WOODROW WILSON.



THE CAPTURE OF DUN

After the Americans had cleared the Saint Mihiel salient, Marshal Foch gave them a task which was probably the most difficult and dangerous of the whole war. They were to move north and west along the Meuse River through the Argonne forest to Sedan. There they would cut one of the two main communication lines of the Germans, the loss of which would mean to them disaster and rout.

Just before the signing of the armistice on November 11, the Americans reached Sedan after fighting from September 26 over an almost impassable country with few roads and against the strongest forces the Germans could muster. For four years the Germans had been fortifying this part of the line in every possible way, for they realized the danger to them of a successful advance along the Meuse from Verdun to Sedan. The railroad through Mezieres, Sedan, and Montmedy was called in a German order "our life artery." To cut it meant death to the German army.

The Argonne forest is a very dense growth of trees and underbrush covering a chain of hills running north and south. It is very difficult for a large army to advance and be supplied with food and munitions without good roads over which to move, and all the roads in this region are poor and, with very few exceptions, run east and west.

The Americans, twenty-one divisions or about 750,000 men, took part in the action. They were obliged to move through the valleys above which, on the hillsides, the Germans had stationed innumerable machine guns and light artillery.

"It was bitter fighting in the woods, brush and ravines, over a region perfectly registered and plotted by the enemy, where his guns, big and little, could be used with the greatest efficiency. The original nine American divisions in some cases were kept in the line over three consecutive weeks. The American reserves were then thrown in until every division not engaged on another part of the line had been put in action.

"It is a fact commented on with pride by the American commanders and complimented by the allies that seven of these divisions that drove their way through this hard action never before had been in an active sector, while green troops, fresh from home, were poured in as replacements.

"The Associated Press dispatches from day to day told what these men did; how the enemy was slowly pushed back from his strongest and most vital positions, through one defense system after another, using his finest selected troops, which had been withdrawn in many instances from other portions of the line, in an effort to hold an enemy which he derisively said last spring could not be brought to Europe, and if so would not fight, and even if he tried to fight would not know how to do so."

As they advanced, they were obliged to cross the Meuse and capture the town of Dun. This is a simple statement and might be passed over as not very significant, but in its few words, it contains a story of one of the bravest deeds of any army in any war.

The Germans knew, of course, that if they could prevent the crossing of the river at this point, the Americans could not capture Sedan and cut their line of communications. It may be that the Americans took them completely by surprise when they attempted the crossing here, and that if the Germans had in the least expected the attempt would be made, they would have been better prepared to defeat it. As it was, however, the Americans were met by a frightful and deadly fire from the enemy behind natural defenses so strong that they believed no army would think of attacking them.

The river at this point is about 160 feet wide. Beyond it lies a half mile of mud, and then a canal 60 feet wide with perpendicular walls rising several feet above the surface of the water.

On Monday afternoon, just one week before the war ended, the order was given to cross the river, the mud, and the canal and to occupy the west bank. The officers had hesitated to give the command for they realized what it meant in dead and wounded; but the privates also knew and they hoped they would be allowed to make the attempt, which with American soldiers means to succeed. They were there to bring the war to an end, and to press on against every danger was the sure way to end it quickly.

Those who could swim the river were first called out. Each one was given the end of a rope long enough to reach across the river; then they jumped in and swam exposing as little of their heads and bodies as possible. The German machine guns were so placed as to cover by their fire every foot of the east bank of the river, and the rifles also of hundreds of Huns across the canal attempted to pick off the swimmers. Many were killed and many others were wounded and left to drown, for it would not do to stop to rescue them. A story is told, however, of two chums swimming side by side. One of them was hit by a bullet in the neck and was saved by the other who swam on supporting him until they reached the opposite bank. Then he stopped long enough to bind up the wound and leave his chum lying flat in the mud while he advanced through the mud and across the canal. Both lived to return home with the victorious army.

When the swimmers were across, they held the ropes, which were fastened at the other bank, taut, so that those who could not swim could cross by holding on to them. Some attempted to cross on hastily built rafts and in collapsible canvas boats. More of these were lost than of the swimmers who, partially submerged, were not so good targets for the riflemen.

At the same time the engineers were building pontoon bridges and smaller foot bridges. After the first wave of men had crossed the river and the mud and were climbing up the further side of the canal, the engineers were not so greatly delayed by rifle fire and soon had a foot bridge ready over which the troops quickly rushed. The pontoon bridge was destroyed by enemy fire. Many were lost in the mud where progress was slow and where, obliged to stand erect, they made good targets.

Those swimmers who reached the canal jumped in, swam across the 60 feet of water, and climbed the opposite bank by using grappling hooks.

The Germans had not taken the precaution to build trenches beyond the canal, thinking that the river, the mud, and the canal at this point would offer protection enough. Therefore, when the Americans had succeeded in crossing the canal, the Germans hastily retreated. Probably there were fewer casualties among the Americans than if the attack had been made at what seemed a less dangerous point, for elsewhere along the river the Huns had intrenched themselves.

The action was one demanding skill and courage of the highest order. It was carried through successfully because the Americans possessed both of these qualities and realized they were fighting for the noblest cause for which men ever fought. They were willing to give up their today that others might have a secure and happy tomorrow.

The capture of Sedan forced the Germans to ask for an armistice and to accept whatever terms were offered. In studying the war and the masterly strategy of Marshal Foch, it should never be forgotten that in a few weeks, the armies under his command would have won the greatest victory ever recorded in history and that more than a million Germans would have been obliged to surrender with all their guns and equipment. A smaller minded or more selfish general than Foch might have declined to grant an armistice in order to gain the credit of such a marvelous victory; but Foch thought of the lives that might be saved by granting the armistice and did not think of his own glory. He has lost none of the credit that belongs to him by doing this, but has gained a higher place in the esteem of men.

Nor should it be forgotten that if General Pershing's army had failed in its almost impossible task, no armistice would have been asked for. The war with its suffering and death would have gone over into another year. The same would have been true if the British and French armies had failed. All did the duties assigned them nobly, heroically, and successfully, and the Hun realized that, as always, might was with the forces of right.



BOMBING METZ

ADAPTED FROM THE ACCOUNT WRITTEN BY RAOUL LUFBERY

In January, 1916, I belonged to the Bombing Escadrille 102. One fair day a little after one o'clock, we were ordered to get ready for an expedition. Naturally, we were curious about where we were to go, but it is not usual to name the objective until ready to leave. From the amount of gasoline we were ordered to carry, we all guessed it would be the railroad station at Metz.

Forty planes were to take part in the raid, twenty from my Escadrille 102 and twenty from Escadrille 101, led by brave Commander Roisin.

At one end of the aviation field, the planes stand in a row facing the wind. The engines are carefully gone over by the machinists, the gunners examine the guns, the bombs are placed in their racks. I carry six bombs, others take eight, nine, and even ten, depending upon the size and condition of the airplane and its engine.

We stand ready and wait for the final orders. We are given maps on which the route we are to take is indicated. We all set our watches by that of the commander of the expedition. Fifty minutes after the first plane leaves, we must all be over Nichola-du-port and at an altitude of at least 6000 feet. From there, following the signals which would be given us by the commander, we were to go on; or return to the aviation field, if the weather, the wind, the clouds, or poor grouping of our machines made it necessary.



An engine at the end of the line on our left is purring. The plane starts and rolls along the ground and then takes to the air. A second follows it, and then a third. My machine is number seven. I ask my observer, Allard, if he is ready. He answers, "Yes." I start the engine, give it all the gas, like the others roll along the ground for a few seconds, and then take the air.

Just before leaving, Allard informs me that he will try to get a little sleep while I am reaching the proper elevation. He says he will be ready to study the map when we get beyond our trenches. As he can be of no service whatever to me in helping the machine rise, I see no reason to object to his going to sleep if he desires. I turn around and look at him several times while we are climbing up. His eyes are closed, but I doubt his sleeping. He surely has a perfect right to, for very soon he will need all his coolness and strength.

2:20 P.M. I am at the place named, exactly on time. I recognize the commander's machine by the little red flags at the ends of the wings. I get the signal to go on, and I proceed with the group.

After the trenches are crossed, the faster planes make a few spirals to allow the slower ones to catch up. The group is now more compact and we go on with the shrapnel bursting now and then around us. This troubles no one of us, however, for only by luck or chance would we be injured. A few or even many holes in the fabric do little or no harm.

I watch the country as it spreads out beneath my feet. To my right is the Seille River, its banks washed away by floods so that it looks like a great necklace of ponds. To my left is the Moselle and the canal beside it. They look like two beautiful silver lines which disappear at the north in a cloud of mist. And now I see that that which I call a cloud of mist is only the smoke from the chimneys of Metz.

As I get nearer, I can see through this smoke the houses and churches and the long buildings with red tile roofs, which are probably the barracks. A circle of green surrounds the whole. These are the forts; from above they seem quite harmless.

In a few minutes I shall be over my objective, the small freight house. The machines in the lead make a half turn so that those behind may overtake them. As my machine is a slow one, I make directly for my objective. I am the first to arrive.

The enemy must have expected us, for many of their machines are in the air moving around at different altitudes ready to attack us. One of them is coming to welcome me. I turn quickly to see if Allard, the observer, is wide awake. His machine gun is pointed at the enemy, his fingers are on the trigger. Good. All is ready.

