ii toIheFinish! 'est la Guerre (It is iheWav) n ir Joe Chappie Oass^ J] 6 4-0 Book : CopyiigM?- COFflRIGHT DEPOSm WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH!" ''C'est la Guerre {li is the War) 9> Photo by Garo JOE MITCHELL CHAPPLE Photograph taken with Gas Mask "WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH! " ''Oest la Guerre'' (It is the War) A Voice from the Soldiers and Sailors Overseas — People and Places Visited in the War Zones Joe Mitchell Chapple BOSTON CHAPPLE PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited 1918 ^tl COPTBIGHT, 1918 BT Job Mitchell Ghapplh AiJG -5 1918 ©CI.A503028 TO THE ^olbter£( anb bailors; of tte ^lliti WHOSE IMMORTAL DEEDS ARE RECORDED IN SELF-SACRIFICE AND BLOOD List of Illustrations The Author Frontispiece Facing Page Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States. ... 16' Col. Edward M. House 1'^ Premier Clemenceau of France SS-^ French "75" Bombarding German Trench 33 / Clenuenceau, "The Tiger," Reviewing British Troops . S3 "Do with Us as You Like" 48/ General John J. ("Fighting Jack") Pershing 4ft/' In the Front Lines 64/ In No Man's Land 64^ On Their Way 65/ German Prisoners on Way to Prison Camp 65/ Henry P. Davison, Chairman x\merican Red Cross. . 80/ American Red Cross Rest House Behind Italian Front 80 ' Map Showing American Red Cross Activities in Italy 81 Report of the Author's Address which appeared in the Leading Newspaper of Rome 96 General Diaz, Commander in Chief of Italian Army . . 97 Orlando, Premier of Italy 112 Guglielmo Marconi, Senator and Inventor 113 Nit6 — Italian Minister of Finance 128 Conveying Supplies in Besieged Venice 12ft Luncheon in Paris 129 '^ Andre Citroen, France's Foremost Munition Manu- facturer 144 Le Marechal Joffre 145 Sir Douglas Haig, Commander in Chief of British Army 160 (vii) List of Illustrations Lloyd George, Premier of England 160 '^ Generalissimo Foch, Commander in Chief of Allied Armies 161 v Sir Eric Geddes, Britain's First Lord of the Admiralty 176 Admiral William S. Sims, U. S. N 177 Hon. Newton D. Baker, Secretary of War, U. S. A. . . 192 Hon. Josephus Daniels, Secretary of Navy, U. S, A. . . 192 Lord Leverhulme, the Creator of Port Sunlight 193 Hon. W. G. Sharpe, American Ambassador to France. 208 Hon. Walter Hines Page, American Ambassador to the Court of St. James 209 Hon. Thomas Nelson Page, American Ambassador to Italy 224 Area Miss Storey's Hot Comforts Fund 225 King Albert of Belgium 240 His Majesty, George V of England 241 President Poincare of France 256 Victor Emmanuel, King of Italy 257 , (viii) CONTENTS PagB I, Cest la Guerre — It is the War 1 II. Sailing for France 8 III. Paris under Bombardment 14 IV. Face to Face with Clemenceau— "The Tiger" 22 V. With Pershing and His Men 34 VI. With the American Troops in a Gas Mask. 50 VII. Under the Red Cross Banner in France ... 68 VIII. A Sunday Visit with Marshal Joffre 83 IX. Ancient Rome in Modern War Times 92 X. Orlando and Italy's Lawmakers 107 XI. Sieged Venice by Night and Day 115 XII. Along the Italian Front 127 XIII. With the Rolling Canteen in Italy 144 XIV. Andre Citroen, an Industrial Leader of France 153 XV. Generalissimo Foch, the Strategist 161 XVI. Sir Douglas Haig, British Commander 166 XVII. Lloyd George— The Lion of No. 10 Down- ing Street 171 XVIII. "The Admiralty" and Admiral Sims 181 XIX. A Visit to the Grand Fleet 194 XX. With the American Destroyers — The Doom of the Submarine 209 XXI. Lord Leverhulme and the Six-Hour-Day. . 225 XXII. American Ambassadors in Warring Europe . 237 XXIII. Among the Workers Behind the Lines 252 XXIV. King Albert in His Trenched Domain 373 XXV. London in War times 284 XXVI. Homeward Bound— Smoke Talk 296 (ix) FOREWORD THIS book was never planned — it grew. I went to the Western Front in the capacity of a magazine editor, largely to see things, to feel the spirit of our men overseas, to talk with them in a friendly and informal way, to mix with them, live their life, eat their food, and to know at first-hand something of Pershing and his men; of Sims and his sailors. The purpose has grown with the book. It has broadened until my travels have covered all fronts, from Flanders Field to the highest peak of the Alps, and the seas from Ireland to Scotland. I have lived and talked with British Tommies, Canadian and Australian Colonials, French Poilus, Italian Bersagliere, and Yankee Americans. On land and on sea I saw soldiers and sailors mingling in a New World comradeship. On the battlefields they were brigaded in such a "oneness" that only the uniform they wore furnished^^identity. On («) Foreword the sea, at least two great nations had so merged that the flag of each dipped as one. Not only did I see the big guns of the field and the fleet, but the great men of the Allied nations as well — looked into their eyes, heard their senti- ments and felt their purpose. Some of their in- spiring utterances I have brought back with me. My chief aim was to see our own boys, to hear their words, to see them under fire, and to know how it fared with them in the great conflict. What I heard and saw constitutes a message — a message which is like fire shut up in my bones. It is too sacred for personal knowledge alone. Within me is an all-compelling must. Not for authorial pride, but to stimulate col- lective patriotism in my own country — to hearten the parents, relatives and sweethearts. To induce them, if possible, to keep flying the white letters of cheer, not once a week merely, but once a day; to keep before our brave soldiers at the front the knowledge that the home fires are brightly burning, and to inspire them with the nobleness of their service and the glory of their sacrifice. This is the whole reason for a book, furnishing, as it does, one of the great channels of communication. To me was given the unexpected privilege of talking to the boys singly, in groups and in mass (xii) Foreword meetings — of talking to tliem in plain clothes, in plain language, and of giving them a plain message. I wanted them to feel, not that I was an official or on an accredited mission, but rather just a feller from home, sorrj^ for only one thing — that I was not actually one of them. How readily they responded! Rushing about me, almost the whole burden of their question was: "Are you going back home?" And many were the addresses I brought back — of parents or relatives to be remembered, even the shy word "to the sweetest little girl in the world." My message in this book is in the same plain language I used with the boys. Its sentences will need no interpreter. I wish to return deepest gratitude to those at home who in so many ways made my oversea trip possible, and to the great number abroad who by innumerable acts of courtesy and kindness helped to make my stay the most thrilling experience of my life. To Secretary Daniels, who made possible the trip; to Secretary Lansing and to Secretary Baker, who greatly facilitated it; to Vice-Presi- dent Marshall, whose words about me I should be proud to have in my biography; to George Creel, Theodore Roosevelt, Admiral McGowan, and Colonel House, whose friendly words opened many (3dii) Foreword a door; to numerous other personal friends whose deeds transcend their names; and especially to one friend, who stood sponsor for the book, and who would not permit the mention of his name, yet who purchased the first one thousand copies, insisting that he was inspired purely by patriotic motives in placing these in the hands of soldiers and sailors. To Woodrow Wilson, President of the United States, whose inspiring utterances and patriotic spirit helped so largely in accrediting me all through Europe as an American citizen. (xiv) "WE'LL STICK TO THE FINISH!" "C'est la Guerre {It is the War) >y C'EST LA GUERRE— IT IS THE WAR THE universal phrase, "C'est la G^ierre," (say- lu-gair) , comes hot from the heart of France. It covers the various emotions of the war. The wailing pacifist shakes his head declaring ''C'est la Guerre''; the chic merrymaker of Paris with a swing of the arms, declares, ''C'est laOnerre"; the embittered cynic sneers, "C'est la Gnerre"; the sorrowing man, woman and child resignedly say, *'C'est la Guerre''; but its climax is reached when the soldier, his soul aflame, rushes into the fray or into No Man's Land where the ghostly gloom is lighted only by the cannon's flare, exultingly shouting, "C'est la Guerre." In that cry is the hope of civilization. Because it voices every angle of the greatest struggle in the world, we use the French phrase *'C'est la Guerre" — for in all history this is the war. Peering into the impenetrable distance are the eyes of the great family-fraternity who have fathers, 2 We'll Stick to the Finish husbands, sons and sweethearts in the conflict, and who welcome not only what is defined knowl- edge, but the merest fragments of information as to whereabouts and doings of their own. There is something in the contemplation of war which is sobering in itself, but when we con- sider the scope of this struggle, how inconsequential are all those things we thought greatest in life. And what are the stakes? Not markets, not territory, but life and death. It is the crucial hour of the world. In the United States, we have come gradually to the realization that we are at war and have taken our place by the side of heroic Allies. The die is cast. The liberties of free peoples must be written for the ages in the blood of our own soldiers. Americans in France, accustomed to the con- templation of big things, find the proportions of this war to be overwhelming. Armies of a million are but a dot on the map. The actual fighting line reaches a distance equal to that from Boston to Buffalo. Five tons of supplies must go three thousand miles with every American soldier. Yankee genius has provided bakeries producing a million loaves a day. Every device in the rear of the line is being used to conserve the precious drops of American blood. Drinking water is C'est la Guerre — It is the War 3 analyzed in the laboratories every day. The health of the soldier is paramount. The slime and mud of the trench is lessened when the soldier is **fit." The health of the American soldier is good to see and his spirits correspond. Here in the making is a new type of citizenship — void of caste and social distinctions — the sublime task is making comrades of all. Nothing we ever saw or read before in ancient lore equals the courage manifested by our soldiers in France. There are moments, to be sure, when, face to face with death, there are gulping throats, but they are philosophical even then. The boys are not to be censured because they do not write; their time is full and there is action in every moment. Even in the rest billets is the subconsciousness which comes with realization that grim Death hovers everywhere. We used to speak of our soldiers as "boys," but in France they have grown to the full stature of manhood. What a thrill it gave me to see in per- son those whose pictures a year or two ago mothers had put into my hands. In the mile after mile of troops I saw going to the trenches, not one countenance reflected regret, not one face carried the sullen aspect of engaging in an unwilling task. 4 We'll Stick to the Finish The dominant thought of all is — to win the war, to stick to the finish. Not one wishes to return until the job is done. There is no complaining about food or accommodations. Everything is accepted with soldierly fortitude. The only ex- pressed wish I heard was for candy, cigarettes and socks. There is not sufficient leisure in the camp for the smoking of pipes or for the solacing cigar, but a cigarette is quickly lighted and seems to offer a soothing sedative when shrapnel is falling. The desolation of "No Man's Land" cannot be described. Side by side with fields of living green, spangled with flowers, cheered by the songs of birds, is that black, churned, barren strip of land, over which nothing stalks but Death. To visit the war front from siege -stricken Venice, Padua, and Asiago in the Tyrol Alps; Verdun with its valorous Poilus; sectors held by brave British, intrepid Americans, and fearless Colonials, Canadians and Belgians; to see the battle grounds where wave after wave of the fiendish Huns have been met, together with the great hospitals, aviation camps, the Grand Fleet at the Firth, and the destroyer flotilla at Queens- town, is to be overwhelmed with the magnitude of the struggle. