and headwaiters in leading hotels. Many people believe that German butlers in the employ of British Cabinet ministers and British generals have been the most important agents for conveying military information to the enemy. Standing silent and discreet behind their employers and their guests at the table, they listened to many military secrets and they also had other opportunities for gathering information.

One of the fair members of the committee dined one evening at the house of an English general with a small party of persons highly placed in military and official life. When the general joined the ladies in the drawing room after dinner the fascinating "spy trapper" drew him aside and said:

"General, before I go, I want you to arrest your butler and search his belongings. He is a German spy," she said.

"But Lady ----," said the general in amazement, "he has been with me for ten years. The man is an excellent butler."

"No doubt," said the lady, "but he is also an excellent spy. Never speak to me again if I am wrong."

The butler's room was searched and many notes of an incriminating character were found. The lack of positive evidence that he had sent information to the German Government saved his life, but he was sent to prison with a host of other German spies.

It is generally understood that Carl Hans Lody, the German spy executed in the Tower of London, was brought to trial through the efforts of the women's committee, although the members disclaim the achievement.

Lody was an officer of the German naval reserve who had resided some years in the United States, married and deserted his wife there. He was engaged for a time as an agent of an English tourist agency in America, work which gave him an excellent opportunity for watching military preparations.

Last August he obtained an American passport from the American Embassy in Berlin, under the name of Charles A. Inglis, of New York, American citizen. He went to England with instructions to obtain information concerning the movements of the English fleet for the German Government.

In the disguise of an American tourist, he visited the principal seaports of the United Kingdom. While he was viewing the romantic scenery in the vicinity of Edinburgh, an attractive member of the ladies' committee made his acquaintance. Under the influence of sympathetic society Lody became more communicative than discretion warranted.

Behind the superficial American accent the natural German accent revealed itself in the warmth of confidence. A few days later, Lody was arrested and letters, which he had written to Germany, giving information concerning English naval movements and which had been seized in the mails, were produced.

Lody admitted that he was acting as a spy. After a short trial he was condemned to be shot in the old Tower of London. He met his fate very bravely.

The "ladies' committee" has hunted down all German headwaiters and waiters employed in the principal English hotels and restaurants and caused them to be removed to detention camps. These men, owing to the peculiar character of their work, enjoyed an excellent opportunity for meeting persons of all the important classes of society, and in the free expansion that ordinarily takes place at the table all kinds of confidences were exchanged within their hearing.

Many Germans of high social position and great wealth, some of them naturalized British subjects, have been pursued by the relentless "ladies' committee." Professor Arthur Schuster, a born German, but a naturalized Englishman, was surprised at his luxurious country seat, when a band of detectives descended on him and seized his private wireless apparatus.

Lady Glanusk explained to the correspondent of this newspaper some of the aims and labors of the committee.

She has turned the drawing and reception rooms of her fine house, at No. 30 Bruton street, Mayfair, into offices for the committee.

"Owing to the fact," said Lady Glanusk, "that no serious effort has been made by our menkind to round up the 73,000 alien enemies in our midst, I felt the call to start a protest by women, as it is women who are the greatest sufferers by war. My husband and two sons are fighting at the front and thousands of women can say very much the same.

"Ten days after I issued my appeal to the women of England I had formed my committee with the definite object that all alien-born enemies, whether German, Austrian or Turk, of military age, be forthwith interned, whether naturalized or not. Other alien enemies above military age or under should be removed at least twenty miles from the coasts and kept under surveillance.

"I consider that women as spies and decoy ducks are more dangerous than men.

"To such an extent have the women of England been roused that in the first couple of weeks more than 200,000 signatures to the petition to be presented to Parliament were obtained.

"Alien enemies, Germans and Austrians particularly, were spread all along the coast towns and it was impossible to know whether or not they were in constant communication with the enemy. For my part, I would like to see as many as possible of these 'useless non-combatants' dumped right onto German soil. It would be amusing to think of the embarrassment of the German authorities having to find food and shelter for something like 70,000 fresh mouths. Another trouble is the shameful favoritism shown to wealthy and highly placed Anglo-Germans while their humbler compatriots are interned without ado.