At 150 yards, the boche biplane suddenly turns its right flank toward us to allow the gunner to fire. Today such a turn is not necessary, for such machines carry two guns, one fixed and one behind mounted on a pivot so as to fire in any direction. I keep my eyes on the enemy. The black iron crosses are very plainly seen on the rudder and the fuselage. The fight begins.

The machine guns spit fire, and the boche dives, seeming to have had enough. I do not follow him, for the way ahead is clear, and I have an important duty to perform. Through the opening in the floor at my feet I see the railroad junction, some trains moving and others standing. I can also see the depots for the freight and munitions.

[Illustration: A two-passenger tractor biplane flying near the seashore. The oblong black speck directly under the airplane is an aerial bomb, with guiding fins like a torpedo's, which the bomber, who is sitting in the rear seat, has just released from the rack under him. On most planes a machine gun on a swivel is mounted behind the man in the rear seat. If the plane is a single-seater, the machine gun is stationary, mounted in front of the pilot, and "synchronized," or timed, to fire so that the bullets pass between the blades of the propeller, which is making about 1600 revolutions a minute. In the lower left-hand corner can be seen the wing tip of the plane from which the photograph was taken.]

Allard touches my left shoulder and signs for me to keep straight ahead. Another touch and I know he has dropped the bombs. It is done, and I have nothing to do but to turn about and make for home.

But now the boches seem to be thick about us. We must be very careful. But in spite of all, we are surprised and attacked by a Fokker fighting plane. He fires a volley into us and is gone before we can get a shot at him. Two or three short "spats" tell me that his aim was good and our machine has been hit.

The engine is certainly not injured for it roars on. Allard examines the gasoline tank, but it does not seem to have been struck.

The wind is blowing from the north and helps us get home quickly. In a short time, we are back above our trenches. I laugh aloud. Why, I do not know. I look around and see that Allard is also laughing. We are beaming and happy. Now that we are out of danger, we want to talk about it, but the roar of the engine drowns our voices. We have to be patient and wait until we land.

Slowing down as we descend, the plane glides sweetly over the Meurthe valley. We volplane gently toward the earth. Little by little things begin to look real. The beautiful green moss changes into forests, the black ribbons into railways, and the white ribbons into highways. What I had thought from a distance to be a huge curtain of black smoke, becomes the beautiful city of Nancy. We are only 800 feet above the field. One more spiral and we land.

I examine the machine at once. The fabric of the planes is full of bullet holes.

Many of the planes that went with us have not returned. We are told that some of them will not, for they were seen dropping into enemy territory.

But one by one, the white specks in the sky come in. At last all of our squadron have returned and the grave and worried look leaves the commander's face. He is indeed pleased and does not hide it.

But alas! It is not the same with all the squadrons. There is still time, of course, to find that we are mistaken. The missing planes may appear, but it is to be feared that this night at some of the messes, black bread will be eaten.

*******************

The British parliament recognized the brave work of the aviators in the following words:

"Far above the squalor and the mud, so high up in the firmament as to be invisible from the earth, they fight the eternal issues of right and wrong. Every fight is a romance, every report is an epic. They are the knighthood of this war. Without fear and without reproach, they have fought, for they have brought back the legendary days of chivalry, not merely by the daring of their exploits, but by the nobility of their spirit."



THE UNSPEAKABLE TURK

Although the great issues of the war were decided, and victory was finally won, by the fighting on the western front, the British campaigns in Palestine and in Mesopotamia were in no small way responsible for the final result. The fighting in this theater of the war was against the Turkish allies of Germany. The Turks were originally one of the Tartar tribes, dwelling in Asia, east of the Caspian Sea. Many of these tribes passed over into Europe, where they are now known as the Lapps, the Finns, the Bulgarians, and the Magyars or Hungarians. More of these Tartar tribes migrated to Asia Minor and adopted the Mohammedan religion. The Turks were one of these. They served first as hired soldiers, but were finally united by their leader, Seljuk, into a strong people called the Seljukian Turks. Their power grew rapidly and soon they captured the city of Jerusalem. They also invaded Europe and captured Constantinople, in 1453, where they have ever since been a menace to civilization.

Less than a year after William II became Emperor of Germany, the imperial yacht, the Hohenzollern, steamed through the Mediterranean into the narrow Dardanelles and, saluted by forts on both shores, passed on to Constantinople, the capital of the Moslem Kalif and the Sultan of Turkey, Abdul Hamid II.

The head of the Catholic church is called the Pope; the head of the Eastern church, the Patriarch; and the head of the Mohammedan, the Kalif. Just as Catholics, no matter of what country they are citizens, recognize the authority of the Pope in matters of religion, so Mohammedans, with few exceptions, are guided in these matters by the Kalif.

William II was accompanied by the Empress, his wife, and this was their first ceremonial visit to any of the crowned heads of Europe. Why did the German Kaiser select Abdul Hamid for this high honor?

The Germans were received with great joy. The entire city of Constantinople was decorated with the gorgeous display that only an eastern city makes. The visit was evidently greatly appreciated by the Mohammedan Kalif and the Sultan of Turkey; and his people, at his orders doubtless, made the Germans realize how proud they were at being thus honored by the Kaiser.

What attraction brought these two strange monarchs together? And why was the visit repeated nine years later in 1898? Did William II feel in 1889 that Abdul Hamid was a man after his own heart, more nearly so than any other ruler in Europe? And was he sure of it in 1898?

Certain it is, that while the greetings were cordial in 1889, they were much more so in 1898; for on this second visit, the Kaiser kissed the Kalif on both cheeks and called him "brother." Then after having made arrangements for the German building and the German control of the Berlin to Bagdad railway, William II went on to Jerusalem. There he stood in homage before the Holy Sepulcher, and afterward before the manger in Bethlehem. A few days later in Damascus, a chief Moslem city, he spoke to the Mohammedan officers then ruling the Holy Land, and in the course of his speech said, "His Majesty, the Sultan Abdul Hamid, and the three hundred million Mohammedans who reverence him as Kalif may be sure that at all times the German Kaiser will be their friend."

Abdul Hamid was a Turk, a Mohammedan, and a Sultan. As a Turk, he believed all other people were no better than animals; and that it was no more of a sin to kill a man, woman, or child of another race than it was to kill a dog or a rat. As a Mohammedan, he believed that killing a Christian gained merit in the eyes of Allah (which is the Mohammedan word for God). And as a Sultan, he remembered how he had lost Serbia, Bosnia, Bulgaria, and Roumania. These Balkan states together with Bosnia were formerly a part of Turkey in Europe. Most of their inhabitants were Christians and were more progressive than the Turks. As they advanced in education and wealth, they revolted and gained their independence in 1878. As Turkey lost these, the Sultan feared he might lose Armenia, his last remaining Christian province. This was Turkey's Armenian problem. The Sultan attempted to solve it in true Turkish manner,—adopted later by the Huns in Belgium, but never carried out so relentlessly as in Armenia.

Between the two visits of Kaiser William II, Abdul Hamid had been able to put into effect some of the ideas in which he believed. First he made a plan to kill about two million of his subjects living in Armenia. Here it was that Noah is said to have landed with the ark on Mt. Ararat after the flood had partially subsided, and here was a people called Armenians and a country called Armenia long before the time of Christ. But the Turk said in the days of Abdul Hamid, "There is no such country as Armenia," and the Armenians were ordered never to use the word or to speak of their country for it had disappeared, and they now lived in a Turkish province. Abdul Hamid determined the people should also disappear.

It seems almost impossible for Americans in the twentieth century to believe that such a story can be true. They can easily believe it of a thousand years ago, but not of twenty-five years ago. Yet it is beyond doubt. Henry Morgenthau, American Ambassador to Turkey during the first two years of the World War, has written the story of the attempts by the Turkish government to massacre the Armenian Christians in 1895 and in 1915.

He writes: "Abdul Hamid apparently thought there was only one way of ridding Turkey of the Armenian problem—and that was to rid her of the Armenians. The physical destruction of two million men, women, and children by massacres, organized and directed by the state, seemed to be the one sure way of forestalling the further disruption of the Turkish Empire. . . . Yet Abdul Hamid was not able to accomplish his full purpose. Had he had his will, he would have massacred the whole nation in one hideous orgy."

In 1895-96 nearly two hundred thousand Armenians were put to death on one pretext or another, usually in the most horrible ways, and in many cases after the most terrible torture. The entire race would have been exterminated if Christian Europe and America had not risen in protest. But no word of protest came from Abdul Hamid's good friend, William II. Instead, the Kaiser visited, within two years after these terrible massacres, the monarch who was now called throughout Europe, "Abdul the Damned," and kissing him on both cheeks, called him brother!

Why did the Kaiser love the Sultan and Kalif so greatly? Perhaps because they were kindred spirits. It certainly could not be because of Abdul Hamid's knowledge and intellectual power, for he was very ignorant, and not at all the type of mind that would impress a German. He was very superstitious and suspicious, always fearing attempts upon his life. A lot of books on chemistry, imported by an American missionary, were seized by the Turkish customs officers because they claimed they were intended to injure the Sultan. When the missionary asked for an explanation, the officer opened one of the books and pointed to the expression H[subscript 2]O, which occurred very frequently in it. Now H[subscript 2]O is the chemical symbol for water and means that two atoms of hydrogen unite with one atom of oxygen to form one molecule of water. However, Abdul Hamid, or his officers, believed that H stood for Hamid, 2 for II, and O for nothing, and that H[subscript 2]O was a secret way of saying to the Christians in Turkey, "Abdul Hamid II is nothing."