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 5 Not only on the earth but in the sky are the forces struggling. Observation balloons, night raids, long range guns, and flying squadrons are now a part of war's machinery. Thrilling it was and touching to see the A. E. F. from far-off America — stars of manhood from every state and territory in the Union. Their parade through the streets of London moved the sturdy Britishers to fervent enthusiasm. Nor were the French to be outdone in their admiration for the American troops — the finest of America's sons poured out on the sacrificial altar. Yet ''c'est la guerre." In all the camps I visited I never indulged in poetical rhapsodies about the war. There was a practical job to do and no poetry about it. It was a matter of business to direct the great flow- ing tides of American and British khaki, French blue and Italian green. Moving trains everywhere were laden with guns and soldiers. Men accus- tomed to Pullmans, and once churlish in taking an upper berth were now glad to have room to move their feet, to say nothing of lying down. The carriages in most cases were freight cars — hommes, 40; cheveaux, 8. Armies moved to and fro in a new world comradeship; Italians coming to the north, and British moving south to the plateau of Asiago. The wounded were pouring 6 We'll Stick to the Finish into "Blighty," that haven for dauntless Cana- dians, courageous Colonials and heroic British. The result of the war resolves itself into a matter of mathematical calculation where the forces with the longest range guns and the largest number of men in reserve have the advantage. But there is another element, sometimes over- looked, which in this war may well prove to be the deciding factor, and that is, the morale. Should this be so, as manifest by the sublime spirit of the Allied troops, the future is full of hope. The most impressive picture of my entire journey was the salute of a young American commander of a machine gun company as he reported at headquarters, with a gashing wound in his arm, "My men are at the guns." When the supporting troops were sent, they found every man at the guns, but — they were dead. There were no chains on the wrists of these boys. In the hospital trains or on the cars of wounded, there is little complaint, although men are bleed- ing and dying. At most there may be the pitiful call for "mother," yet ''c'est la guerre." The evidences of war's ravages are legion. There is the tottering cripple, the mangled form, and the groping blind — yet even in these is a C'est la Guerre — It is the War 7 radiance which speaks of souls burning with a great purpose. It is for people on this side of the water, possessed of physical health and enjoying the comforts of home, to pour out unstintingly of all they possess — their time, thought, energy and money — but, above all, to give themselves, unreservedly as our soldiers are doing — to win the war! II SAILING FOR FRANCE SAILING for France!" What a new and strange significance that sentence has in the year, A. D. 1918. Clad in a cutaway, a two-year-old Chesterfield summer overcoat with flowing skirt, I sailed away, prouder than I had ever been in a dress suit. Today the most precious heritage I have is that old coat, for I not only wore it on all the battle- fronts, but — how sacred it seems! — it has been touched with the blood of some of our American boys! On the S. S. Espagne were Americans, English, French, and Italians — people representing nearly all allied and neutral countries. Each passport was concrete in its directions, and each passenger specific in his declaration, "I sail with a purpose." Business and pleasure were of the past. Life biog- raphies were recited and explanations made; missions were magnified and exploited in the quick (8) C'est la Guerre — It is the War 9 acquaintance of shipmates. At the first table before reaching the roUing seas, I had a toothache, which caused me to hst my head to port. The lady opposite thought she had drawn a grouch, when I confessed — "a toothache." It was a French ship, a French crew, and a French cook. The cook, with his soups, stews and salads, soon won our hearts and reconciled us to war rations. I found my French was not working well. Asking, in a bilious tone, for eggs at breakfast, I was handed a lemon. My steward, Jean Gardin of the 220th French Infantry, was wounded five times in the Marne campaign and in the assaults of Verdun in 1914 and 1916, and had received the War Cross. He lost one eye on his twenty-ninth birthday at Verdun, but he sees more than many with two eyes. He was honorably discharged and detailed to help on steamships; every wounded soldier finds something to do. When I heard his story I felt like getting up and waiting on him. The personnel of the passenger list was inter- esting, indicating a variety of purpose. Mary Garden was singing for the soldiers on the lower deck. She greeted them all with a kiss (by proxy). The lucky man was introduced and given the osculatory salute to pass on — in spirit. Hurrahs 10 We'll Stick to the Finish for the famous American prima donna rang over the decks. Miss Boardman presided at all the Red Cross meetings, Chaplain Smith at the Y. M. C. A. gatherings, and Burton Stevenson at the Library rallies. Everything pertaining to the war was discussed. Pictures of the scenes referred to were envisioned. Miss Anne Morgan rehearsed the rehabilitation plans at the deck gatherings. "This is not the time for writing about what we are going to do — it is the time for doing things," she said. Mrs. Cashman and Mrs. Coleman du Pont of the Y. W. C. A. were enroute to visit the hostess houses. General Rodiquet, a veteran of the Franco-Prussian campaign, who served with Joffre in two wars, corrected me with military precision : "Marechal Joffre — no longer General." Red Cross meetings were held (weather permit- ting) every day in the lounge. Y. M. C. A. gath- erings were scheduled with regularity. Nearly every state was represented in the personnel, including stenographers struggling with French and slow appetites, chauffeurs, canteen workers, nurses in military cloaks with red lining. Red Cross workers, Y. M. C. A. recruits. Salvation Army officers. Camp Community helpers, women C^est la Guerre — It is the War 11 for the Y. W. C. A. hostess houses; in fact, every branch of war activities was in evidence, all uniformed and enthusiastic — if the sea was not too rolling. The first querj^ was: "Where is j^our home?" Everyone seemed to find somebody he had met or who had met someone he knew. Well out of sight of land, soldiers in brown blos- somed on the decks below, fore and aft. The old demands for ship-service as in peace days were silenced and transformed into a slogan of help- service for everybody. The luxurious salons and promenade decks were thrown open to the soldiers, while cigarettes and baskets of candy were show- ered upon them. It was a voyage exemplifying the mellowing influences of democracy in war times. Approaching Europe, the fever of expectancy as to submarines increased. Drills with life pre- servers were called the first day out. As each assembled, every one looked his lifeboat mates over with curious social concern. Some appeared in unsinkable suits, like ghostly spectres from subterranean depths. All speculated as to just what they were going to do in the event of "six sharp whistles." I was a member of Boat 8, which, with several stout gentlemen and a few ladies to match, had an impressive crew. The 12 Well Stick to the Finish stout people at once formed a firm and fast alliance, holding regular meetings on starboard boat deck. The first glimpse of land brought a quiver like that Columbus must have felt when he sighted the shores of San Salvador. The dashing American destroyer hove in sight, and we immediately had a feeling of complete safety when we saw the Stars and Stripes astern the craft. A rim of land, with tiled roofs skirting the distant shore, brought a welcome relief after eight tense days on perilous seas. Miles and miles of new docks were included in the vista. A veritable forest of piling already driven to provide for endless wharves on which to land troops and supplies, brought to mind the tri- umph of American constructive genius at Panama. What a welcome sight actually to see Uncle Sam's uniform in France! Hails of welcome came from both shores as the boat sailed up the river. "Where are you from.^^" was the greeting across the water, from every nook and corner, from the tops of houses — all in our own tongue! This brought a thrill. Landing at Bordeaux and at night, the air was heavy with the fumes of wine. There was no question — this was Bordeaux! The open parks and available spaces on the streets were filled with cases of automobiles and supplies on their way to C'est la Guerre — It is the War 13 the front. The whole city seemed like a giant camp behind the lines. The quaint little Hotel Pyrenees was a haven, and I hastened to dinner. The lilacs were in bloom, distilling in the dining hall their soft fragrance at eventide. And yet as I sat there it seemed suddenly lonely. Just then a wee tot of four, with large brown eyes, orphan of a French soldier, unconscious of the grim realities of war, climbed up to my knee. Her childish chatter in French was like music. '^J^vu saiw" (I love you), she confided. Then added sadly, ''Papa parti" (papa gone), ''Maman perdue'' (mamma lost). When she threw her little arms around my neck and kissed me, France had won my heart! Ill PARIS UNDER BOMBARDMENT THE soft slumber of the night ended rather abruptly in Bordeaux next morning by the crashing strains of a French military band. They seemed to be calling me to Paris. Paris in war time ! What wonder that my blood flowed fast ? For a moment I indulged in a reverie — thinking of La Belle France and the little tot of the night before, who this very day was to embark for my own America! There was little time for dreaming, for "Boots" bounded into my room, showing in his broad smile teeth rivaling the shine he had put on my shoes. He was a diplomat in the full sense of the word; what else could I do except pay him well when he addressed me as *'A Big Gun from America?" But "big guns" was the absorbing thought in the mind of ^e very ^Frenchman. He started to tell me of the long-range "Bertha," but before I had time to comprehend, I was made (14) C'est la Guerre — It is the War 15 to realize that even a civilian tourist is on a war footing and subject to call. The 'phone rang, and in muffled tones a pleading voice — accent decidedly American — asked, "Can you come to my room?" Entering, I had visions of some great over-night secret, when there fell on my ears this distressed question: "Joe, can you help me put on these d d puttees? You must or I'm 'sub'd,' and can't report to headquarters." It was a fellow-member of the fat men's alliance of life boat No. 8. He couldn't manage the spring clutch. At least I began the day well, for I saved the dignity of a Red Cross major. Before proceeding to Paris, short excursions were made in the rural sections of Bordeaux, largely to feel the pulse of the people outside of official circles. In these journeys one thing stands out pre-eminent, and that is the French woman. Nearly every one you meet wears mourning. Their faces are bathed in a chaste resignation. You see them on street cars and trams, for here thej^ act as motorwomen and conductors, although retain- ing their accustomed preference for skirts. They are everywhere, in the iSelds following the plow, for they, too, are truly "in the trenches." Now we are on toward Paris, through the chateau district, with its touches of the ancient 16 We'll Stick to the Finish nobility of France. Everywhere Americans are arriving. It was nightfall when we reached Paris. It was practically in darkness. The few lights to baffle bombers were shaded a ghastly blue. The Stygian blackness was a decided contrast to the brilliant glare of peace times. It was hard to believe that this was the Paris of long ago. Not one bright light anywhere. The curtains in the railway trains and in every house were drawn tight, for a light at night is criminal. It was as if we were in another world. The railway station presented a scene of inde- scribable confusion. The German long-range gun was busy. Hundreds of thousands of people, realizing that Paris was being shelled from Ger- man territory rather than bombed from airplanes in the sky, were fleeing the city for safety. They stood in long lines before the ticket window, or sat on their baggage surrounding the line, the trunks and bags looking like miniature fortifica- tions. They had been waiting all day for a ticket of leave. Mothers with families were there. It was like a land rush in Oklahoma. Certain ones brought food to those in Kne in order that the "waiters" should not lose their places. Emerging through the station we sighted a vacant omnibus in the darkness, which was chartered after an WOODROW WILSON. PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES Copyright, Elliott & Fry, Ltd., London, W. COL. EDWARD M. HOUSE C^est la Guerre — It is the War 17 hour's parley. Rumbling through the once gay Rue de Rivoli, faintly before us gleamed the golden bronze statue of Jeanne d'Arc — the only ray of light — typifying the unconquerable spirit of France. Scattered here and there were green buoy lights bearing the inscription "Abri 80 persons." These were refuge places in times of raid. The boulevard was as silent_as 'a churchyard, except that the "big Bertha" shells boomed every twenty minutes like a death knell. In the hotel was a strange silence. A solemn few loitered late over coffee. The streets were deserted except for stragglers here and there, who unconsciously either whistled a warning or uttered some sound as they approached. That night an air raid was on, but afterwards, when the "all clear" signal was given, there came a quietude like that of the old farm which only