"Out of the petition of protest has grown what we have named 'the anti-German League,' by which it is resolved that no member will employ or sanction the employment of any German or alien enemy. Members will further refuse to deal with any shops or establishments selling any German or alien enemy goods. As the members of our committee are highly influential people the movement should be effective and will continue for several years. Further, no pains will be spared to improve the usefulness of British hotel waiters and other hotel and restaurant employees.

"If every British woman will realize that it is shameful and treacherous to give financial help to the Germans there will be no future need to protect the public from this alien peril, for the German Empire will never be in a position to menace us again, for war cannot be waged except by a commercially flourishing nation."

Lady Glanusk is a typical Englishwoman, full of energy, go and spirit. She is tall and stately, with a beautiful complexion. She received the American correspondent cordially and with a friendly grasp of the hand.

During the interview Mr. Joynson-Hicks, Member of Parliament, and just recently appointed Chairman of the Unionist Parliamentary Committee lately formed to inquire into this alien enemy question, was present, as was also Lord Euston, heir to the Dukedom of Grafton.

III--STORY OF DAUGHTERS OF ENGLISH NOBILITY WHO WORK IN TRENCHES

Many beautiful girls of the most delicate breeding have gone to the front to nurse the wounded--to see the worst horrors of this most horrible of wars.

It must not be assumed that they have merely gone to the base hospitals to attend to the wounded soldiers brought to them from the front and carried to them through the dangerous area. Some at least have gone right to the trenches into the midst of the inferno of bullets and shells and poisonous gases, where the air is filled with the groans of the dying and the stench of the unburied dead and where the very soil trembles from the force of the new and devilish explosives that reduce humanity to a pulp.

The sights that these delicately reared girls must witness can only be hinted at. Many strong men have turned sick at the same experience, and even veteran soldiers are only able to endure their surroundings by smoking the strongest kind of tobacco. How the spoiled darlings of society will come through their terrible experience must be one of the most interesting problems of the war.

One of the most strikingly beautiful girls at the front is Miss Gladys Nelson, daughter of Sir William and Lady Nelson, who have a house noted for its art treasures in Hill Street, Mayfair, the most aristocratic quarter of London.

Sir William Nelson is a great railroad magnate, having large enterprises of this character in the colonies and other parts of the world. He is probably one of the wealthiest men in the United Kingdom. He has two sons in the army, and four daughters married to army officers. His only unmarried daughter, Miss Gladys, determined that she would not do less for her country than any of her family.

Miss Nelson is the purest and most refined type of English beauty. She is tall, lithe and athletic, with beautiful golden hair and a very delicate, fair complexion. This exquisite daughter of millions is actually running a motor ambulance from the trenches in the North of France to the base hospital. She helps to carry the poor wounded soldiers in her car back of the firing line and then drives them to the base hospital. She has been repeatedly under fire and runs the risk of being killed almost daily. She was within the firing zone when the Germans first began their use of poisonous gases, and it was only because she had a full load of wounded in her car that she moved to the rear before the deadly fumes reached her.

All the risks of death and injury, however, would seem to be less of an ordeal to a woman of sensitive nerves than the sights she must constantly witness. The bodies of dead and wounded have been turned black, green and yellow, so that they become in many instances a caricature of humanity.

Then so furious is the fighting and so difficult the work of attending to the wounded that the dead have often been left unburied for days. The wounded are often terribly mangled and sometimes left to lie in the dirt for hours or even days before the ambulances can find them. Before they can be relieved at all their clothes and boots may have to be cut from them, and in this process very often large masses of flesh come away with the garments. These and other services are rendered by the women ambulance workers.