It is also said that Constantinople was lighted only by gas long after electric lights were used in other large cities, because "the red Sultan," as he was also often called on account of his bloody deeds, would allow neither dynamite nor dynamos to be brought into the city where he lived. He knew of the destructive power of dynamite and could never be made to believe that a dynamo was not equally to be feared!

The German Kaiser was not charmed by the brilliancy and the intelligence of the "Great Assassin." He may have admired his deeds but he probably loved him for what he thought he could get out of him and his country. It seems clear now that even in 1889, at the beginning of his reign, William II began to plan a Greater Germany and possibly World Domination. Certainly he soon dreamed of a German Middle Europe reaching from the North Sea to the Persian Gulf and crossed from Berlin to Bagdad by a German controlled railroad. It seems too that he realized he must have Turkey as an ally and that to accomplish his ends, he might possibly be obliged to bring about a Holy War with all the Mohammedan world fighting the Christian. The Mohammedans considered the Kaiser one of themselves and referred to him as "His Islamic Majesty." In the World War he attempted to cause this Holy War but failed because the Mohammedans in Arabia did not recognize the Sultan of Turkey as Kalif. The two holy cities of the Mohammedans in Arabia are Mecca where the prophet, Mohammed, was born and Medina where he died. Whoever rules over these cities is the Mohammedan Kalif. When the Kaiser attempted to bring on a Holy War, the Arabians joined the Allies, founded the independent kingdom of Hedjaz, and recognized its king as the Kalif.

The "red Sultan" must have known that the Kaiser would not object to his massacres of the Armenians and the strengthening of Turkish rule, for these only aided the purposes of Germany. But Abdul Hamid was forced to abdicate by a revolution of his own people before the Armenians were exterminated and before the Kaiser's dream was realized. By 1915, however, the "Great Assassin's" power was in the hands of Turks who held the same beliefs and sought to carry out the same plans as he had in 1895. And now England, France, Russia, and Italy, all engaged in war, were unable to interfere, and the Turks felt very sure the United States would not trouble them.

Now Enver Pasha and Taalat Pasha, the real rulers of Turkey, determined that there should be no blunder or mistake; they would exterminate the nearly two million Christian Armenians, who were Turkish subjects, and thus remove a serious problem in the management of Turkey and all danger of the Armenians rendering assistance to the Allies.

One of the chief indictments of the German government, under William II, is that it uttered no protest while the Armenian men in the vigor of life were taken from the villages by the hundred and shot, or killed in more brutal ways, and the old men, women, and children obliged to march off to a distant desert part of Asia Minor, or to the malarial swamps of the Euphrates. Of course, they nearly all died on the way. About one million Armenians were exterminated in this way in 1915. The German government could have stopped it by a word. But how could they say the word? They had hardly finished their Belgian atrocities and were still deporting men and girls from Belgium and France. No protest came from the Kaiser, his ministers; or his people.

The Armenians dress very largely in red. A common costume of women and girls is striking even at a distance because of the amount of red in it. The same is true to a less degree of the men. The hordes of old men, old women, the sick, and the frail, with children of all ages marching mile after mile, often in cold and rain with no food except what they had been able to seize as they were driven on a moment's notice from their homes and villages, leaving their strong men brutally slaughtered, have been called "red caravans of death," and in truth they were caravans of victims seeking, desiring, praying for death, and marching on till death relieved them.

In 1915, the Turkish armies in Palestine, under German leadership, attempted to gain possession of the Suez Canal, in order to prevent supplies passing through on Allied ships. Although the Turks made several attempts to block the canal, they were all unsuccessful. After these numerous attacks on the canal, England realized that the only safe way to protect her Egyptian possessions was to gain Palestine. In 1916 a plan was made for an offensive into the Holy Land. The plan was first tried by General Maxwell and then by General Murray, but both attempts were unsuccessful.

In June, 1917, the English transferred General Allenby, then fighting on the western front, to the command of the Egyptian expeditionary forces. He immediately began to lay plans for an offensive into Palestine, with the city of Jerusalem as his main objective. The Turks were strongly fortified in southern Palestine, on a line extending from the coast city of Gaza to the inland city of Beersheba. Allenby's plan was to attack the left flank of the enemies' line, capturing Beersheba, where he counted on renewing his water supply. To aid the successful advancement of his main offense, he sent a small body of troops toward the city of Gaza, situated on the enemies' right flank. This was done to draw the Turkish reserves toward Gaza, where they would expect the main offense to take place. The British warships in the Mediterranean helped in this movement, by bombarding the town as the land forces approached it. The plan was put into effect on October 30. On the next day the city of Beersheba was taken by surprise, and the Turkish left flank was routed. After renewing his supply of water at Beersheba, General Allenby advanced on Gaza, which was captured with little resistance. Although greatly hampered by poor water supply and tremendous transportation difficulties, he drove the Turks north and by a successful engagement at Junction Station cut their forces in two.

By this time the Turks in Jerusalem were becoming greatly disturbed by Allenby's rapid advance. Enver Pasha, the famous Turkish commander, rushed to the city to rally his generals, but after studying the situation, he left the city the next day. Soon after Enver's hurried departure, General Falkenhayn arrived. Military supplies were moved north of the city and the Germans prepared to leave. The remaining Turks were under the command of Ali Fuad Pasha, who by proclamations and entreaties, tried to rally the people of the city.

Meanwhile General Allenby had moved north and captured the city of Jaffa, situated on the Mediterranean, a little northwest of Jerusalem. From Jaffa, by hard fighting he advanced through the Judean hills, towards the Holy City. Jerusalem was occupied by English troops on December 9, 1917, and General Allenby made his official entrance on December 11. Soon after the occupation of the city by the English, a proclamation was read, amidst great cheering, announcing freedom of worship.



Part of the proclamation is as follows. "Since your city is regarded with affection by the adherents of three of the great religions of mankind, and its soil has been consecrated by the prayers and pilgrimages of multitudes of devout people of these three religions for many centuries, therefore, do I make it known to you that every sacred building, monument, holy spot, shrine, traditional site, endowment, pious bequest, or customary place of prayer of whatsoever form of the three religions will be maintained and protected according to the existing customs and beliefs of those to whose faith they are sacred."

The capture of Jerusalem was hailed by the entire civilized world as one of the greatest accomplishments of the war. Although it was taken for strategical reasons, the fact that the Holy City was once more in the hands of Christians meant more to the world than the military advantage gained by its capture. Jerusalem is generally thought of only as a peaceful shrine of many nations; it is in reality a fortress more often contested, perhaps, than any other city in the world. Until captured by General Allenby, Jerusalem had been, except for two brief intervals, under Mohammedan control for almost thirteen centuries. Now that it is once more in Christian hands, it appears probable that it will remain so forever.

After capturing the city, the English began to strengthen its fortifications against counter-attacks. They also fortified the coast city of Jaffa which they had captured just previous to the advance on Jerusalem. The Turks made several attempts to recapture their lost ground, but all were unsuccessful. The English were unable to resume their offensive the following spring, because of the crisis which compelled them to send a large part of their forces to Europe to check the new German drive on the western front. It was not until September 18, 1918, that General Allenby started his next offensive. The object of this was the capture of Damascus, the capital of Syria. He started his advance on a line extending from Haifa on the coast, across Palestine to the Arabian Desert. Although strongly opposed by a Turkish army numbering at least 100,000 men, he advanced by remarkable forced marching and hard fighting on Damascus, which he occupied October 1, 1918. During the offensive on Damascus, he captured over 70,000 prisoners and 350 guns. Included in these figures were several Turkish commanders and German and Austrian troops numbering more than 200 officers and 3000 privates.

Damascus is the most beautiful city in Asiatic Turkey and is the oldest city in the world. There is a Turkish prophecy, many centuries old, made in fact when the Turks were at the height of their power, that some day they would be conquered and driven back to the place from which they came. The prophet said, "When the end is at hand, Damascus will be taken by the infidels. An Imam wearing a green turban and a green robe will ascend to the top of a green minaret with his last salavat. He will call all the faithful about him and they will all then start on a journey to the place from whence they came."

Because of this prophecy, there is a Turkish saying known to all Turks educated or ignorant, dweller in city or in obscure village, which reads, Evelli Sham, Akhuri Sham. Now Sham is the Turk's name for Damascus, Evelli means first, and Akhuri means last: and the meaning of the saying in English would be something like this, "Damascus is everything to the Turk, and when it falls all is lost." Probably the prophet had no idea that Damascus would or could be taken from the south by forces led across the desert as General Allenby led the English. If Damascus should be captured from the north, all of the Turkish dominion would have to be conquered before the foe reached there. So the Turks have repeated with a feeling of security, Evelli Sham, Akhuri Sham.

The capture of Damascus opened the way to Aleppo, situated on the Constantinople-Bagdad railroad about 180 miles to the north. The Turkish troops, routed by the rapid advance of the British on Damascus, gave very little resistance to Allenby in his drive on Aleppo. The English entered Aleppo on Saturday morning, October 26, and stopped Turkish traffic on the Constantinople-Bagdad railway at this point. On October 29, General Marshall's forces defeated the Turks at Kaleh Sherghat, cutting off their communications with Mosul. The combined victories of Allenby in Palestine and Marshall in Mesopotamia left the remaining Turkish forces helpless. Turkey signed an armistice October 30, 1918, which was virtually the same as an unconditional surrender, and meant the end of the "unspeakable Turk" in Europe.