the crickets disturb, except in this instance it was broken by the occasional honking of automobiles, sounding like a school of barking walrus. Shiveringly I crawled into bed, not knowing what the night would bring. I came to the mental decision, "Well, if the bombs are coming, they'll come," and, kicking off the young feather bed, I slept soundly in bombarded Paris. Morning found me without a bread ticket. The 18 We'll Stick to the Finish cafe chairs outside on the pavement looked like spectres. The waiter could not understand my English, nor would he understand my hungry motions. I had to report to the Prefecture of Police, and before I had complied with the regu- lations of a civilian stranger entering Paris I had spent forty-nine francs in taxi fares. In the basement of a dingy old municipal build- ing, famous as the quarters of Voltaire, I received a pain ticket which looked like a calendar. For each day there was a coupon to clip off, and I felt like a Croesus as I enjoyed my first legalized bread in Paris. There was no butter or sugar. They handed me a bottle of saccharine, and the first cup was properly loaded; but the second cup caught the pearly drops from a cruse of vinegar nearby, mistaken for saccharine, and one cup of chicory was lost. Champs Elysees, now covered with war huts, recalled memories of the laughing throngs of former days. Few people were to be seen in any of the parks. Any American who had been in Paris three or four months was a veteran with a great wealth of incidents as to the sufferings and deprivations he and others had endured. A young American officer with some friends invited me to lunch. He said, "We will go to C'est la Guerre — It is the War 19 Maxim's and see how it compares with the good old daj^s, and if it looks like the stage setting in the 'Merry Widow.' " He hailed a cab. We entered with a lordly air, the cab started, wheeled around the corner, and — we were at Maxim's — the next door. I am told that the American Red Cross is utilizing the two upper floors and that these gay environments also serve as quarters for the chaplains. Maxim's was a war meal in name only. There was nothing lacking in the way of food, providing there is a maximum bank roll to match. The real difficulty in getting something to eat in Paris is in the morning, for the cafes do not open until nine — the old leisure hours are not entirely gone. In my journeys among the French people, outside the purely political and cafe centers, especially in the little stores or homes and village plazas, I obtained some insight into the mind of the masses as it exists after four years of the most cruel war. With an alert interpreter, many of their comments were noted, especially those favorable and unfavorable ones about the fat American. The valorous spirit of France was omnipresent. A group around a coffee table was discussing in subdued and earnest voices the mystery of the big gun. One officer in the group 20 Well Stick to the Finish was later dismissed for repeating a false rumor of victory. Comment, on the part of soldiers, is es- pecially forbidden. When the big gun first boomed, it was thought to be some new kind of air raid, but Paris was becoming accustomed to these. When the alarm is given by the siren whistle and the fire department is in action, people rush to the abri, or into metro or subway tubes, where they remain until the safety signal is given. When the truth was realized, due to the regularity of the firing, and with no airplanes in sight, the long-range gun brought a shudder, especially in one district within the range. There was something weird in the "dud" or shell of the "La Belle Bertha" found in Paris. A "dud" is a shell which did not explode. The bombardment killed more people than the siege of Paris in the Franco-Prussian war. That does not mean as many fatalities, because in the siege deaths were mostly from starvation. The British had a gun in 1885 that carried sixty miles, but this gun had a range of approximately seventy miles. The long-range "Bertha" is not a mystery. It is an eight-and-one-quarter shell fired from a fifteen- inch gun, very thin, with brass rims to protect the gas. The skill was in calculating the range. It was fired eighteen miles high at an angle of 66 C'est la Guerre — It is the War 21 degrees. The rarified atmosphere at this tremen- dous height offered less resistance than lower altitudes and the shell fell at an angle of 60 degrees. The wonder of it all is that the Germans were able to find the target and make their calculations. They could not change their aim readily, and that is why the shells nearly all fell in one particu- lar district of Paris, and why there were busy times moving to get outside of the firing line. When the gun was silenced for a few nights, there was a relief, but then another "Bertha" bombed forth. When the residents started to leave the citj^ as this big gun began to deposit shells with frightful regularity, some of the French defeatists began crying, ''C'estfini" — it is finished!" They praj'ed the government to again move the capital to Bordeaux. One man stood adamant — it was the "Tiger" — Clemenceau. In the turbulent ups and downs of his stormy public life, Clemenceau had added another chapter to the story of his career. He became the man of the hour. He refused even to argue, declaring, "No, this is the capital of France; we do not leave. If you go, you may be shot as deserters." The crisis passed, for Clemenceau knows no fear. IV FACE TO FACE WITH CLEMENCEAU— "THE TIGER'* FOR years in far-off America I heard of a man, prominent in French affairs, a teacher in a New England institution in early life, and one of the outstanding figures I wished to meet. On this side of the water people do not realize the power of that personality in the present world conflict. The moment you are on French soil, among the soldiers and workers, you hear the name before you leave the dock. It gathers lustre every hour of your journey and haunts you after you have come away — and that name is Clemenceau! On the train I met a peasant woman who had a basket of eggs. She gave me one, and together we enjoyed the trick of sucking the contents through a pinhole — and that old French woman voiced the same sentiment when she said to my inter- preter, "Tell the American our hope is in Clemen- ceau." Nearby sat a pensive young woman in (22) C^est la Guerre — It is the War 23 weeds. There was a tender melancholy in her dark eyes that one could not forget. She had been suffering, having lost her husband, father, and four brothers. She ate her simple luncheon in silence, but at the name of Clemenceau her eyes brightened. Then, too, there was a young French boy of sixteen, testing his English, who told me, in broken accents, young as he was, how anxious he was to take the place of his father who was killed at the Marne, adding: *'I seem to hear the voice of Clemenceau calling me to fight." In the cafes and on the streets there was the same talk of Clemenceau. All this recalled an interview I had with the late W. T. Stead (who went down with the Titanic), at his home in Wimbledon, in England, in 1906. The wizard interviewer of world celebrities referred to Clemen- ceau as the "Warwick of French Politics." My first question to the American Ambassador in Paris was: "Do you think you could arrange for me to see Clemenceau?" Mr. Sharpe replied: "I'll try— but I think not." His telephonic message to the War Department did not promise much, although the Ambassador sent in my name and graciously offered to go with 24 We'll Stick to the Finish me in person. Remembering the tribute which "Boots" had paid me, I was still determined to try. The appearance of Clemenceau in the Chamber of Deputies is an event, and the people flock to hear him and always read his every utterance. Seated on the upper bench, ready for all comers, shielding himself in tantalizing tersity, Clemenceau fearlessly meets every situation face to face. More by chance than anything else, a day or two later I wandered into the Chamber of Depu- ties, an ancient building, dating back to the time of the Louis'. Large throngs were waiting for admittance long before the hour the Chamber convened, many of them speculating what Cle- menceau would do. The admission card to the gallery from the Ambassador acted like magic, for the usher, in evening dress, with a chain about his neck (the insignia of his office), conducted me into the plush-lined box directly opposite the presiding officer. There I saw the members, seated on small benches rising above each other in narrow tiers which formed a semi-circle. The glass roof and rather dim light made me think of our Ameri- can Senate Chamber. There was some excitement in the debate, although it involved but the inter- pretation of a word in the Pension Bill, as to whether a soldier should have a pension if C'est la Guerre — It is the War 25 imprudence could be proved — the old question of contributory negligence. The members did not ri.se during a colloquy and everybody seemed to talk at once, without the courtesy of addressing one another. High up on a bench sat the presiding officer with a bell — not unlike the old dinner bell — which he would ring for order when the discussion became too riotous. While I could not understand the drift of the discussion, action and gesture spoke louder than words. On the elevated benches behind the speaker were the few members of the cabinet. A startling revelation came to me as I glanced over the Chamber — there was no flag of France in sight — and to the American mind this was a shock, recalling the great flag which hangs in the House of Representatives and the American devotion to the national colors. The gallery seemed to lack interest — for Clemenceau was not there. Where he was I did not know. Perhaps he had been putting in most of the day at the front, for it was his custom to go out at dawn and hold conferences with Generals Foch,Petain and Persh- ing. He forms the connecting link between the armies in the field and the Chamber of Deputies. Whatever he finds is needed at the front he goes to the Chamber to see that it is provided. His 26 We'll Stick to the Finish visits to the American troops are meraorable occa- sions. The American boys crowd around him and he has a greeting for all. The Chamber of Deputies meets at two o'clock in the afternoon, and it was rare in the old days that Clemenceau did not appear. Like Mann and Kitchen of the House of Representatives, or Gallinger and Overman of the United States Senate, Clemenceau seemed to know every feeling and caprice of passing legislation. He sensed the hour when parliamentary squalls were coming. From the boy of nineteen, when he was arrested at the foot of the Bastile column for shouting "Vive la Republique/' on to the time when, at the siege of Paris, he returned to be elected maire of the 18th arrondissement, and even up to the present, he was being fitted for the glorious sunset of his career. The allied struggle is providing the setting for the admonition which his father once gave him. When his sire was arrested at the time of Napoleon's coup d'etat in 1851, young Clemenceau, his soul aflame, said to his father: "Father, I will avenge you!" "If you want to avenge me," cried the sire — "work." Retiring at eight every evening and rising at three every morning, it may be questioned if any other man in conspicuous public life adds greater luster to C'est la Guerre — It is the War 27 the word "work" than the ever-active French Premier. The ups and downs of his pubHc career have been many. He, with others, was embroiled in the Panama Canal scandal, but he came out un- scathed. He laid all his private accounts before his accusers which revealed that he had even borrowed money of a notary in order to live, and was unable to give his daughter a marriage portion, being obliged to live for years in the same house, paying for his furnishings on the yearly instalment plan. The dramatic story of the Chamber of Deputies for the last forty-seven years finds no more con- spicuous figure than Clemenceau. He belongs to the severe French school of literature. In speaking and writing, his style is as polished as a rapier, and he meets his opponents with the art of a fencer, having engaged in many physical duels. From the day, seventy-seven years ago, when he was born in Brittany, in the little village of La Vendee, where the granite promontory thrusts itself out into the sea, its ragged rocks ever battling with wave and tide, Clemenceau has exemplified in private and public life those rugged physical and mental qualities suggestive of the place of his birth. 