The exquisite Miss Gladys Nelson has been doing her share in this terrible work, and, according to last accounts, doing it very creditably. Will she come through the ordeal a stronger and nobler character or will she break down under it?

One of the bravest English nurses is Miss Muriel Thompson, of the First Aid Yeomanry Corps. She belongs to a well-known English family. She is a pretty girl of robust physique. She has been right up to the trenches in one of the worst centres of carnage in the whole field of war. Many badly wounded Belgians, who had no hope of medical attention from their own forces, were carried by Miss Thompson from the firing line. King Albert of Belgium presented to her on the battlefield a medal for bravery.

The beautiful Marchioness of Drogheda, a young matron of the highest aristocracy, is nursing the wounded in a houseboat on the Yser River, in Belgium, where some of the most terrible fighting of the whole war has occurred. This is the spot where the Germans put forth their greatest force in the West last October to break down the allied lines and reach the English Channel.

The Germans in their advance either killed the Belgian inhabitants or at least drove them out and destroyed their homes. The allies in their anxiety to stop the Germans flooded the country and destroyed hundreds more Belgian homes. The world has never seen a more pitiful and death-strewn waste than this once very populous and prosperous region.

The Marchioness of Drogheda and some other English women are laboring among the wounded and starving on the Yser, within sound of the guns to relieve some little part of the unspeakable misery.

Two of the most noted beauties of the British aristocracy are in training to act as war nurses. One of them is Lady Diana Manners, daughter of the Duke of Rutland and sister of the former Lady Marjorie Manners, whose heart affairs have been of so much interest to the world.

Lady Diana is one of the most charming, dainty and sprightly girls in the liveliest set of fashionable society. To think of such a girl amid the blood, dirt and horrors of trench warfare gives one the greatest shock of all. It has not yet been decided where Lady Diana will take up her duties in the war area, but her friends say that her spirit is so great that she will go to the most dangerous places that any woman has yet ventured to.

Another beautiful girl of equal social prominence who has been training as a war nurse is Miss Monica Grenfell, daughter of Lord Desborough, one of the most noted sportsmen in England.

In the earlier stages of the war considerable adverse comment was excited by the numbers of society women who forced themselves through their influence with high officials into the fighting area, where they were not fitted to be of help and were often a serious hindrance.

This evil has now been nearly eliminated. With a growing sense of the awful seriousness of the war the most frivolous of society women have become subdued. Under the direction of such masterful men as General Kitchener and General Joffre the army officers and other officials have refused to allow any women, however highly connected, who were actuated merely by curiosity, to proceed to the front.

Only women qualified to nurse and belonging to a recognized war nursing organization are now allowed to go near the fighting area.

At one time criticism was excited by the sight of Lady Dorothy Fielding, the twenty-year-old daughter of the Earl of Denbigh, standing among a group of admiring French and Belgian officers at the front. It was assumed that a girl of such an age and such training could only be a hindrance among the fighting men, and it was even hinted that she was addicted to flirting.

Whatever she may have been at first, the young Lady Dorothy has now changed all opinions of her and become a real heroine. With training and experience now lasting for months she has become a most valuable as well as courageous nurse in rescuing and caring for the wounded. Naturally a strong girl and accustomed to athletic sports, she has shown herself peculiarly fitted for this kind of work.

Many ladies of rank interested in the wounded have lately shown their good sense by not trying to go to the fighting area. The handsome and skittish Duchess of Westminster, who excited some attention at first by bustling around among the soldiers in France has now gone to Serbia, where there is the greatest need of Good Samaritans. The hospital founded by her at Le Touquet, near Paris, has done good work.

The condition of Serbia is such that any women who ventures there must see the extremes of human misery. The whole country has been turned into a charnel house by the invading Austrians, followed by the still more terrible typhus fever. Men, women and children are dying of disease without being able to find a bed to lie on or a roof to cover them.