THE SECRET SERVICE

The United States did not declare war till nearly three years after the war had begun in Europe. During most of that time the situation was this: Germany, to win at all, must win at once. The longer the Allies could stave Germany off, the more time they would have to collect arms and armies, powder, food, and ships, and the more certain they would be of winning in the end. Therefore they sent to America, which was rich and had many factories, for tremendous quantities of every sort of war provisions. Of course it was necessary for Germany to prevent the Allies from getting these supplies. It was in the effort to do this that the German spy system became so widespread in the United States.

The German government had always kept in direct touch with a number of Germans in America, and in indirect touch with a great many more. So when Germany needed help in America, she called on the German-Americans to hinder in every way possible the sending of aid to Great Britain and France. The United States could not allow any one to blow up American factories and railroads and start strikes among American workmen. Consequently the United States Secret Service and its fellow agencies set to work, and the great fight was on.

The opponents, the German Intelligence Office and the American Secret Service, were not so unevenly matched as one might imagine. What advantage the Germans lost by being in the enemy's country they made up by being prepared far in advance, and by knowing just what they wanted to do. And there is always an advantage on the side of the hunted animal. Let us see briefly just what each organization was like.

The German service in its heyday was a fearful and wonderful thing. Little by little, as spies were "shadowed," captured, and their papers examined, the whole far-reaching tangle was revealed. One can tell only a little here about this tangle—for to tell it all would take more books than one.

In the German system there were five or six names to be remembered. Count von Bernstorff, the German Ambassador and chief plotter; Dr. Heinrich Albert, his assistant and treasurer; Franz von Rintelen, reported to be a near relative to the Kaiser; Captain Franz von Papen, the military attache; and his partner, Captain Boy-Ed, the naval attache. From this group at the top, the lines spread down, through business men, doctors, editors, clerks, butlers, and every rank and class in America. "Big Bill" Flynn, for many years the clever chief of the Secret Service, said that he thought there were 250,000 men and women in this country who were working for Germany. Sad to say, not all of them were German by birth; a few, the most dangerous, were native Americans, although they were Germans at heart. Everywhere, in the most unexpected places, these German agents were found, always busily carrying out their orders with regular German blindness, and never questioning or knowing anything about the hideous acts of their superiors. The German machine was, in short, like a huge wheel, with the brains at the hub.

The United States fought this contemptible creation with several weapons. The Secret Service was of course the most active; but it was very greatly helped by the Department of Justice, the Naval Intelligence, and the Military Intelligence, as well as by the police departments in the various cities. In fact, one of the greatest troubles at times was that too many agencies would be working on the same case. They stepped on each other's heels.

All these branches grew in size during the war, but especially the Naval and Military Intelligence offices. As early as January, 1916, patriotic citizens were quietly serving their government, all unknown even to their own friends, and were collecting pieces of information and hints here and there that, in the end, were of great value. If the Germans had spies in every nook and cranny of our nation, so did we—business men, secretaries, cooks, doctors, and laborers. The Secret Service was everywhere. Again and again, when some devoted German was busily doing his duty to his Fatherland, an American Secret Service agent would lay a hand on his shoulder and show him a ticket to a prison camp. And then, so curious is the German way of thinking, nine times out of ten the German, intensely surprised and very cross at being caught in the act, would insist that he was doing nothing, and that he had a perfect right to do it!

Now watch the two forces at war. The German machine was working quietly along, now and then blowing up a factory and now and then being caught red-handed. It had already suffered a severe loss, for Captain von Papen, the military attache, had been discovered in his work by the British and had been deported. When he reached Germany, by the way, he was given the Order of the Red Eagle by the Kaiser, who doubtless recognized in the bungling plotter a fellow spirit. Thanks to the information gained from von Papen's papers, the United States had a very good idea of what the other Germans in America were doing and began to make arrests.

Every afternoon at about five o'clock Dr. Albert, the ambassador's assistant, would leave his office at 45 Broadway, New York, and take the elevated railroad uptown to his luxurious rooms in the German Club. He always carried with him a brown leather dispatch case. The Secret Service men, who had been keeping an eye on him, determined to get that case, because they knew from the way the doctor always held on to it, that it must contain something important. A wise member of the Service was chosen to make the coup.

He watched the German closely for many days, and saw that the doctor took a train just at five o'clock every day; that, on the train, he read his evening paper very intently (possibly to see which one of his friends had been arrested last); and that he always walked through the same streets from the railroad to his club. Finally one day the agent decided that he was ready to try for that little brown case.

That evening a quiet, well-mannered gentleman, not noticeable in any particular way, took the seat next to Dr. Albert on the train. The doctor spread out his paper with true German disregard for the persons on each side of him, and began to read. Always he held the flat brown case clutched against his side. The train passed several stations and still the doctor hugged his case. Although the car was packed with people, the American carefully avoided crushing against the spy, for fear of alarming him. More stations were left behind, and the doctor had nearly finished his paper. The Secret Service man was getting worried; would he fail? And there were the papers, so close to him. Then the train stopped at the next to the last station. At the same minute Dr. Albert completed his reading, and for the fraction of a moment raised his arm to fold the sheets. With lightning quickness the agent slid the dispatch case away from the doctor's side and stood up. Two or three people jostled him, and he staggered against the doctor. Then he lunged for the door. The doctor finished folding his paper and felt for his case. It was gone. He jumped to his feet and glared around him wildly.

"Conductor!" he shouted, "My case! It is gone!"

The gates of the car clanged shut and the train started slowly. Down the stairs to the street went the American, quietly and confidently, with the brown leather case under his arm. On the train, Dr. Albert, white of face, was bitterly calling on his German Gott to find his case for him!

The next day, and the next, and for many days thereafter, a few modest lines of advertising appeared in New York papers, saying that a brown leather case had been lost on an elevated train and that a small reward would be paid for its return. The advertisement stated that the case was of no value to anyone but the owner. The poor doctor did not dare call attention to his loss by sounding too loud an alarm, for he knew what was in the bag.

"Of no value to anyone but the owner!" Not to ninety-nine people out of a hundred, perhaps; but the hundredth man had the case, and he and his chief knew what to make of it.

On a windy morning in April, 1916, two American secret agents, dressed, as always, in civilian clothes, were walking down Wall Street toward number 60. From information obtained through the capture of several spies, they knew that in an office at 60 Wall Street a big, polite German, Wolf von Igel, was running an advertising agency that was not an advertising agency. They knew further that Wolf was one of the chief plotters, and that he kept many of the most important German plans locked in a big burglar-proof safe, on which was painted the Imperial German seal. Lastly, and this explains why the two agents were walking to his office at exactly that hour, they knew that some especially important plans would be in the safe and that another dangerous spy would be talking to von Igel. This piece of knowledge had come through one of the many underground ways which so puzzled the Germans. It may have been a "tip" from some American agent who was secretly working with the Germans to spy on them.

The Americans pushed open the door, hurried right past the clerk in the outer office, and entered the inner room. Von Igel, who was bending over a packet of papers, looked up.

"I'll trouble you for those papers, von Igel," said one of the Americans, stepping up to him.

The startled German shoved him back, leaped to the safe door, and slammed it shut. But before he had time to give the knob a twirl, the Secret Service men were upon him. In rushed the clerk, and for a few minutes the four men wrestled and struggled madly all around the little room. But the Americans were powerful, and they had help at hand. They threw the Germans down and sat on them to rest, while the frightened Germans protested.

"You have no right to do this," panted von Igel. "This is the property of the Imperial German Government, and cannot be broken into this way!"

"That'll be all right," answered one American. "You see it has been broken into."

The papers, seventy pounds of them, were packed up and taken away,—with the Germans. As the men were leaving the office, they met the other spy, who was just arriving. It did not take much persuasion to make him go along too.

The German Ambassador, von Bernstorff, raised a frightful uproar over this, and claimed that the papers were his. This was a sad mistake on his part, because, when the letters were opened and the plans read, he was asked to remember that he had said they were his. There was enough proof in that seventy pounds to convince even a German. Among other things there came to light their conspiracies to undermine the citizenship of other countries. But now all this was made worse than useless, for its discovery not only laid bare the plot, but also told the names of all the men who were taking part in it. It was the biggest victory scored by either side, and the credit for it goes to our regular Secret Service.

Three of the heads of the German beast in America had now been cut off. There remained only von Bernstorff. He lasted nine months longer than the others. The government has not yet told the world all the details of the ambassador's last great defeat, but some were as follows—

Germany now knew that if she were to win at all, it must be immediately. So she decided to carry on her ruthless submarine warfare, and sink all the ships she could, no matter to whom they belonged. She realized that it would make America declare war on her, and in order to offset her coming in, she hit upon the idea of having Mexico attack her on the South, and if possible, Japan on the West. She did not stop to think (she had no time for that) that Japan was one of the Allies, and of course would not make war against her. Perhaps she believed Japan would not remain faithful to the Allies.

So the Foreign Office in Berlin wrote to von Bernstorff in Washington, and he in turn was to write to Mexico. The success of the whole scheme depended on secrecy. The arrangements must be made without the United States knowing anything about it. Once again a heavy responsibility was thrown upon our Secret Service. How did they carry it?