28 Well Stick to the Finish As I wandered back through the corridors and secured my hat and coat from the check room (the same as leaving a theater), I went down to the lobby where the members of the Chamber gather after adjournment. Here my courier, Pace, took me in hand. I told him I must see Clemenceau. He shook his head. I said again I must. He took my re- marks literally, and almost before I knew it we were passing through an old corridor alongside a wall, and through a gate into another ante-room. At each gate my passports and letters were examined. Finally we crossed a courtyard and entered a rambling low building which was the headquarters of the Minister de Guerre. As Presi- dent of the Chamber, the Premier of France is the real ruler of the republic, and it is given to every premier to choose his own portfolio. Clemenceau naturally decided to head the War Department. Inside another room, where a covered billiard table indicated relaxation in peace days, my card was again taken in, and I indulged in a hurried glance around. A voice speaking in English in the adjoining room was heard. Just then the same voice was saying; and supplementing the words in French; "That's persistence; show him in." C'est la Guerre — It is the War 29 Little did I realize that this was the voice of Clemenceau. I entered a somewhat darkened room. In an open grate smoldered a dingy coal fire. A medium- sized figure was moving toward me. On his head was a small, round hat with triangular earlaps tied overhead. As I neared I saw a certain ironical smile on his face. But there was no mistaking the countenance. In less time than it takes to tell it, I was face to face with Clemenceau — "the Tiger." I had no sooner extended greetings from America than immediately a warm hand was thrust into mine, and he said, with a power which thrilled me: "I love America." Clemenceau is not a man of words. In no sense does he pass for what is called a polite man. Yet there was such a ring of sin- cerity in his words that I was strongly drawn to him. When I announced that I was in France to get some good stuff for the American people to read, and asked him what he read, he interrupted quickly, saying: "Read.^ I read nothing. Newspapers, maga- zines, nothing! This is no time for me to read — it is time to work and act — work to win the war." As his clear, and to me surprisingly, epigram- matic English fell on my ears, I was ready myself 30 We'll Stick to the Finish to go out and fight for this man. With a wave of his hand, he proffered a chair. In seeking for some common ground on which to stand, I found myself searching for a touch of gentleness which he had portrayed in the one novel {"Le Plus Forf) which he has written on the philosophy of superman. As he squared himself and I looked into his eyes, I saw a face of rugged strength. I recalled his christening with the sobriquet which he bears today. As Clemenceau entered his editorial den one night, a French journalist turned to his friends and said: "Here comes the Tiger." And from that day to this the name has been spelled with a big T rather than a little one. His face is round, made massive by high cheek bones, his eyes, deep-set, flash with the glint of steel, though at times are liquid with tenderness. His brow is broad and high. A drooping mus- tache covers what I knew to be a strong mouth. His head is bald, set off at the height of his ears by silken gray hair. His gestures consisted largely of a sweep of the hand across and in front of him, as if pointing out the whole field of action. Occa- sionally he brought his fists down like a hammer, every movement indicating a dynamic man, full of power and electric energy. The wisdom of age and C'est la Guerre — It is the War 31 the strength of youth in rare combination. No wonder Germany fears him! Some who have talked with him have remarked about his flippancy. There was none of it apparent in my ghmpse of the man. He was in dead earnest about everything. The only trace of lightness in his speech was when I pointed to a portrait on the wall saying: "A great man, I suppose.^" "An ass!" he jerked. Pointing to another, he anticipated my question, and said: "A very great man. We must have contrasts." "Our American boj-s are arriving," I ventured. "Yes," said he, "and they are learning to dig, like our own Poilus. It is better to lose four men than four hundred." His secretary entered and said something to him. Then I noticed the clear, legible writing of the Premier as he made a few notes. When I indi- cated that I sometimes made speeches, he said: "I make no more speeches. It is time to work. No time to talk. 'Yes' and 'No' cover essentials." Evidently he carries out that conviction. At the Allied Conference in Paris, the one man who could have talked made the shortest speech on record. "We're here to work; let us work." 32 We'll Stick to the Finish When the question of politics seeped into our conversation he snapped, "I do not like politicians, I like patriots." No wonder the French people recalled him to lead their destinies in this, their hour of greatest crisis! A hater of shams, a lover of realities, a patriot, in no sense a partisan, this Spartan has only one consideration — his country. How fortunate, indeed, is France to have him. His active life covers two great wars. When the King Charles' peace letter, making overtures looking toward the autonomy of Alsace-Lorraine was mentioned, he said: "I know the German tricks — and so does the United States." He probably, as no other living man, is alert for Prussian intrigues. Schooled in literature, in medicine, in science, in politics, in diplomacy, he brings his vast knowledge to bear on the one vital purpose — the triumph of Democracy. As I saw him, whether standing, sitting in a chair, or perched on the edge of a table dangling his feet, he acted as if he were accustomed to premiership. Some dispatches were brought in. Taking them up, he made his notations on each with a plebeian lead pencil — a word or two at most — and passed Copyright by I'nrlcrwooil tt Underwood PREMIER CLEMEXC EAl OF l'l{A\('E Copyright by American Press Associaiion FRENCH "75" BOMBARDING GERMAN TRENCH Copyright by UmUiwuud dL- i nderwood CLEMENCEAU, "THE TIGER." REVIEWING BRITISH TROOPS C'est la Guerre — It is the War 38 them on. No fuss, no haste. Every movement strong, determined, clear. "I may be dead," he said, glancing up, "when this war is won, but — it will be won!" I ventured to ask him if he had met any of the Commission from America looking toward post- war conditions. "Yes," he said, "but this is not the time for me to think of that. The work of the war comes first." Then drawing his chair so close to me that his knees touched mine, putting one hand on my shoulder and clenching his fist, he assumed an attitude like that of the tiger he is. There was fire in his eyes. His great jaw set; he said: "It is the supreme thing in my life to win the war." I arose to go. The slanting sun shone through the window of the old building. "Have you any message to send to America?" I ventured. With a pathos like that of a benediction and as comforting, he said: "Tell them I love America." WITH PERSHING AND HIS MEN NATURALLY the first man I wanted to see on arriving in France was General John J. Pershing. What American wouldn't? For- tunately for me, he had just arrived in Paris from the front. The message that he would see me no sooner came than I was off. His pretentious headquarters are located in the palace built by Napoleon's old guard, Marshal Lanes. The monogram M. L. still stands in the gable of the roof. The approach is by a crescent driveway. A great array of chalk-covered auto- mobiles stood about, giving evidence of having just come in from the front. The house is owned by Mrs. Ogden Reed of New York, who graciously turned it over to the government for General Pershing's headquarters. As you enter the spacious reception hall, an information desk stands at the extreme end and over it on one side is the tri-color of France, and (34) C^est la Guerre — It is the War S5 on the otlier the Stars and Stripes, so placed that their folds join in clinging embrace — eloquent emblems of the affectionate unity of the two republics. Colonel Boyd met me and took me for a hurried glance around. The pictures hanging on the walls were covered, as was also the luxurious furniture. All the splendor of the old palace was shrouded in the gray monotone of war times. Through one of the rooms used with others for conferences, I was conducted to the rear and into a luxuriant rustic garden — the scene of many a social function in the old Empire days. In the center stood a small tea-house surrounded with irregular benches. Trees of great age pushed out of the sod. Shrubs graced the nooks and walks. All were resplendent in golden spring green. Birds even were singing in the trees. It was a delightful sylvan retreat in the very heart of Paris. It was in the dining-room to the right of the reception hall that I stood in the presence of Gen- eral Pershing — the man on whom rest the eyes of all America. Can I ever forget the moment or the wave of emotion which swept over me! As he advanced to greet me, I forgot for the time the great general he was. His manner was so simple, so cordial, so characteristically American, he seemed 36 Well Stick to the Finish more like a brother. Clad in a plain khaki uniform adorned simply with the insignia of his rank, on his breast was the prismatic service ribbon. The fine lines of his face were drawn into a determination I had never before seen. Even his mustache was croppy and bristling. His movements and words were few. Responsibility rested heavily upon him. Yet underneath all radiated a marked tenderness and gentle regard. Every moment of his time contained such a deposit of duty that I merely told him I was the bearer of a flag sent by the women of Boston for the 26th Division. I recited to him the occa- sion when, at a brilliant military ball at the Copley- Plaza in Boston, the commission to deliver the flag was imposed upon me. He had received newspaper clippings of the event and was some- what familiar with the import of my mission. When I told him that in speaking on this occasion I had talked on "Chivalry," he arose quickly from the round table and impassionately said: "Chival- ry — that's the thing! There is not a man in the ranks who has not the thought of some woman in his breast, and that woman is thinking of him. That's the anchorage of the American Army today — the American woman." Then relaxing for a moment, as if duty called. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 37 he said: "Are you ready to go to the front?" I assented. Suddenly pointing outside, he said: "See this beautiful garden. Here is my oasis. I come here often for a glimpse of this restful spot, even for only a moment, before returning to the chalky roads which lead to the front." We turned away from the garden to the dining-room. On the table, among other things, was a pie sent by an American woman for the General. "That brings back visions of old Missouri," said the General. And for the first, and only time I think, I saw a smile on his face. Just at this time a message came for him. I saw the lines deepen on his face as he said, "I must be off to the front." The world will not soon forget his speech to Generalissimo Foch, delivered during those memor- able daj's in March and April, 1918, when the German waves were washing over the barriers of the British and French, and when, sinking all pride in his own separate army, he offered all the forces of the United States in what are destined to be immortal words: "Do with us as you like." That utterance will live alongside Lincoln's Gettys- burg speech as long as American history is recited. It was made on March 28th, the darkest day 38 Well Stick to the Finish of the war, and was magical in its effect on France and the AUies. ( Translation ) "DO WITH US AS YOU LIKE" In the course of a reunion, which was held on the 18th of March, 1918, at the front, to which General Petain, M. Clemenceau and M. Loucheur were present, General Pershing was presented to General Foch and said to him: "I come to say to you that the American people will consider it a great honor that our troops may engage in the present battle. I ask it in my name and in theirs. At this time there is no question but to fight. The infantry, the artillery, and the aviation — all that we have, is yours. Do with us as you like. Other troops will be coming in such numbers as will be found necessary, "I am come expressly to say to you that the American people will be proud to engage in this greatest battle of history." Pershing's speech has been printed in French on a small card which just fits into the pocket. The General's picture is at the top and underneath the famous sentence, "Do with us as you like." It is not an unusual thing to see soldiers take this card out of their pockets saying, "This is our French text-book." Shortly after my arrival, I met a young ojBScer who had returned from one of the gatherings where Pershing delivered one of his classic addresses to his officers. His face was aglow. He said: "Any- C'est la Guerre — It is the War 39 one who wouldn't be ready to go to glory for the old flag after hearing Pershing talk is not an American." Other officers, as they came out of the barracks, were imbued with the same spirit, and in them there was evidence of a reconsecration to a great cause. To read his famous speech to Foch, one can easily imagine the kind of talk he gives to his officers. Leaving the headquarters, I made my way to the office of the Provost Marshal at Rue Ste. Anne, located in an old hotel. Every American who goes to the war zone and every soldier who comes to