One report stated that young Lady Paget had died while nursing typhus patients in Serbia. Her mother is the well-known American Lady Paget, wife of General Sir Arthur Paget, and the daughter is married to a distant cousin, named Sir Richard Paget, British Minister to Serbia. Later news came that young Lady Paget had not died of the fever, but she is passing through scenes of horror that have not been known in Europe for three centuries.

IV--STORY OF A NEW YORK MOTHER WHO SOUGHT HER SON IN THE TRENCHES

Paul Planet was sailing away from New York and from the mother he adored to fight under the colors of France.

Other women--mothers, wives, sisters, sweethearts--pressed forward. They also gazed tearfully after the slowly receding steamer.

The girlish figure with the great brown eyes and firm, resolute mouth, stood motionless.

"Paul," she murmured. "He is my only child--my boy!"

Weeks passed--months.

Paul Planet's regiment was at the front. He had learned what it means to look death in the face, to live in the trenches, to see the horrors and devastation of war. He had fought and fought bravely, and experienced no regrets save one--that he must be separated from his mother.

"We have always been more like chums than mother and son," he confided to his comrades. "Since my earliest recollection until now we have never been separated."

But when he drew forth a small picture from over his heart and said it was a likeness of the mother for whose loneliness he sighed, his friends ridiculed his statement.

"Your sweetheart," they said, "or perhaps your sister. But never, never ask us to believe that the likeness is of your mother."

"She is always young--always beautiful--to me she will never grow old," declared the young soldier. But after that he did not show the picture again.

In far away New York the fair young mother of so stalwart a son learned, as months rolled by, what it means to watch and wait, to tremble at the sound of the postman's ring lest it be the harbinger of ill news; to live, day by day, in a state of suspense and agony bordering upon despair, and to envy every mother she saw whose son walked by her side.

Then she, too, sailed for France.

"I must find my boy," she told those who sought to dissuade her from undertaking the trip.

For nearly a year had passed and no word had been received from Paul Planet. His name had not appeared in the lists of dead and missing, yet of his whereabouts his mother could learn nothing.

She applied to the officials at the Army Headquarters in Paris for information or assistance in locating her son. Her efforts were fruitless. Passports she received to certain sections of the country where the family name was known and where she had relatives or friends to visit or business to transact, but no permission was accorded her to leave the train at any intermediate point nor to visit a military camp.

Day after day Mme. Planet planned and schemed how she might find her boy. She made journey after journey in the vain hope that chance might bring her near him. Her aged mother now accompanied her.

"It will be a miracle if you ever find him," declared the elder woman as they looked forth upon miles of devastated country through which long lines of trenches intersected. Everywhere madame's inquiry met with the same discouraging reply. Paul Planet, the young soldier in the automobile service, might be in one of any number of places. Even if located it would be impossible for madame to visit him.

The train in which madame was travelling drew up at a siding near the ruins of what had once been a small village. Several troop trains sped by. Slowly the sidetracked train pulled forward toward the main tracks again. Madame, restless and anxious, crossed the compartment and peered from the window. The next instant a startled exclamation escaped her lips.

"What is it?" asked her mother.

With frantic haste the younger woman turned and commenced to collect their travelling bags.

"I have found Paul," she whispered. "We must leave the train at the next station."

Now, all that day Paul Planet, for some strange psychological reason which he could not have explained, had felt conscious of his mother's nearness. Yet she was in New York, he reasoned and fear smote his heart lest sickness or accident had befallen her.

"Rest--for two hours."

Down along the marching line of soldiers the order was repeated. Planet heard it and fell out with alacrity. He heard himself detailed for temporary duty with a corporal's guard to unload automobile trucks. A troop train rushed by and a waiting passenger train pulled slowly out from a siding.

Planet glanced up. From the window of the latter train a face looked forth--a hand waved. Was he dreaming? Surely that was his mother's face he had seen! He dashed forward. The face was very distinct now. Impulsively he laid his finger across his lips as his mother had been wont to do when, as a child, she had desired him to remain silent. If the face at the window was that of his mother they must be discreet or she would never be permitted to join him.