We have already seen that the Service had its agents in the most unsuspected places. One of the most unsuspected of them all must have gotten to work, for within a week the Service knew that something unusually mysterious was going on inside the German Embassy. Patiently the resourceful agents worked and worked, bit by bit, until at last—they won. They secured the most necessary document of the whole case, the one which Germany was most anxious to keep secret. When it was made public, it caused the greatest sensation of years. Here it is:—

"Berlin, January 19, 1917.

(To von Eckhardt, the German Minister in Mexico.)

"On the first of February we intend to begin submarine warfare unrestricted. In spite of this it is our intention to endeavor to keep neutral the United States of America.

"If this attempt is not successful, we propose an alliance on the following basis with Mexico: that we shall make war together and together make peace. We shall give general financial support, and it is understood that Mexico is to recover the lost territory in New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona. The details are left to you for settlement.

"You are instructed to inform the President of Mexico of the above in greatest confidence, as soon as it is certain that there will be an outbreak of war with the United States, and suggest that the President of Mexico on his own initiative should communicate with Japan, suggesting adherence to this plan. At the same time offer to mediate between Germany and Japan.

"Please call to the attention of the President of Mexico that the employment of ruthless submarine warfare now promises to compel England to make peace in a few months."

"Zimmermann."

Alfred Zimmermann was the German Foreign Minister.

The German defense to this piece of absolute proof was what we have since learned to expect from Germans;—

"We were not doing it. And anyway, it was not unfriendly, and we had a perfect right to do it."

The once great German machine was now without its leaders, and all it could do was to carry on a number of small local agitations, with no directing intelligence. A very few months after the publication of the Zimmermann letter, the United States itself went into the war. Then the constant struggle between detectives and enemy-aliens became even more serious. A new problem faced the Secret Service and its co-workers. That was to keep the German spies over here from sending to Germany information that would be of value to her in a military way. No knowledge of the movements of troops, of fleets, or of supplies must be allowed to leave America. At all costs the war plans must be kept secret.

The spies tried to send information to Germany by many different ways, such as by cable to Denmark, Switzerland, or any other neutral European nation, and then by telegraph into Germany; or by telegraph to Mexico, and then by wireless to Germany; or by wireless to a neutral ship on the ocean, which would relay to Germany by her wireless. The first and most important thing for the spy in every case was to get his message out of this country.

To prevent this, the United States established censorships. There were telegraph censors, watching the wires into Mexico; there were postal censors, examining the mails; but the most interesting was the cable censor, who had to keep all the cables free from enemy use. Although cable censorship was done by the Navy Department, its work very often overlapped that of the Secret Service. Here is a typical example of how these two worked together, not correct in details but accurately showing the method followed in a great many cases:—

In June, 1917, some of General Pershing's first troops sailed from New York, in number about 15,000 men, in 13 transports. On that very day a Spanish firm in the city filed a cable to Spain, saying:—

"Quote 13 millers at 15 per cent."

The censor's suspicious mind, always on the alert for something unusual, saw that this message could easily be a code, which would mean to the man receiving it, "Sailed, 13 transports with 15,000 troops."

It was too probable to be an accident, thought the censor, and he decided to watch Mendez & Co. A few days later two more transports sailed, and Mendez filed three more cables, each containing the number 2, with other figures. The censor promptly put the detectives on the trail.

The merciless grasp of the Secret Service, which always "gets" its man, then settled about Mendez. The Spaniard could make no move, day or night, that was not immediately known to the Service.

In the dead of an autumn night, two agents opened the door of Mendez' office with a master key, and searched his desk. One man ran over all the papers, reading them rapidly in a low voice, while his companion, an expert stenographer, took down the words with lightning speed. This done, they placed a dictagraph in the inner office, working quickly and well. With a final glance around, they left, having completed the work in a remarkably short time.

The next day Mendez' telephone was tapped. Then his secretary left, and the new one he hired was a Secret Service agent. The Spaniard never guessed it, for the secretary brought the most trustworthy references. Every time Mendez held a meeting of his group of German agents and talked of how to send information to Germany, the secretary heard all they said, and at once reported it to his chief. Every time Mendez telephoned, a Secret Service agent listened to what he said. Every time he had a conference in his office, if the secretary by chance was not there, the dictagraph made a record of the conversation, and the Service knew about it.

Naturally such careful watching won in the end. Mendez, who had caught the German habit of believing that no one was so clever as himself, did not dream of the net that was being woven around him, and went on filing his cable messages which, of course, were not sent. All the information obtained by the Secret Service was sifted, arranged, and confirmed, and Mendez was arrested. With his departure, his whole following was helpless, and settled back to swear at the United States for its tyranny. The patient Secret Service had scored again.

So it went. For every German spy or would-be spy in America, there was an agent of the Secret Service, equally resourceful, and more likely to succeed, because, no matter how clumsy his adversary seemed, he never made the mistake of underrating him. "Stupid Yankees," von Papen had called us, while he went about his plotting with child-like faith in his skill at hiding. "Stupid Germans," the Secret Service might have retorted, as it skillfully uncovered all his plotting and sent him back to his Kaiser, where his stupidity was more appreciated.

But it took many months of patient, unceasing work, and far the greatest part of it was dull, hard, steady grind. Rarely was there any excitement for the industrious government agents, and more rarely was there any glory, for the work had to be kept secret. Trailing, watching, studying, thinking, always putting two and two together and often finding that they made five instead of four; through day and night, through sun and storm, the officers whose duty it was to catch the spy before he could harm America worked steadily on.

That is why America won at home just as she won abroad. Had not the silent army in the United States fought so unceasingly and so skillfully, the army in France would have been paralyzed. When you think of the Great Victory, remember those quiet, unknown men and women at home who did so much to help win it, and give full credit to the Secret Service.

ROGER WILLIAM RIIS.



AT THE FRONT

What one soldier writes, millions have experienced.

At first the waiting for orders; the wonder of how to adapt one's nature to the conditions that lay ahead. The fear of being afraid. Many times in that last week in London, which now seems so far away, I did aimless, meaningless things that I had done before; wondering if I should ever do them again. Visiting old scenes of happy days, trying, as it were, to conjure up old associations, for fear the chance might not come again. Strange, perhaps, but many of the things I do are strange, and only those who know me best would understand. My good-by to you—and the curtain rose on the first act of the drama that I have been privileged to watch, with every now and then a "walking on" part. The first act was one of absorbing interest, learning the characters of the play, and my mind was filled with wonder at the plot as day by day it unfolded before me. I have tried to write of all the wonders of the Base; its organization and the mastery of an Empire to serve its ideal in its hour of need. The second curtain rose on the trenches, and it is my impressions of this life, rather than of its details, that I would now write. The first and greatest is the way the average man has surmounted the impossible, has brought, as it were, a power to strike that word from his vocabulary. Living in conditions which in previous years would have caused his death, he has maintained his vitality of mind and body. Healthy amid the pestilence of decaying death, of chill from nights spent sometimes waist deep in water; or chattering with cold as misty morning finds him saturated with its clammy cold. Facing death from bullet, shell, and gas, and all the ingenuity that devilish manhood can devise, yet remaining the same cheery, lively animal, wondering when it all will cease. A new spirit of unselfishness has entered the race, or perchance the old selfishness bred by years of peace has died, leaving a cleaner, nobler feeling in its place. Men who before cheated their neighbors, grasping to themselves all that came their way, have learned instinctively to share their little all. The message from Mars, "Halves, partner," has become the general spirit; and yet some say that there is no finer side to war! As for the officers, as a rule, no words for them can be too fine. For they have learned at once to be the leaders and the servants of their men, tiring themselves out for others' comforts. And the men know it; from them can come no class hatred in future years. If danger lies in that direction it must surely come from those who have stayed at home.

For myself, I am slowly learning my lesson; learning that death, which seems so near one, seldom shakes one by the hand. Learning to look over the "top" to encourage those whose duty makes them do so. Learning to walk out with a wiring party to "No Man's Land," or to set a patrol along its way. Learning to share the risks that others run so as to win the confidence of my men.

Now let me say a word of the demoralizing effects of dugouts: Often it takes a conscious effort to leave its safety or to stay away from it for the dangers of level ground, and this is what all officers must learn; for men can have no confidence in one who, ordering them out, stays underground himself. I am learning, but, oh! so slowly, for mine is not a nature that is really shaped for war. A vivid imagination is here a handicap, and it is those who have little or none who make the best soldiers. At last the "finished and finite clod" has come into his own. Stolid, in a danger he hardly realizes, he remains at his post, while the other, perchance shaking in every limb, has double the battle to fight. My pencil wanders on and I hardly seem to know what I write. Confused thoughts and half-formed impressions crowd through my brain, and from the chaos some reach the paper. What kind of reading do they make? I wonder.

* * * * * *

I'm awfully tired, but this may well be my last undisturbed night this week, and I know how much letters must mean to you waiting and waiting for news in England. All afternoon I've been wandering about the front line, exploring, and learning to find my way about that desolate waste of devastation representing recently captured ground. One waded knee high amid tangled undergrowth dotted with three-foot stakes, and learned from the map that this was a wood. One looked for a railway, where only a buried bar of twisted metal could be found. One road we could not find at all, so battered was the countryside; and so after five and a half hours' wandering, we returned to a dinner of soup, steak, stewed fruit, and cocoa. Today I noticed for the first time the wonderful variety of insect life in the trenches; flies and beetles of gorgeous and varied color showing against the vivid white of the fresh-cut chalk. Past a famous mining village which for two years has been swept by shell fire, now British, now German, until nothing save the village Crucifix remains unbattered; iron, brick, and concrete, twisted by the awful destructive power of high explosives. Graves dating back to October, 1915, and up to the present time, lie scattered here and there, but each with the name of the fallen one well marked on it, waiting to be claimed when Peace shall come. As I walked the old lines flashed into my head—

"And though you be done to the death, what then, If you battled the best you could? If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the critics will call it good! Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only, how did you die?"