Paris must report here. I wanted a military pass to the zone of operations. It was given only after every detail had been covered. It was stamped and re-stamped. Here all the American communiques are given out, and the censoring of mail is done. While standing there I heard a colonel giving and saw officers receiving telephone messages from the front. It was as if they were talking with some one in a far-off land, and in my imagination I could almost hear the roar of the cannon. Scattered along the streets were American soldiers, the first I had seen in any considerable 40 We'll Stick to the Finish numbers. Only one thousand American soldiers are allowed in Paris at a time. In the hotel I saw them sitting at a big mess table eating their chow. Ste. Anne's is the first place soldiers go on arriving in France, and it is a jocular saying commonly heard among newcomers, "Have you been up to Anne's?" Once out on the boulevard I made haste for the train. American soldiers with bands marked M. P, on their arms looked up in surprise when I approached. They did not expect to see an American in civilian clothes. When addressed they would smile and say: "When did you arrive?" "When do you expect to go back home?" I came near missing my train in taking the addresses of those to whom they wished to be remembered. As I passed Hotel Mediterranean it seemed familiar to see soldiers from the Quartermaster's Department playing baseball in the park. Though I had but a moment, I could not resist pausing and joining in the well-known shouts. Reaching the gate at the station, I found to my embarass- ment I had stowed away my pass so carefully that not until I had turned some twenty-two pockets inside out, could I find it, and then it was in the first pocket I had searched. Such is the perversity C'est la Guerre — It is the War 41 of a military pass. Because I kept the procession waiting, the gate-keeper directed somewhat em- phatic French at me. Once on the train, I found myself surrounded with soldiers, one of whom was a lieutenant from Minnesota. On his arm were two stripes, in- dicating that he had already been wounded twice at the front. I listened to the incidents he told in open-mouthed wonder, yet they were related in the most matter-of-fact way. At last I was off to the front. A fever of interest grew with every mile. In a short time we were skirting the Marne, looking at the now historic battlefield where the surging tides of steel had met. The early spring verdure was aglow and Nature was making a brave attempt to hide the ugly scars of the terrible conflict. Here and there was a clump of trees, their white hearts still torn open as if to indicate where the scourge swept on. There were the roads along which Galleni's hastily organized taxi-cab troops rushed at the critical moment to stem the helmeted Hun and save Paris. Later I stood in the fields where hundreds of thousands had died. The Marne coursed its way onward to the sea placid and serene, giving little indication of the tumult that had surged around it. At far-off Amiens and Arras 42 We'll Stick to the Finish the guns were booming in the effort to check the thrust toward the Channel. Winding our way through the valleys, there were fresh evidences of war's devastation. On the little railroads flat cars loaded with men and guns were making their way toward the battle front; on other trains French troops on a furlough were going home. Leaving the train at Gondrecourt, we took a motor for the zone of operations. Out across flat plains, suggestive of the prairies of Dakota, our car sped on. The distant boom of the guns, faint at first, increased in number and tone with every mile of the journey. Now and then our car would edge past lines of troops going to the front — and they were our boys, too! As I went by I felt ashamed to ride. I wanted to get out and walk with them. Then we would encounter artillery as it rattled along. The soldiers always saluted and we felt proud to return it. Sometimes I saw them in the French villages fraternizing with the natives, picking up and exchanging phrases and winning popularity. Now and then motor-cycles flew on, the riders covered with white chalk of the roads. Orderlies, goggle-eyed and dust-covered, looked like beetles as they whirred away to and from headquarters. C*est la Guerre — It is the War 43 This was the Valley of the Meuse, dotted with farm-houses that were grouped in little villages. At Domremy we found the birthplace of Jeanne d'Arc. "Let's sing it," suggested Bristol, and out rang the popular song of "Joan of Arc." It ended w^ith the stirring refrain of the "Marseillaise." Approaching farms, it was rather shocking to the esthetic taste to find manure piles in the front yard rather than in the rear of the barn as in America. Yet the question of fertilizer is an important one, and the size of the manure heap is an indication of the wealth of the farmer. The natives seem to be well accustomed to living rooms adjoining stables. It was in this primitive village, far from the gay life of the city, that the Maid of Orleans was born. Her home stands sheltered by a group of scraggly trees. Children were playing in the yard, seemingly all unconscious of the historic setting. Nearby is the church where she was baptized, while yonder on the crest of the hill stand the beautiful memorial towers erected on the spot where she saw the vision and went away to lead the armies of France. Here the flower of young American manhood was coming to shed its blood to help save the France she had defended. In this sector held by American troops, the spirit 44 We'll Stick to the Finish of Jeanne d'Arc will linger and find a worthy reincarnation in the soldiers from over seas. After two hours' ride over circular roads and across wide stretching plains, through village after village, we came at last to Neuf chateau. The first Yankee Division was stationed here. The quaint little old buildings, shops and courtways are today familiar objects to our American soldiers. The "M. P." is at the street corners directing the surging traffic the same as on Broadway. Every- thing in the army is designated by initials. Over one office is the *'A. O.," and over another **C. O.'* and so on, each combination having its own meaning. At Neufchateau the billets of the American soldiers were in barns where cattle had previously been stabled. With customary regard for sanitary conditions, these structures had been cleaned until the group of buildings resembled a dairy lunch kitchen. At Boucq I visited the quarters of Sibley, of the Boston Globe. It furnishes a good sample of the billets occupied by some soldiers. It is situ- ated on a crag at the corner of a road. A narrow hall runs through the middle of the building, opening off of which is Sib's bedroom. Directly across the hall on the same floor is the cow's room. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 45 Chickens have the right of way in the houses. When "Sib" retired the previous night he found two chickens roosting on the high post at the head of the bed. Standing on the high hill or parapet at Boucq at night and overlooking the Valley of the Meuse, I had my first glimpse of a creeping barrage. In the distant darkness the line of fire could be clearly seen. It was like spraying fluid flame from a nozzle or a crackling prairie fire. It was one of the most haunting spectacles I ever witnessed. On the night of my arrival at Neufchateau I thought I might have to come back to headquar- ters, but my chauffeur told me I could stay with him. He was from Waco, Texas. He said: "I came down here to break horses for the cavalry, but there is no cavalry and so I am breaking automobiles instead." It was dark when we set out for what he spoke of as his sleeping quarters. We had no lights, and he drove with a devil-may-care spirit, making the telephone poles whizz past in a continuous stream, and lighting up the darkness with lurid profanity, arriving in front of a pretentious stone house at one a.m. Going in he led me to the front room in which there was a piano, paintings on the walls, and a carpet on the floor. On one side stood a 46 We'll Stick to the Finish high-posted ancestral bed and on it I noticed an eiderdown quilt. "This is my room," he said. "How do you manage it.^*" I queried. "Oh, a snap," he answered. "Room and break- fast, eight francs a week!" In the morning I learned the reason. There was a knock at the door and the kindly -faced matron, wife of a French captain at the front, appeared to ascertain why my companion was still sleeping. I was up and shaving. Going to the bed and waking him with motherly solicitude, she pointed to the clock to signify he was late in getting up. In his broken French he tried to tell her that he was late in getting in. Quickly jumping into his clothes and while winding his puttees, three girls passed the door which the elderly woman had left open. They called out to my companion, "Bonjour! Monsieur." And then, as if to explain how he happened to have such quarters, he said: "I'm engaged to one of them, but I'll be darned if I know which one it is." But a night in the trenches! There's not much humor there. It was sable night as I entered. I could have wished for a moon, but that would mean a raid. The stars shone with double magni- tude. It was gruesome business stumbling over the duck boards, perhaps missing and going knee-deep Cest la Guerre — It is the War 47 in the mud. Except for an occasional sentry, there is next to nothing to see or do except just grope. Even after the sentry gets your password and spirits himself into darkness, there is no sound save splashing feet. Coming to the first firing shelf, it may be that Fritz has accommodatingly thrown up a flare, revealing a white face peering into the Hghted gloom— but even he does not turn to look. The Germans have a star-shell with a parachute, which floats over the lines for a long time — a devilish contrivance, lending picturesqueness to the scene. Firing posts multiply, and in each there are eyes watching, not you, but out into the darkness. Moving on you know there are countless sol- diers near, but you see them not. They are down in the dugouts asleep, or consuming the smoke of a smouldering fire. A night in the trenches! The tensity of it all no tongue can tell! And dawn.? How eagerly eyes look for the first spires of light in the distant horizon! In that semi-darkness it is as if you were looking over a dead sea — wave after wave rolls away, but all are motionless. Imagination works on high speed, and over that field of death Boches are coming straight toward you, not one but many. The plop of the machine 48 We'll Stick to the Finish gun, the waking mortar, the whinny of the bullet causes a heart throb to answer every explosion. No wonder eager eyes look for the dawn! One soldier said to me, "I've seen more sunrises in France than I ever saw in my whole life before." Yet even in the trenches there is some humor. One incident I shall never forget. Seated on one of the sand bags was a soldier who proved to be a Scotchman. He was distinguished from the others by the sweep of his hand downward and over his coat. At first I thought he was brushing off the dust and the mud, but while I watched the wincing movements of his shoulders, I suspected it was something else. It dawned upon me in a jiffy — they were "cooties." As he continued brushing, I said, "Getting rid of them, Jock?" With a rich Scotch burr, he replied, "Oh no; just taking them as they come." Aside from the mud, it was about the only thing I brought away from the trenches. Jock was getting ready to go back of the lines for a "dip," which means that while he is getting his "dip," his clothes are "dipped" also. As I came away, the air was filled with planes, circling to and fro and humming like a reaper in a distant harvest field, taking, it may be, their toll of death. Sausage balloons were forming a line in 'ff '., , , X s i'- ^' ^ \N.