"My mother was on that train," he confided to the soldier beside him. The man laughed.

"Impossible," he exclaimed. "You have seen a vision."

But Paul Planet had not seen a vision. Two miles further on, when the train had come to a halt at the little village station, Mme. Planet almost pulled her protesting mother of seventy down the steps. The guards also protested.

"Your passports, madame? Where are your passports?" they asked.

"My passports?" she repeated. "Oh, monsieur, I am so excited I do not know. There are passports there--papers--anything you want--in that bag."

Madame was so charming--the name of Planet was so well known--that the bag remained at the station, unopened, and the clever French-American mother hurried off in search of her supposed friends.

She found them down along the railroad. A little squad of uniformed men unloading automobile trucks.

"Vive la France!" she cried. "Vive la France!" and all the while her brown eyes were gazing hungrily, eagerly into the equally brown orbs of her son. It would not do to single him out from the others. To do so might result in difficulties for him and for her.

The two hours' rest was lengthened to six. Still the detachment waited by the roadside. Still madame and her mother waited.

Again the former's ready wit came to their aid. Madame was so distressed! The friends she had expected to find in the village had gone away. There was no place for herself and her mother to dine. Would the soldiers be so kind--so generous----

The soldiers would. They hospitably provided a tent for madame and her mother. It might be two days, the officers told them, before another passenger train stopped at that station. Madame, overjoyed, resigned herself to Providence and basked in the sunshine of her son's presence. The ban of secrecy had been lifted now. Their relationship was made known and pocket kodaks drafted into service as the troops were breaking camp.

"I will have the pictures developed when I reach Paris," said madame as she once more clasped her boy in her arms. "I have seen you again and I am content. That two hours' respite by the roadside that resolved itself into a two days' encampment was a special dispensation of Providence."

"It was a miracle, mother," declared the son. "There have been miracles all through this war. That you found me was one of them." Then he kissed her and marched away.

AN AMERICAN WOMAN'S STORY OF THE "ANCONA" TRAGEDY

_Told by Dr. Cecile Greil, an American Physician_

Dr. Cecile Greil was the only native-born American on the liner
_Ancona_, which was shelled and sunk by an Austrian submarine. She
tells this intensely graphic account of the terrible event in the
_New York Times_. She precedes it with a description of the crowd
of passengers, mostly poor Italian women and children, that had
passage on the ship--the most pathetic gathering, it seemed to her
as they came aboard the ship, that she had ever seen.

I--"WHEN THE TORPEDO STRUCK US"

The bell for luncheon rang at 11:30. As we sat at the table, still without the Captain, we joked and laughed together, to hide our lack of ease. We spoke of trivial things. We were through with lunch now; the others were going out; I was rising from my seat, at the same time drinking the remainder of my coffee. Then the thing came upon us that we had all, strangely enough, felt coming, in our hearts.

A terrific vibration shook the ship. I was thrown back into my seat. I knew that the ship must be stopping. I heard a running and scurrying about the deck outside. Looking out, I saw, through the dining saloon window, six or ten stewards in white whirling out of sight around an angle.

"What could be wrong, Doctor?" I asked one of the ship's doctors in French.

"Heaven only knows!" he answered, as he carefully adjusted his military cape, and hurried out. The dining saloon was emptied in an instant; everybody had bolted as if they were running to a fire.

It was evident that something had gone wrong with the ship, though, by some queer process of mind, at that moment nobody thought of a submarine. But hearing the next moment a sharp, quick crash, as of lightning that had struck home close by, at the same instant I both thought of the possibility of a submarine--and saw one!

The fog had lifted slightly. There, in full view framed in the window with a curious, picture-like effect, lay a submarine with its deck out of the water. It was long and flat, horribly longer and bigger than the mental conception I had formed of what such a thing would be like. There was a gun mounted in front, and another at back, and both had their muzzles leveled directly at the _Ancona_.