Strange! but nowhere did I see a German grave other than those with the inscription in English, "A German Soldier killed in action." Dead Germans have I seen, but never a German grave.

There seems to be no bird life here, beyond a rare covey of partridges well behind the line, or a solitary lark searching for summer. One misses—oh, so much!—the cheeky chirp of the sparrow or the note of the thrush. We found a stray terrier about yesterday and have adopted it, but I don't think it will go into the front line: there's enough human suffering, without adding innocent canine victims that cannot understand. Here let me say a word for the horses and mules, exposed to dangers and terror (for mules actually come into the trenches to within 200 yards of the line), patiently doing their work, often terrified, often mutilated and never understanding why they have been taken from their peaceful life to the struggle and hardship of war. Much has been written, much is being done, but how few realize it from their point of view. The men are wonderful, their cheerfulness, their ability to work is nothing short of marvelous; but for the others, the animals, their patient slavery is more wonderful, still.

Coming over the ridge tonight I saw the distant hills against the after-glow of sunset; the moment was quiet, as one often finds it so; for those few seconds no guns were firing, no shells bursting, and not even the distant "ping" of a rifle was to be heard. It seemed so English, just as though we were on one of our September holidays in the car, looking towards the north hill country that I love so much. Then suddenly the guns started, and we were at war again. There is one of those strange feelings of expectation in the air tonight, as though there were great things pending, and yet all is normal as far as we know. Who knows, perhaps the end is not as far as we believe. A few more days of trial and we shall have earned our next rest.

I go to my so-called bed, to try and snatch a few short hours' sleep, lulled by the music of the guns that have started their nightly hate.

My love to you. Keep smiling.

* * * * * *

Picture if you can a flight of twenty-four steps leading into the darkness of the underground. At the foot of this a room, if room it can be called, some thirteen feet by ten by seven high, the walls of tree trunks and railway sleepers, the roof of corrugated iron resting on railway lines; from this hang stalactites of rust, and large and loathsome insects creep about; above lives a colony of rats: such is our living-room, damp with a dampness that reaches one's bones and makes all things clammy to the touch. A couple of tables, a chair, and some boxes, such is our dining-room suite. From this a long, narrow, low passage leads to the kitchen, signalers' and 'phone room, officers' bunks and office. By day and night one stumbles among sleeping soldiers off duty, tired enough to find sleep on the boarded floor. My bed,—a couple of boards and some sand-bags,—is four feet from the ground, too narrow for safety, and yet I sleep. Men who previously grumbled at an eight-hour day, now do eighteen hours for seven days a week—such is war, and such is the spirit in which they take it.

Outside—or rather up above—a cold drizzle adds to the general discomfort, "pineapples" drop promiscuously about, but one can hear them coming, save when barrages are about, and the roar of gun and bursting shell drowns all else. One nearly got me this morning. I just ducked in time as it burst on the parapet behind where I was standing—a splinter caught my tin hat, but bounded off. In spite of all, this has been a cheery day. One learns to laugh at Fritz's efforts to kill one, and at the appalling waste of money he spends in misplaced shells; one laughs still more when they fall in his own lines from his own guns, and frantic cries of distress and protest, in the form of colored rockets, fill the air. LIFE, even with all its letters capitals, has its humors. Dire rumors of the postponement of our longed-for rest—but what is rumor, after all?

Half of another weary night has passed. I took a morning in bed (five hours, only disturbed twice) and so raised my sleep average to nearly four hours a day.

How unreal it seems to be writing with a loaded revolver by one's paper, and a respirator on one's chest. I bet the Huns are sorry that they ever invented gas. You make too much of what I did on Monday, it was nothing wonderful, and had I had time to think, I should probably have funked it. Instinct and training and the excitement of the moment—that is all, just my duty. I did see a brave act that morning, and one that required real pluck, not excitement. I must see a specialist about the injury as soon as I can get an appointment. Still smiling.

* * * * * *

A long wooden box five feet by three feet "in the cold, dark underground." Here we move and sleep and have our being, under one of the famous battlefields of Europe, a captured German dugout, with German shells bumping on the roof from time to time. Had I but the ability I could paint you a word-picture that might bring to you the wonder of last night's events in their grandeur and their grimness. As it is I must do what little I can.

A long straying column along a road as darkness fell; turning westward one saw the splendor of a blood-red sunset where the crimson melted to gold, the gold to green, so often called blue. Against this the silhouetted outlines of slag-heaps and pits and houses, now ruined, now whole. By the roadside little huts some three feet square built by their owners, who gathered around little blazing fires now that their day's work was done. The low drone of homing planes filled the air as one by one they swooped down to earth, or rose on some perilous mission, while bursting shrapnel added golden balls of fire to the firmament of heaven, now a deep, deep blue. To north, to east, to south, yellow-green flashes of guns stabbed the darkness, and the redder glare of bursting shells came ever and anon. Across an open heath, along a road pitted with shell-holes to the skeleton of a shell-smashed town like some ghostly sentinel to the gates of war. Here the sweet smell of a September evening was every now and then rendered hideous by pungent odors through the dead town, where the smell of gas still clung to houses and issued up from cellars. Now trenches lay along the road, and the golden harvest moon turned to silver and flooded the scene, casting long, strange shadows on the ground. A deepening roar, followed by the whizzing scream of shells as hidden batteries poured death into the German lines. A whistle, a roar, a thud, a sudden check, and on as a couple of shells spattered the road ahead. "Halt, off-load the limbers"—on to a crater where our guides awaited us. Here the chalk molds and craters of the shattered German lines along which we walked looked like miniature snow-clad mountains in the moonlight. Destruction everywhere, but a destruction that was grand while it was dreadful. And so to dug-outs, and the night-time "hate" and gas—a doze, and the wonderful dawn of a perfect daybreak. Exploration of trenches, broken by pauses to look at aerial combats far up in the blue, where planes looked like bits of silver dust whirled about by the breeze. Interest covered and crushed every other emotion, and though many of the things that lie about seem loathsome in cold-blooded language, I found nothing of loathing there. Now a human skull with matted ginger hair, but with the top bashed in, now a hand or arm sticking up from some badly-buried body or shell-smashed grave, and everywhere the appalling waste of war—spades, shovels, German clothes, armor, ammunition scattered in a chaos beyond words.

Crash! bang! boom! and like rabbits to earth once more; we have been spotted, and whiz-bangs fall—a dozen wasted German shells.

Packed like sardines we lie and try to snatch some moments' sleep. With revolvers by our sides, and respirators on our chests, we live in the perpetual night of underground, coming to the surface to work or see a little of God's sunshine or explore, as shells permit and the spirit moves us. Time as a measure has ceased to be and our watches serve just as checks on our movements. I love life, and oh, how I hate it too!

G. B. MANWARING.



A CAROL FROM FLANDERS

1914

In Flanders on the Christmas morn The trenched foemen lay, The German and the Briton born— And it was Christmas Day.

The red sun rose on fields accurst, The gray fog fled away; But neither cared to fire the first, For it was Christmas Day.

They called from each to each across The hideous disarray (For terrible had been their loss): "O, this is Christmas Day!"

Their rifles all they set aside, One impulse to obey; 'Twas just the men on either side, Just men—and Christmas Day.

They dug the graves for all their dead And over them did pray; And Englishman and German said: "How strange a Christmas Day!"

Between the trenches then they met, Shook hands, and e'en did play At games on which their hearts are set On happy Christmas Day.

Not all the Emperors and Kings, Financiers, and they Who rule us could prevent these things For it was Christmas Day.

O ye who read this truthful rime From Flanders, kneel and say: God speed the time when every day Shall be as Christmas Day.

FREDERICK NIVEN.



THE MINER AND THE TIGER

On an October day in 1866, David Lloyd George, then a little lad of three years, came with his mother and younger brother to live with his uncle, Richard Lloyd, for his father had died leaving the family penniless. His uncle, a shoemaker and preacher, was educated though poor. In the picturesque little village of Llanystumdwy on the coast of Wales, Lloyd George grew up,—a leader among his mates, not only in his studies but in mischief as well. He was a good thinker and liked to debate with his uncle, and to be in his uncle's shop in the evening when the men of the village gathered to talk over questions of business and politics. As he grew older, he took part in their conversation and was acknowledged by them to have a good mind.

When he had finished his ordinary schooling, after which most boys were put to work, his mother and his uncle agreed that the lad ought to receive a good education; that such a capable boy should not all his life be obliged to work by the day at farming. But his mother was penniless, and his uncle had only a few hundred pounds which he had saved to care for himself in his old age. But, though he was often stern with the boy, he loved him, and decided to spend all that he had for his education. He could not know then that he was helping a boy who would be the greatest man in England at a later day.

Eagerly Lloyd George entered upon his work at the university, studying especially the subject of law. At graduation time, funds were too low to pay for the official robe which was accustomed to be worn in the profession. But Lloyd George left college and worked in an office until he had acquired the needed sum. Then he went back home and opened a law office.