\}'LE5 N v-^ -f ® O! 1 O V <^ ^ ■f -i • i A,—^ . S 1 C. M L N 4 ^--^ SEA MAP SHOWING AMERICAN RED CROSS ACTIVITIES IN ITALY C'est la Guerre — It is the War 81 Here were the same sort of beds, attendants, nurses, and surgeons to which we are accustomed at home. The uniform, the surgical instruments, the dressings, were all familiar. The self-same fumes of anesthetics filled the rooms. But the wounded! Ah, that was the difference! They were different than any I ever saw, and different than I ever hope to see again. Men who had been gassed, being led along, the film of darkness over their bloodshot eyes; some unable to walk — a limb gone; others with bandages around their heads, and more with faces torn, needing expert facial building. Every case is different, yet every one calls for known and often unknown resources in surgery and nursing skill. A careful record is kept of each patient, serving as a compendium of knowledge in the treatment of those yet to come. Cases could be multiplied, but I give one as exemplifying the heroism of our men. One poor fellow had lost his right arm. ^Yith that strange premonition which sometimes precedes accident, he was seen writing one day with his left hand. When asked by some of his comrades why he did so, he said: "I feel as if I was going to be hit, and I was seeing if I could write a letter home with my left hand." Strange fatality! When he returned from the next battle, his right arm was We'll Stick to the Finish gone. I saw him lying there and tried to cheer him. Instead of being cast down, he said: "I guess when I get home I shan't need to tell them where I've been." I looked out the window to hide my emotion. And through the mist in my eyes I could see the distant Lorraine mountains, and I wondered if there was any peak too high to commemorate bravery like that. Outside I could see the red of a few tulips blazing in a bed; tiny blue violets were peeping out of the ground, while the apple trees were just then massed in blooms of pure white. Even Nature had hung out her banner of red, white and blue in honor of such heroes! VIII A SUNDAY VISIT WITH MARSHAL JOFFRE MY first Sunday afternoon in Paris was made memorable by an interview with Marshal Joffre — at the Ecole L'Militaire, the West Point of France. I had traveled with him on his famous American tour, and now looked forward with pleasure to a renewal of that acquaintance. I brushed my hair, as nearly as I could remember, in the manner he wore his. With as much military bearing as I could command I passed up the broad stairs to the reception room, and was greeted by Major Fabre, the "Blue Devil" of Alsace, whom I had previously met on the American tour. While I was waiting he recalled incidents of the fast and furious visit in America, even mentioning the day in Boston when at the State House reviewing stand, he was so weary I gave him a chair. "The chair-man!" he exclaimed, recognizing me. "It seems to me that was the first and only (83) 84 We'll Stick to the Finish time I had a chance to rest during our entire stay in America." Major Fabre lost one leg under Joffre at the Marne. Marshal Joffre was receiving a commission of prominent citizens, but I had not waited long when the members of the delegation departed and I was admitted. He greeted me with the same kindly smile I had learned to know in America. I gave "the triumph" salute, eyes up, which I had observed in the "Yankee Division." He immediately referred to his visit overseas. "I felt," he said, "like a real American every moment I was in your wonderful United States." I had this greeting translated in writing: "J(? me sens ause America que les Americain de puis ma visite dans voire beau pays.'' The spacious room in which he sat overlooked the river Seine and the field of Mars. At a table covered with green baize he made a striking figure in his white trousers and full military dress. On his breast were medals, and he wore the insignia of his rank in deference to the commission he had just met. There was a freshness in appearance and manner contrasting sharply with the weary look on his face during the "American rush," as he called it. His blue eyes seemed more blue than ever and I wondered how H. G. Wells, the C'est la Guerre— It is the War 85 English novelist, in his book describing him, could have made the mistake of calling his eyes black. There might be some doubt as to the color of some people's eyes, but not Joffre's. My interpreter on this occasion was Maurice, the dancer, well known to the patrons of the Biltmore, and the theatre-going public of America. "When I landed from the Mayflower at Wash- ington," continued Joffre, "it was one of the greatest moments of my life. Your receptions made me feel that France was in the hearts of all your people." I replied: "While you were winning the heart of America, our people lost their hearts to you." "Yes," came the quick response, "it was a complete conquest." Marshal Joffre is the parent war hero of France. Of medium height, ruddy complexion, robust and strong. There is a great kindness in his calm face. His well-rounded head is crowned with white hair parted to one side. His voice is singularly soft. His heavy gray mustache curves upward in easy fashion, without military severity. Talking to this savior of France, I recalled the description of him when war broke out. He accepted without a qualm the terrific mission entrusted to him. His manner was calm. A 86 We'll Stick to the Finish military scientist, precise and punctual, he laid out a simple plan with much thought — and fol- lowed it. When the French troops were being driven back in the first onslaught it was Joffre who remained confident. "I mean to deliver the big battle in the most favorable conditions at my own time, and on ground I have chosen. If necessary, I shall con- tinue to retreat. I shall bide my time. No con- sideration whatever will make me alter my plans." Even now I could see the self-possession that must have asserted itself in those trying hours, when day after day he issued bulletins for retreats that were shaking the world to its foundations. For forty years Joffre had planned the defence of France in event of such an invasion, and he met the situation unperturbed, with a profound convic- tion that the enemy would be stopped at the Marne. There his iron will asserted itself. His command was to stand or die — and the valiant French obeyed. On the eve of the great battle the officers gath- ered their men about them and amid the roar of the cannon they read Joffre's famous message: "Advance, and when you can no longer advance, hold at all cost what you have gained. If you can no longer hold, die on the spot." C'est la Guerre — It is the War 87 All this flashed through my mind as we stood talking. Joffre is sixty-six years old. As a young man he attended the great French military school in which his office is now located. At eighteen he was made a sub-lieutenant and entered the Franco- Prussian war. Here he learned to know the un- scrupulous methods of the Germans, which he never forgot. "I served my country in 1870," he said, "and I have lived for this hour!" Indications are that in the time to come he will occupy an increasingly prominent place in France. Popular with the people, instead of losing prestige with age, he is gaining. At the outbreak of the war he was little known. He came suddenly to greatness. But the military men of France knew him. They knew of his colonial campaigns, of his great engineering work in the building of fortifications, of his zeal for protecting France from war that he knew was sure to come. He became the head of the French Army in 1911, placed there through the insistence of his own colleagues rather than through political influence. At the time France was facing the gravest period of its history; military men knew that Germany was preparing to strike, and they went before the 88 We'll Stick to the Finish Chamber of Deputies to ask for a three years' conscription service. Joffre sat day after day under the stinging sarcasm of anti-mihtary dema- gogues who were revihng the army. So insulting and personal became the attacks that his confreres left the Chamber. Joffre stayed. He knew — what he could not state publicly — that the enemy was at the door. What he was asking was for France, not himself, and he stood firm. The three years' bill was passed enabling France to hold its first great manoeuver in the summer of 1913. Only he and the military leaders knew that so large an army might be needed in one short year. Three years before in legislative halls, Joffre virtually won the battle of the Marne. He was the big figure in that fight, as he was at the Marne. He prepared France for war when France refused to realize it was coming. This proved him more than a great general, it showed him to be a seer and statesman. His fine balance of calm thinking and vigorous decision made him resolute. This, then, was the hero of France, now modestly telling me the simple story of how he came unwit- tingly to design the wide trousers of the French uniform. It was as a young officer serving in Madagascar that an accident to his trousers C'est la Guerre — It is the War 89 threatened to delay his attendance at the native Queen's reception. Equal to the emergency young Joffre cut a pair of white trousers out of a bolt of cloth with his sabre and had a native woman sew them together. The threads held fast and a new style of baggy trousers with great creases on the sides was introduced. "They were wonderful for the way they did not fit," he said, and his full round face lit up with a smile. Comment was made on the rapidity with which oflScers' hair turns gray. "Is it the worry, fatigue and responsibility?" I asked. "No doubt," Joffre agreed, "and perhaps also the lack of certain indispensable toliet articles." He is in bed at nine every night and up at five. After each meal he takes his walking stick and goes for a stroll. His chief diversion is music, and there is no moment like that when he is grouped with his family around the piano in the evening. Although a large man, he keeps physically in shape at all times. One day each week he walks ten miles and every morning rides horseback. Among his associates Joffre is known as a silent man. Strict in military matters, he is popular 90 We'll Stick to the Finish with people because of his freedom from partisan entanglements, and his name is already mentioned as one to succeed Poincare as President of the Republic. In his office Joffre has the art of handling a dozen subordinates in as many minutes, grasping their problems and meeting each suggestion with a quiet word, with no hint of worry or flurry. To be the head of a great army is a business in which etiquette is incidental. So paternal is he, that everybody speaks of him as "Papa Joffre." One hardly thinks of him as the battle-scarred veteran of the Marne. And yet when he stood erect, bidding me good-bye, there was an unexpected flash, like that of blue steel in his eyes. For a moment something of the real soldier, France's hero, was revealed. Readily one understood that power comes from large responsibilities. Born in the Pyrenees, he is one of the high peaks of French citizenship. His home folk say: "Why worry — we have our Joffre." There is a river town in France by the name of Limoges — it is where French generals and officers are sent when they are relieved. General Joffre has retired to this place as many as four generals at a stroke — and some are his old friends. This C'est la Guerre — It is the War 91 gave meaning to the expression of a young officer, who remarked: **He has been limoged." "I get you — canned," I replied. "Canned," he repeated with a puzzled look, as if turning over the slang phrase. "No, Monsieur," he replied half chidingly, "that is not the word. For, Monsieur, the memory of their service will always live in France." I felt chastened in the reverence he expressed. "No good deed ever dies," he continued. "It is beyond the recognition of medals and crosses. It is the eternal soul of service." As I left Marshal Joffre I was moved by his unmistakable confidence in the issues of the war. That conviction radiates like a magnetic current — electrifying whoever it may touch — bringing dynamic hope to all. Then I realized.it is leaders make armies as well as armies make leaders. IX ANCIENT ROME IN MODERN WAR TIMES THE night I left for Italy, the new French recruits were marching to the railway station in Lyon, bearing in their hands green boughs, some singing, and others playing accor- dions. They seemed happier in going to the front than I even in the prospect of going over the Alps. A loneliness, peculiar to traveling alone, swept over me, enhanced by my inability, not knowing the language, to carry on a conversation with any one. For one of my temperament and habits, to go for hours without talking was torture. After stowing away my patent leather grip, I began humming to myself the song popular with Ameri- can troops, "It's a Long, Long Trail." g/There was another passenger in the compart- ment with me, who afterwards proved to be a surgeon in the French Army. He looked inquir- ingly at me and I scraped an acquaintance as usual by making motions. I tried to communicate (92) C'est la Guerre — It is the War 93 to him my destination with a sweep of the arm, which had in it the full compass of my old oration at school: "Over the Alps Fair Italy Lies." He caught on and smiled. We continued the panto- mime until I suddenly remembered I was to change cars at Andre. The train was local, stopping about every four minutes. I looked out of the window and saw the name of the station in letters on a gas lamp, though almost lost to view in the lavish surroundings of advertising signs. The train started before I made the discovery. Undismayed I let down a window, threw out my valise, and following myself, landed at Andre. The grip made a "good hit," for it landed fair on the amplest part of the station master. What he said to me in French was, perhaps, better that I could not understand. Catching up my grip I caught the connecting train for Chambery. This old capital of Savoy is the rest billet for American soldiers and oflScers. Mrs. Baker of Boston was in charge of one of the canteens, and I had baked beans again that day. Arriving at the hotel, I was delighted to have the Swiss innkeeper greet me in English. Pass- ports proclaim nationality on the face of them. His card for registration looked like a checker- board. It was marked off in little squares. 