The submarine stood out in clear, black outline against the white background of mist. The fog seemed only to make it more distinct, as it always does with objects near by. From a staff in the back broke a red and white drapeau. Afterward I learned that this was the combination of colors that made the Austrian flag. I was ignorant of it, then, though I remembered the exact colors.

So far, I could find nothing tragic or terrible in the situation. Possibly we would be in danger of considerable exposure in open boats, before other ships, summoned by wireless, would pick us up. I did not rush out as the others had done. I stood quite still, in order to calm myself, to give myself time to think what would better be done. The _Ancona_ had come to a stop. Of that I was certain. I also knew that the ship was doomed.

But now there came another terrible crash, and another, and another, in different parts of the ship, followed by explosions and the sound of débris falling into the water and on deck. Well, they were merely destroying the wireless. Still there was no fear of death.

But now I was aware of a terrible shrieking. Everybody was in a frightened panic.

II--"THE HORROR OF WHAT I SAW"

Well, as for myself--to get excited wouldn't help. I went to my cabin as calmly as I could, determined to save what I could of my valuables. I put them in my lifebelt. I took a receipt for 20,000 lire, which I had left with the purser. I went toward the bow of the ship. I descended the staircase to the second cabin, on the way to the purser's office. A large part of the staircase had been shot away--and the horror of what I saw at the bottom of it made me instantly forget what I was going for. There lay three or four women, four or five children, and several men. Some of them were already dead, all, at least, badly wounded. I made sure two of the children were dead. The purser sprawled limply across his desk, inert, like a sack of meal that has been flung down and stays where it lies. He had been shot in the head. The blood was running bright like red paint, freshly spilt, down his back, and his hair was matted with it.

The first series of shots had wrecked this part of the ship, breaking through and carrying away whole sections of the framework. I tried to get back up the stairs. But in the slight interval of time I had consumed, enough additional shells had been discharged to finish the wreck of the staircase.

I saw that this was not what the nations call, ironically enough, "legitimate warfare," but wholesale and indiscriminate massacre. Seeing my exit that way cut off, I started through the second cabin to go up the central stairway. The sight that I ran into there was indescribable. All the passengers from the third cabin had rushed up into the second. They had altogether lost their wits. The only thing that was left them was the animal instinct for self-preservation in its most disastrous and most idiotic form. Men, women, and children were burrowing headforemost under chairs and benches and tables. I saw one man, his face pressed close against the floor sidewise, heaving a chair up in the air with his back, in an effort to efface himself.

All the while the detonations, like continuous thunder and lightning, increased the panic. Women were on their knees in mental agony, each supplicating the particular saint of the part of the country from which she came to save her from death. I pushed and shoved them by the shoulders. I took them by the legs and arms and clothes, and urged them, in Italian, to get up, to put on lifebelts, to get off the ship. I told them that, at least, they would find no security from shells under chairs and tables.

I found a poor old woman at the foot of the stairs, huddled in prayer. Her thin, gray hair straggled loose over her shoulder. I recognized her as a woman I had got acquainted with in my search for a fellow-citizen to join me in the first cabin. She was 65 years old, she had told me. She had seen two sons off to the war, and was now going to a third who had emigrated to America and lived in Pennsylvania. It was the first time she had ever crossed the ocean. She was sick of the thought of war. In the New World she would find peace and comfort for her old age, with her "Bambino," as she still called the grown-up man who was her son. So when I saw her lying there I was possessed of but one idea--to get her off alive. I told her to come with me, that I would protect her. She acquiesced, but her fright was so great that she hung limp as if she had no spine while I half dragged her to the first cabin deck.

A boat was being lowered. It had been swung out on the davits. It already seethed full of people. And more men and women and children were fighting, in a promiscuous, shrieking mass, to get into it as it swung out and down. The men, with their superior strength, were, of course, getting the best of the struggle. Age or sex had no weight. It was brute strength that prevailed.