He knew that his home people needed his help, for they were farmers who were continually being taxed or having portions of their land taken from them unjustly by the rich landowners. He knew, too, that the laborers in the Welsh mining districts were unfairly treated. Lloyd George undoubtedly had heard the men talk over their troubles in his uncle's shop. Now he was prepared to defend them, and soon had many clients, for they learned that he could not only sympathize with them, but could plead their cases well. Because he so strongly championed the rights of the miners, and because he himself lived for so long in the mining district, Lloyd George came to be called "The Miner."

More and more, renowned lawyers of the country began to hear of him. He carried cases to the high court of London where he won great admiration. Always he fought for the poor and downtrodden people. He began to speak everywhere—on street corners, in the market places, and in public buildings, with such feeling and force that even those who opposed him admired him. They liked his quick wit and good humor, and his honest, direct way of looking at things.

In the year 1890 he obtained a seat in the House of Commons. His reputation grew, as through one act after another he sought to make life easier and fairer for the nation's poor. His advance, step by step, to higher seats in the government was met with constant opposition from the rich lords and magistrates. But there was in him an almost unbelievable power for overcoming all obstacles. He was keen to see what was the right thing to be done, then went straight after it, making a new way, if necessary,—breaking down all barriers by means of his own wonderfully skillful schemes. Thus his policy came to be known as one of "make or break." Often the men who opposed him most bitterly at first were afterward his stanchest friends and supporters. No other premier, elected at the beginning of the World War, succeeded in holding the position until the end.

He served in many capacities, proving invaluable in all. It became natural for officials or people anywhere, having difficult problems at hand, to send for Lloyd George to settle them. Once 200,000 miners of Wales struck and refused to work again until certain conditions were granted by their employers. Lloyd George had really nothing to do with the case. But the labor officials spent a long time trying to arrive at some agreement, and failed completely. At last they sent for Lloyd George to assist them. He traveled down from London to the miners' camp and in one day reached a settlement and left the men in good humor back at their work again.

He was impatient at delay and slowness of action. So when the British soldiers went into the trenches to fight, he determined that they should have as many and as good guns and shells as the enemy. He decided that the government should have all the money it needed to back the great war; for building ships, airplanes, and countless other necessities.

With his characteristic straightforward manner, he brought the problems before the people, and thrilled and stirred them mightily by his powerful, searching speeches. He thus secured all that was desired. At the close of the war, he was the chief power in England and whatever he willed was done.

Yet Lloyd George was a warm-hearted Welshman who loved the people. Even in war time, he was a jovial, home-loving man. At the royal house, at 11 Downing Street, he lived in sweet companionship with his wife and two daughters, Olwen and Megan—one a young lady, the other a little girl of twelve years. His two sons fought in France. Nor did he forget his aged uncle now past ninety, who staked all that he had for the boy's education. As Premier of England, Lloyd George gladly welcomed him to his royal home. No other name in the past few years, save that of President Wilson, has been so often and so affectionately upon the lips of people in every land as has the name of David Lloyd George. He is a hero worthy of any boy's admiration and emulation. He has made some glorious pages in English history. At the peace table, in all his kindliness and power, he determined to see justice meted out to poor, unfortunate people in all lands.

Georges Clemenceau, Premier of France, is another who stands for justice and liberty. He has upheld these virtues with such fierce determination that he has come to be known in France as the "Old Tiger."

His father in the days of Napoleon III was a leader of the revolution and aided in the attempts to establish a republic in place of the kingdom. He was thrown into prison, but his son, Georges Clemenceau, became an even greater worker in the cause of freedom. As a young man he, too, was cast into prison because in the midst of an imperial celebration, he shouted on the streets of Paris "Vive la Republique." After he was released, he realized that he would be treated practically as an exile, and so he came to America. Here for a few years he was instructor in French in a school for girls. After marrying one of his students, he returned with her to France.

Through his writings and speeches, he became widely known in Paris for his democratic ideas upon all public questions. At one time a young military officer, Captain Dreyfus, was about to be condemned for high treason. Clemenceau believed him innocent, and proved that the trial was unjust. By his newspaper editorials, he so aroused the people of Paris—those of society as well as the working classes and university students—that a new trial was finally secured for the prisoner. The whole nation was interested in the Dreyfus case, and the youth of France especially hailed Clemenceau as a leader of justice.

He was first made premier in 1906, at the age of sixty-six. He served for three years and then again retired to private life. Often his voice alone was raised in objection to laws or regulations which to him seemed unfair. Even when no one shared his ideas, however, he forced the government and the people to listen to him, such a keen and stirring debater was he. For years he continued, as an editor of a newspaper, to struggle for justice for the common people. So unpopular was the "Old Tiger" with his cries of freedom for all, that he had to "tear and claw and bite" his way into society and to power in the government.



When the World War came, his daily paper, the Free Man, told the dangers and weaknesses of the government war measures. Like Lloyd George in England, he dared to propose new and gigantic means for winning the victory. He wrote much to keep high the courage of the French soldiers and the people, defending the just and righteous cause of their country. It is said that in the first three years of the war, he wrote over a thousand such editorials.

Then came the great crisis, when the Huns were planning a final drive that should win them the victory. Some one must be chosen who should be able to prepare the armies to strike hard at the enemy. Clemenceau was the man chosen. On October 17, 1917, he was once more made Premier of France, though he was now seventy-eight years old. But his eyes flashed keener, and his mind was more clever and daring than ever in his youth. The man who even in the titles of his newspapers,—Labor, Justice, Dawn, the Free Man,—had for years been shouting for liberty, now had a share in the command of the forces of the Allies which were to win the fierce struggle for democracy.

In the spring of 1918, when the French feared that they must lose the war, it was Clemenceau who cheered them and urged them on and on in their efforts to win, until at length he gave them the most cheering message of all, "Hold the line, for America comes!"

Overcoming all obstacles, he led the nation to victory. Down into the trenches he went, risking his life in the very front lines, that he might go among his soldiers to cheer them, and to let them know that he did not send his men where he would not go himself.

His behavior toward his would-be assassin, on February 19, 1919, was in itself a striking example of his daring, fighting spirit. As he rode home in his car from the Peace Conference, a man aimed and fired at him. Instantly Premier Clemenceau pushed open the door of his car, and, while the man continued firing, sprang upon him and grappled with him until the police reached the spot and seized the offender. Five bullets had been shot, only one of which lodged itself in the "Old Tiger's" shoulder, and did no great harm.

Even those who opposed Clemenceau's political policies, strongly denounced the attempt upon his life, which had been made by a supposed Russian socialist. Thus this keen, jovial, loyal defender of liberty has come into the love of all his people.

An unnamed poilu sent Premier Clemenceau his Croix de Guerre, with the following letter:—

"You have not been given the Croix de Guerre. Here is mine, bearing only two stars. You merit two palms."

Clemenceau is reported to have wept when he read the letter.

It gave him untold pleasure to serve as the nation's host during the visit of President Wilson—with whom, as representative of the great republic of the United States, he should further help to establish freedom throughout the world.



THE LOST BATTALION

On December 24, 1918, Lieutenant Colonel Charles W. Whittlesey of Pittsfield, Massachusetts, was presented in the presence of 20,000 people on Boston Common by Major General Edwards with the congressional Medal of Honor, the highest tribute of valor the United States awards.

General Edwards presented the medal with these words: "Your heroic act thrilled the entire American Expeditionary Force. It was a piece of stout-hearted work that reflected credit upon the part of yourself and of the men who were serving under you. It sustained the best traditions of American arms and valor. It is a great pleasure to have the presentation assigned to me; I regard it as a sacred duty."

Lieutenant Colonel Whittlesey smiled, and straightening up to his full stature of six feet and four inches, simply said, "I thank you, General."

The medal was given to reward his courage and determination when with his "lost battalion" he was surrounded by the Germans in the Argonne forest.

On the fourth day of suffering in the cold and rain without food or blankets, when their ammunition was almost gone, an American who had been taken prisoner by the Germans was sent to Major Whittlesey—his promotion to Lieutenant Colonel came later—with a written message saying, "Americans, you are surrounded on all sides. Surrender in the name of humanity. You will be well treated."



Major Whittlesey's exclamation when he had read the message was very brief and very forceful. It made the Germans understand without further parley that the Americans would never surrender. Major Whittlesey's men cheered his reply. Not one of them, cold, hungry, and almost exhausted, thought for a moment of surrendering.

Several days before on the morning of September 26, they had entered the Argonne forest, as a part of the line of American attack. At five-thirty in the morning, they had gone "over the top" in a very heavy fog and behind their creeping barrage toward the German trenches. They had to force their passage through trees, shrubs, vines, and undergrowth grown all together so that it was almost impossible to advance and yet keep in touch with one another as they were ordered to do.

They reached the first German trenches which were named the Ludwig. The Huns named their trenches so as to identify them readily in orders and upon the maps. These trenches were empty and they went on to a row of fancy concrete and iron dugouts, called by the Germans Karlsruhe, where they made their headquarters for the night.

The next day they met stubborn resistance from artillery and nests of machine guns, but they were able to make progress. In the first mile they passed over twelve abandoned trench systems.

As they went forward they left men behind at regular intervals to keep them in touch with the regimental headquarters. Along this line of men, stationed near enough together to communicate easily with each other, orders, ammunition, and rations could be passed.