94 We'll Stick to the Finish Evidently it was his custom when a guest arrived to rub one of these squares with a lead pencil until it was completely blocked out. When he looked to see where I was to room, the card was entirely black, not a white space remained. "There was no room in the inn." "Ah," he said, as if familiar with American ways, "there is the cafe." My bed for the night was the chairs. It was raining, as usual, when I woke in the morning. In the rush for a ticket at the railway station, I hurriedly passed in a bill, and was handed a ticket for the Modane express. My Italian was confined to one word, "Modane." I knew nothing about "class," being an American. The porter led me to the train, where I found myself in a third-class coach at the extreme end. All the windows in the car had been broken. An Alpine blizzard was just beginning to rage. I had the car all to myself, except a number of railroad employees, who wore capes, and looked curiously at the shivering Yankee in a summer suit, who was roaming up and down the car flinging his arms violently together to keep warm. Crossing the frontier at Modane is merely the matter of passing through one end of the station to the other, but it is not as easy as it seems. There C'est la Guerre — It is the War 95 is a picket fence and an oflficer midway. The sol- diers were passed on recognition of their uniforms. Civilians must show cause. The first degree was to prove that I was not taking any considerable money out of France. A paper printed in all languages was placed before me, much after the manner of an oculist, and I read that the limit of money to be carried out was five thousand francs. I passed. I soon convinced him that the regulation would not "embarrass" me. Once across this imaginary line, I had my first meal in Italy. The waitress told me there was no bread and that I must use potatoes instead and eat the spuds with the jackets on. It was here that I met a group of American naval officers attached to U. S. N. Flying Corps in Italy. They took me in hand and I was assigned to a handsome upholstered room in a wagon-lits, or sleeping car, labeled *'Rome." Now I could enjoy the beau- tiful Alpine scenery from a pkish point of view. On and up we went, our train finally reaching the snow-capped mountains. Laughing cascades tumbled from precipitous crags and poured their "white-power" into the rivers below, to be har- nessed to electric energy. Passing through numer- ous tunnels, our train suddenly swung out on a ledge which constituted a veritable observation 96 We'll Stick to the Finish shelf, bringing into view the sweeping vista of the Savoy Valley — easily the most beautiful I have ever seen. Thrift and neatness were indicated in every farm and dwelling. It was a poem of rural beauty. Looking far down on the stately poplars, they stood out like so many sentinels. At Turin (spelled Turino in Italian), I entered a restaurant, where I had soup from a gigantic tureen, a name fitting well with the town. Here I saw for the first time English nurses wearing their peculiar lavender veils and cloaks, on their way to Asiago. Turin is a great manufacturing center. The factories had German superinten- dents and foremen. There was also a large German population here. The town furnishes an illustra- tion of Sonnino's plans for the Triple Alliance, inspired, no doubt, by commercial motives. Years before the King of Italy visited Emperor Josef of Austria, but the latter refused to return the visit. This snub furnished the setting for the end of Sonnino's dream. When war was imminent Italy broke the Alli- ance, the people unitedly declaring themselves ready to make whatever sacrifices would be neces- sary for the cause. A small group of influen- tial men here at Turin and Milan have had a determining influence in the war policy of Italy. GIORNALE D'lTALlA Parla Mr. Joe Mitchell Chappie Romani, italiani, compatrioti! Cosi salu- tando\T. sento di potervi chiamare "miei compatrioti," poiche abbiamo in comune la grande civilta lasciataci in eredita dalla comune madre — Roma. Tre milioni di italiani negli Stati Uniti formano parte integrale del nostro paese, sono sangue del nostro sangue e iusieme a molti altri milioni di cittadini costituisco- no, in quest'ora fatidica, una democrazia mondiale cosi vniita come lo fu I'ltalia nel 1870 e I'America nel 1865, ad Appomatox. Xoi siamo orgogliosi della nostra popola- zione di origine italiana, i cui figl nelle scuole di Boston — FAtene della coltura americana — conquistano quasi tutti i premi. Sono italiani che costruiscono le nostre strade, che imialzano i nostri edifici, che lavorano nelle nostre officine, che si addestrano nei nostri accam- pamenti militari. E TAmerica ania quest' Italia generosa, che, come gli Stati Uniti, entro sjjontanea nella guerra che segna nclla storia umana una epoca cosi importante. L'ltalia, del resto, non jiuo a meno di comprendere tutta la simjjatia, I'affetto e la stima che si provano per lei in America, poiche di tali sentimenti si e fatto spesso interprete il nostro distinto ambasciatore, Thomas Nelson Page e ne ha data jirova la nostra Croce Rossa, diretta da queirenergi- co colonnello Perkins che voi tutti cono- scete. La Croce Rossa c I'avanguardia che vi indica con quale spirito vcrraimo in se- guito le trupjie anicricaiie e spiegluM'aiuio a! bel cielo azzurro d' Italia la l)an(liera stcllata che vi port era il messaggio di ratellanza e di amicizia sintetizzato nelle jiarole del Presidente Wilson : "non un soldo per conquiste ma miliardi ner la difesa del I'creditil comune a tutta I'umanittl." Dunque avanti, avanti sempre con le no- stre bandiere intrecciate e sia onore a Cle- menceau della bella Prancia, onore a Lloyd George della invitta Britannia, onore a Wilson della mia America, onore ad Orlando della vostra adorabile Italia. REPORT OF THE AUTHOR'S ADDRESS ^Vhich apix-arcd in the leading newspaper of Runic GENERAL DIAZ, COMMANDER IN CHIEF OF ITALIAN ARMY C'est la Guerre— It is the War 97 When the red maelstrom broke, Sonnino stood as a rock for the Alhes. I left by the night express. Time here is reck- oned by numbering successively the full twenty- four hours. The train left at 23.30. There was nothing on my watch which enabled me to find it, and I came near missing the train. The sleeping car ticket, even with the scarcity of paper, was as complete as a bill of sale in contrast to the thumb nail slips in use here. The back of it was covered with advertisements. The conductor and porter are one person. When I put my shoes outside of the berth to be shined, he called to me, saying: "Better take your shoes in, or you will lose them." The train swept on through Genoa and Pisa, affording me that magnificent marine view of the Mediterranean. As we neared Rome, I saw the camps of soldiers on the beach and passed the great airdrome. I learned that the German air raids had extended as far south as Naples and Rome. To see Rome in war times! Yes, I was now actually in it. The train skirted the ancient walls now sunken by time into the earth; on over the tawny waters of the River Tiber, and through the Seven Hills. As I sought accommodations at the hotel located on Pincon Hill, near the 98 ^ Well Stick to the Finish palace of the Dowager Queen, Longfellow's poem, "Excelsior," came to my mind. Rome in war times was strangely quiet. Cabs were drawn by horses unfit for army service. It is needless to say their progress was slow. The first impulse in arriving in these centers is immediately to seek the Red Cross headquarters. Here Colonel Robert Perkins was in charge, as active as when manager of a great carpet manufac- tory in the United States. Then I set off to find Ambassador Page. I was accorded a real Virginia welcome. Thomas Nelson Page was a literary star before he was Ambassador, and his light shines as brightly in the firmament of international diplomacy. There was a reminis- cent look in his eyes when I told him of the war spirit in America. *'You arrived just in time," he said. "There is to be a mass meeting in honor of Clemenceau in the Argentine Theatre tonight. All the ambassa- dors and ministers have been invited. I cannot go. Would you like to occupy my box?" For a moment I tried to stretch myself up to proper diplomatic stature. I thanked him. He continued : "You represent the type of a well-fed and happy American anyhow." C'est la Guerre — It is the War 99 He made a few notes about things I ought to see and when duty called him, I left for a later call. Of all the places I have visited, perhaps none has a record of more intensified activity than the American Red Cross in Italy. A map was handed me showing the peculiar bootlike topography of the country. It was pin-dotted all over from one end to the other, including the adjacent islands. In miniature, the map looked like a part of the Milky Way and the dots like so many shining stars. Certain it is that the light of American Red Cross service will shine in the firmament of Italy forever. I saw the great violinist, Albert Spaulding, in Rome. As an aviator in the American Flying Squadron, he looked as smart as when I saw him last in a dress suit in Symphony Hall, Boston. He glories not only in flights on a musical instru- ment, but in an airplane as well. In the Argentine Theatre he approached after I had spoken and said: "The piano wires of a plane are more familiar to me now than the strings of a violin." There is one name in Rome deserving of all praise — that name is Cortesi, the Associated Press correspondent. Years before he was sent to America to report the Italian lynchings in Louisi- ana. He remained in America for some time. 100 We'll Stick to the Finish living in Boston, and married a New England woman. In bearing he is modest and quiet, the incarnation of diplomacy. Indeed, his fine mind has untangled many complicated skeins while in Rome. His news-dispatches are classics. He it was who opened up the very crux of the war situation in Rome. He took me first to see the two legislative bodies. I first visited the Italian Senate. The building was very old. There was an absence of elaboration in the place. Not a window opened to the outside. Light was admitted from the ceiling. It occurred to me that in no legislative hall I ever visited was there opportunity for eavesdropping. Those ap- pointed to the Senate are in ofiice for life. It was here I first saw Guglielmo Marconi, the inventor of the wireless. The discussion was in interpreting the educa- tional bill. Distinguished senators were pointed out, one of whom, the director of the Conservatory of Music, was preparing a concert of ail-American music. The selections ranged all the way from the classic to ragtime, the latter embracing "A Hot Time in the Old Town" and "Keep the Home Fires Burning." Among the Senators was one over a hundred years old. I met him later and was pleased to note he spoke some English. He said: C'est la Guerre— It is the War 101 "Our country is much younger than America, but we are learning fast." Then drawing himself up proudly, said : "Age counts and I am past the century mark.'* From here I went to the Chamber of Deputies, which, in contradistinction to the Senate, was a lively place. The Chamber of Deputies is the real law-making body of Italy. People gather outside every day to see the members come and go. Prepa- rations were being made to enlarge the hall. Brick and mortar were already in evidence. I entered through a dark corridor. In a long hall were the busts of Cavour, Garibaldi, and some twelve who were identified with the unification of modern Italy. We were conducted by a uniformed messenger through folding doors to a winding stairway which led to the gallery. And the stairway was so long that I had the sensation of climbing Bunker Hill Monument. It finally emerged into the gallery from which we looked down upon the House and the proceedings. The gallery was as high over the main floor as the galleries in our deepest theaters. Unlike the Senate I had visited, the members here were comparatively young men. They are elected by the direct vote of the people. The presiding officer had just partaken of afternoon refresh- 102 We'll Stick to the Finish ments. On the desk in front of him where the repast was served could be seen a number of tiny glasses; the only thing missing was the ketchup bottle. During the discussion the speaker looked at the spectators through opera glasses; it seemed as if they rested on me. The Cabinet members sat in front and below the speaker. It was a stirring scene. I could not understand the discussion, but those who were participating in it were gesticulating in the most violent fashion. After the session we dropped into the cafe which is the habitat of journalists and lawmakers in Rome. It is said that the legislation of Italy is shaped in what is called the pharmacy. This had the familiar sound of newspaper "dope." As we hurried along my friend, Cortesi, pointed out many historic places. All seemed to have lost interest for me, even the Capiscum, with its sacred bones of the monks. The only interest it had was that it revived Hawthorne's "Marble Faun." The