The Germans knew their plan and as the battalion in the next days gradually got ahead of the main American line and out of touch with it on the flanks, the Huns pushed through, killed part of the men on the line of communication, and surrounded it, placing machine-gun nests in the rear.

When Major Whittlesey discovered their predicament, he directed his adjutant, Lieutenant Arthur McKeogh, with two men to make an attempt to get back to regimental headquarters and inform the colonel of the situation. Lieutenant McKeogh has told the story of his success. It is intensely exciting and makes one shiver at the horror of men, who have no personal enmity but might be friends, killing one another, and also makes one thrill with pride and admiration for the courage that dares even to death—not the quick death of the glorious charge, but the slow death of thirst, exhaustion, and fatigue. It shows us the worst and the best of war, and that the worst is too great a price to pay for the best. Lieutenant McKeogh writes in an article in Collier's:—

I took Munson and Herschowitz, and on hands and knees, with drawn revolvers, we began a detour of the nests. I was keeping my direction by compass every foot of the way. We had been going a scant ten minutes when shots from a light Maxim and rifles broke out in front. I thought we had been spotted, but after a wait, when we started again, we crawled within a few feet of the real target, now lifeless; he was in khaki and apparently he had strayed from his outfit. During our wait we saw a boche passing through the trees. From the crackling of the brush there seemed to be others. With my lips I made the words "Don't fire" to my runners, and then covered him, in case he saw us. He went by. Realizing that we might have something of a time of it getting through, I motioned the runners to my side, read the messages to them in whispers and had them repeat. Then scooping out a little hole in the sodden leaves under my chin, I buried the messages, with several others from my map case, in fine pieces. Next I impressed upon them that our mission was not to fight unless forced to it, but to get back to the regiment, all of us, if possible; one, certainly. Consequently we would separate when it became necessary.

Half an hour's traveling brought us to a broad clearing, cleaving the forest as far as I could see, on a true north-south line. Our direction was south, and the trail down the center of the clearing meant real progress, although I knew trails to be dangerous. We were not long upon it, when suddenly, out of a side trail, two German officers appeared, fifty yards ahead.

The one in advance shouted something with "Kamerad" in it. But at the same time he was leveling his pistol at me, and I needed no interpreter.

We darted off the trail behind a bush at its edge. The boches fired into the bush as they came. We stretched out and waited. In front of me a bough ran low and parallel to the ground; upon it I rested my pistol, directing it upon the trail through the thin leaves underneath.

Presently Herr Offizier came creeping along, bent to the waist and peering through the bush. We looked squarely into each other's eyes as we fired, less than ten feet separating us. Being settled and ready for him, my gun had about a second the better of his. I aimed at his mouth, allowing for the rise of the bullet from the "kick." As he fired I actually felt the concussion against my face, we were so close; then a hot, sharp pain in my right forearm, as if some one had suddenly pushed a white-hot knife blade along under the elbow when I hadn't been looking.

Munson and Herschowitz fired too, and there seemed to be shots from the second boche. My own particular duelist dropped back limp after my first shot, although I got off four in quick succession.

Now we made for the thick of the woods. My resolution was to stick to them though they should be thick as fish glue. Under good cover Munson dressed my wound. My fingers had begun stiffening up a bit, and I worked them to keep the trigger finger in good trim, thinking at the time what a ludicrous shot I'd be with the left hand. A thought for soldiers in training: Are you ambidextrous? I've never fired a shot with the left.

The wound itself was a puzzler. Almost at once the arm swelled until it seemed that a duck egg had been inserted under the flesh. But, feeling around it, there was no hard substance beneath. The sleeve showed two holes within three inches of each other where the cartridge had gone in and out. What probably happened was that my shot had diverted his aim and his bullet had passed under my crooked elbow and armpit, merely searing the forearm in a caressing sort of way. The blood was negligible. Altogether, it was a "cushy blighty," as the Tommy puts it. We reloaded our revolvers to wait for nightfall. There was a bit of stale bread in the bottom of my gas mask, forgotten until now. I split it into three parts, about two mouthfuls for each, and dug out some half-soaked cigarettes.

"We'll have a smoke, Jack" (military rank is forgotten sometimes), "if it's the last," I said, and he agreed with a wan sort of smile. Herschowitz whispered that he didn't smoke, and dropped asleep as the words left his mouth.

None of us had water. And we were very thirsty. The boys had white, sticky saliva in the corners of their mouths, and, from the feel of mine, I knew that I had too.

To the inevitable monody of machine guns, we dozed until dusk came. Then with compass and revolver, one in each hand, I started again upon the eternal crawl. My arm had grown in circumference until the sleeve was tight upon it. Crawling added nothing to its comfort, for to do the crawfish stroke the elbows are pushed out ahead and upon them as anchors the rest of the body is then drawn up. As yet it was not necessary to go so carefully. But when, after hours, we came to a clearing as grateful as I was for the chance of unhampered movement, I dropped to hands and knees. Ten minutes of thus shinning passed without event. Then suddenly a boche voice called out, a little to our front: "Bist du Deutsch?" That much German I understood. We flattened. As it happened, we were at the foot of a tree at the base of which grew brush. We lay motionless. Again the voice, with its demand in intonation.

Then the bolt of a rifle clicked clearly and the owner of the voice fired. The flash was clear against the night. From the right and left of the flash, and close to it, came other flashes. The bullets whined harmlessly above us.

Was this a small, mobile party? If so, they would be slinking about. But during half an hour of their intermittent firing the position of the flashes never changed. That looked like funk holes! And if it was a case of funk holes, by all the nasty little elves of tough luck, we had stumbled right into a German position!

By watching the direction of the flashes I tried to determine their front. Cupping my hand over the radio-lighted dial of my compass, I studied it in connection with their bursts of fire. They seemed to be firing north. But north was our own battalion front, and theirs, according to the military logic of things, south, unless—unless they had swung in from our flank behind us and had dug in facing our rear!

No amount of juggling of the compass could satisfactorily account for the position of those bodies. So I settled down to waiting tactics. Clearly, it's wise to let your enemy think you have moved off while he is most on the alert for your movement. After that he relaxes vigilance, and you stand a better chance of getting away without foreign substances under the skin.

I whispered—oh, very softly—that we would stay here for some time. Possibly an hour. And then I fell asleep!

Munson woke me by gently pounding on my thigh. I don't remember the time. Must have been around midnight. The funk holes were quiet now, and we wormed away in a new direction without drawing fire. I recollect seeing the shiny hobnails and the horseshoe of steel on the runners' boots as I crawled back past them to take the lead. I wondered at what distance they were visible.

Occasionally my helmet would come afoul of a vine or small branch; and then like cathedral bells to my overstrained ears the edge of the helmet would make a little ringing sound. I berated myself for ever having removed its burlap camouflage, though it gathered all the sand in the world to deposit in my hair.

Once I heard Munson struggling to restrain a cough. We froze to the ground while he sputtered as softly as he could. And I was to know later what mental as well as physical torture the sensation is. For hours it seemed, painstakingly, inch by inch, we wormed our way out of those funk holes. Out, as I thought. But it was deeper into them that we went!

I was congratulating myself on leaving the hotbed, as I headed for a bush, when, just at the fringe of it, and almost out of its very leaves, came another demand in German.

This was a moment for quick action. It was time for the message to go back by three individuals on different routes. I heard the safety lock of a rifle snapped back. He would fire the next minute. Springing up, I shouted: "Separate!" to the boys, and ran as fast as I could, helter-skelter down the side of a gradual slope. I was making no effort at stooping now. Speed was my salvation, if anything was.

Rifles barked all around. For a moment or two I heard the runners crashing through the brush. Several shots hummed past me, but I was too preoccupied to notice them much. I knew I'd have to get cover soon—before they saw and dropped me. Just ahead, in dark outline, I spotted what seemed to be a providential bit of cover. I made for it full tilt, the sloping ground quickening my pace.

I hurled myself at it, legs first and spread apart, so as to land in a sitting position. It was so that I did land—right astride the shoulders of a boche. I had selected a German funk hole for cover!

As I landed, a second boche who like the first had been squatted down rose to his feet, slowly, it seemed, alongside me. We were both bereft of speech from the surprise; the fellow under me was incapable of locomotion as well, for while I felt him squirm a bit he stayed put.

My mind was racing like an overfed gas engine.

"What," I thought, "is the convention when one tumbles in upon a pair of Fritzes without the formality of being announced?"

I knew I had to gain time until the muscular paralysis from the surprise had passed. Subconsciously I must have been thinking that if only I could speak to him in his native tongue he might believe for the moment that I was one of his own.

I cudgeled my brain for a German expression. Then I remembered a masseuse, a very German woman, who has called at my home for years to dress my sister's hair. What was it she used to say so much? What was it? Ah, I knew!

"Was ist los?" I said triumphantly to my vis-a-vis as he rose to his feet.

Amusingly enough, I didn't actually know at the time that it meant "What's the matter?" I had an idea it was a liberal translation of "Who's looney now?" And that seemed pat enough for the occasion.

"Was ist los?" Fritz repeated with a strong, rising inflection on the "los." And at that he drew his overcoat, which apparently had been thrown across his shoulders, high above his head and down over it, as if he were cold. I can see the silhouette of that coat against the stars now. Of course I could have been in the hole no longer than fifteen seconds, but it seemed hours, and every move is deep limned upon my memory.