one conspicuous thing of modern Rome is the tunnel running under one of the Seven Hills. In the evening the one hundredth anniversary of the original production of Rossini's "Moses" was celebrated. Even in war times Rome did not forget to honor her great composer. It was C'est la Guerre — It is the War 103 attended by statesmen, prominent people and uni- formed army officers. For me there was a double bill that night. I not only attended this anni- versary, but also the gathering at the Argentine Theater. Leaving for the latter place in a cab, I found a great concourse of people, many waiting outside. I was conducted to the Ambassador's box. These theater boxes are in a semicircle, and rise, tier above tier, to the very ceiling. As I entered, there was great excitement on the floor. I learned that some one had challenged the state- ments of the chairman and the purpose of the meeting. Officers were hustling disturbers out of the theatre, women were being jostled and their hats brushed off in the confusion. It resembled an American political convention. The band began to play to restore quiet. The stage was filled with dignitaries and adorned with the flags of four of the Allied powers, Italy, Great Britain, France and America. My eye no sooner caught the Stars and Stripes than I saw it in distress. The star field was upside down. Just then an officer knocked on the door of the box where I was sitting. I did not understand what he said, but it did not matter, I understood his motions. He conducted me down a corridor, back of the scenes, and out on the stage. I was 104 We'll Stick to the Finish offered a chair and crossed my legs in the usual way. I happened to be near my own flag. When I arose to adjust it, putting the field where it should be, the audience laughed and applauded. As each orator addressed the gathering, I watched the faces and joined when they applauded, just as if I understood what was being said — which I didn't. Senator Lorand of Belgium, who spoke in Italian, was a large man with bushy, pointed whiskers, ballasted by newspapers sticking out of his pockets on both sides. In sharp contrast to him was the trim Mignon, the representative of France. La Garda, an American clad in khaki, addressed them in his own language. He was born in America of Italian parents, and is a member of the House of Representatives in Washington. When the chairman motioned to me, indicating that I was to speak, I was amazed. But the audi- ence seemed friendly. Whenever in my speech I mentioned President Wilson, Americano, the audience cheered. It was the same when I spoke the name of Ambassador Page. When I referred to Lloyd George and pointed to the British flag, they broke loose again. At the name of Orlando they stormed. As I uttered the words "Clemenceau of La Belle France," the applause was long and continuous; C'est la Guerre — It is the War 105 and finally when I spoke of the American troops coming and the "Stars and Stripes soon to be unfurled in the fair skies of Italia," pandemonium reigned. The band struck up "The Star Spangled Banner," the audience rising and cheering. Next morning, to my surprise, my speech was printed in full in all the papers and had been cabled overseas. When I saw the Ambassador, he smiled and said: "Your florid and fervid Fourth of July oratory lends itself beautifully to Italian translation. I have arranged for you to meet Nite, Minister of Finance. I wondered if he knew I needed financing just then! (Translation of the speech at the Argentine Theatre) Romans, Italians, Countrymen: The salutation has a new meaning these days, for my countrymen indeed you are. Italia, America and the Allies have become compatriots in the great fight for civilization — a common heritage that came in the dawn of the republic of ancient Rome. The messages of our own President Wilson have already revealed the great purpose of our country. Three million Italians in America have become an integral part of my country, bone and sinew of the nation, joining with other millions of adopted sons to help in this hour of destiny. As united Italy was given you in 1870, so a United 106 We'll Stick to the Finish States was born in the peace at Appomattox and has become a union, one and inseparable. Italian children winning the prizes at school in Boston, Italians helping in building warships and camps, Italians helping in all war prepara- tions, and Italians in the ranks of our soldiers, has made the United States a close kin to united Italy. Through acts and deeds our distinguished Ambassador, Thomas Nelson Page, has made known to you the love of America. The activities of the American Red Cross, headed by Colonel Robert Perkins, indicate the spirit of the arriving American troops as they unfurl the Stars and Stripes in the blue skies of Italy. The utterances of our own President Wilson in his masterful leadership has made you understand us joining in the contest of "not one penny for tribute or conquest, but millions for defence" for the rights of free peoples — a common heritage. So forward with the entwined banners with the leaders of the people, Clemenceau in La Belle France, Lloyd George of Brittania, our own Wilson and Lansing of America, and your own Orlando of Italy supporting Diaz, Haig and Pershing and their valiant men to the finish. "Vive la Italia and the Alliance for Humanity." X ORLANDO AND ITALY'S LAWMAKERS THE story of Italy in the war cannot be told without reference to Orlando, the Premier, and the silent Sonnino, the Foreign Minister. There was a similarity to that of the LTnited States in the Italian position before entering the war. To understand it one must go back to the days of the Triple Alliance, when German investments were pouring into Italy, and factories Hun-manned were utilized to create commercial ties which would compel the extension of the treaty to em- brace an offensive, as well as defensive alliance. The people of Italy rose to the situation, and Sonnino was brought to the test of patriotic statesmanship. He realized the inevitable and changed "about face" — solid as a rock. To see Sonnino is to understand the power that has made Italy, after the chaotic struggles of centuries, a nationalized entity. Sonnino began his career as a journalist and founded the Giornale (107) 108 We'll Stick to the Finish D'ltalia^ one of the most powerful papers in the kingdom. He talks to the people of Italy through his newspapers because he understands how to present his views in cold type. In the Chamber, his addresses, devoid of rhetoric or oratory, lack inter- est to hold the crowds; but undeterred, Sonnino goes on to the conclusion. Although directing the finances and enormous war expenditures of Italy, he remains a comparatively poor man, hav- ing but one passion — his beloved Italia. Sonnino's deep-set eyes, shock of gray hair and rather cadaverous look, indicate the parentage of a Jewish father and Scotch mother. His genius in meeting the vexatious financial problems of Italy has revealed the sturdy Scotch thrift of his maternal forbears. Orlando, Premier of Italy, ignited the war fever of his countrymen when he declared that Italy would never make a separate peace. The die was cast. Orlando, the voice of Italy, had declared it. Orlando is a native of Sicily, and upon him fell the mantle of the famous Crispi. He looks like an American, has iron gray hair and mustache and an air of gentleness that wins the individual as well as audience. In his office at Rome is an atmosphere of quiet dignity; his conversation is never staccato, but rather mellow in tone, and C'est la Guerre— It is the War 109 his manner puts the visitor at ease. His speeches in the Chamber are made in closer range to the members than in any other legislative body. His addresses have the nature of conferences, and when he makes a statement from the bench, it is rounded out with the eloquent periods and beauti- ful phrases characteristic of the Italian language. Orlando had been a professor of law in the University of Rome, and was considered one of the most able writers and speakers in Italy, but it was little dreamed that he would ever become Premier. Later when I saw him at Turin, in a special car leaving for Abbeville, France, where the Premiers of England, France and Italy have had frequent conferences, the station was thronged to honor the Italian leader. He was presented a massive bouquet. Clad in overcoat and fully gloved, he was ready for the chilly trip across the Alps. His manner and words in addressing the people at the station were such as might be expected in a triumphal mass meeting. Leaving the station, he smiled as cheers and bravos followed him, and once within the little green car in which he travels, he again took up his work, going over papers and dispatches, with the same ease as if in his office at Rome. At the Department of Finance I met Senator 110 We'll Stick to the Finish Marconi, inventor of the wireless. It had been raining hard, and coats and umbrellas lay upon the table. While we were waiting for the interview with Secretary Nite, Marconi, the Italian inven- tive genius, told me that it was at Newfoundland, on December 12, 1901, at 12.30 p. m., that he received the distinct electric signals over the Atlantic, transmitting the first message overseas without cable. This was the culmination of years of experiment. His idiomatic English was refreshing as he continued: *'My troubles came with the short-distance wireless, from two miles to two hundred and twenty-five. The two-mile limit was the bar- rier. The difficulty was overcome after much discouragement.'* Born in Bologna, the son of an Irish mother and an Italian landed proprietor, Marconi has become a world figure. Early in youth he was attracted to the study of electricity, and at the age of sixteen had begun the development of wireless telegraphy. When I referred to the operations of the navies in the war, so largely dependent on the product of his genius, and asked him the secret, he said: *'It is nothing but a sort of electrical earthquake. The static electricity of the ether is energized by the oscillating current sent up and down the aerial C^est la Guerre — It is the War 111 wire, and is diffused through infinity of space. An earthquake is a manifestation of the material electricity. If a weight could be raised suifficiently high, the shock of its fall could be felt across the sea." "So it is a question of shocks?'* said I. "Everything is more or less a matter of shocks. You are delighted with music or literature — that gives you the mental shocks." In a soft, well-modulated voice he paid his tribute to Morse, Edison, and Elisha Gray, but seemed more inclined to talk about the war and to learn the news from America than about his scientific and inventive triumphs. Almost every ship that floats in the sea is now using wireless, which recalls that less than twenty years ago Mr. Marconi came to England and was given the resources of the post-office for experiment and trial. At that time it was concluded that wireless would be limited, like the telephone. The present war has proven it otherwise. A peculiar thing is that the wires receiving the waves must be perpendicular rather than horizon- tal, and four hundred feet is about the elevation required. "My dream was to have the wireless so you could call a friend, not knowing where he was, 112 Well Stick to the Finish sending forth the message, 'Where are you?' He might reply, 'I am in a coal mine,' 'in the Andes,* or 'on the ocean,' but no matter, he is near at hand, thus hoping that through the ether we might bring the world closer together." I introduced Mr. Marconi to a number of navy lads standing near the Embassy, who looked on him as a wizard, and insisted they felt an electric thrill when they shook hands. The compliment was superb when they turned and said: "There is the wizard that has saved many a good ship." This tribute coming from the lips of yeomen and seamen was as eloquent as the studied praise of the admiral. As I sat looking at him I thought what great things had come from his brain. All the infinitude of space was now vibrating with limitless mes- sages, making the heavens speak as the ripples of sound radiate around the earth, defying all bound- aries or barriers. The Minister of Finance, Nite, a rather stout man with pompadour hair and mustache, was a member of the Italian Commission to America. It was evident from the reception he accorded me that he was a friend of Americans. "Every moment," he said, "of my visit to America meant much to me. It revealed that the mental Copyright by Uriderwood & L'lirlenroo/I OHLAXDO. PRHMlKli OF ITAL\ .flllll it. Copyright by U luterwoud cfc Uiidvnvuud GUGLIELMO MARCONI, SENATOR AND INVENTOR Cest la Guerre— It is the War 113 attitude of the world is much the same, and that physical problems vary only in degree. Since the war, in common with all Italians, America does not to me seem three thousand miles away." In speaking of my trip, he said: "You must have observed that Italians feel a close kin to your country. Everyone who has been in America seems to count on his sojourn there as the epic of his life. Time is dated before and after he has been in America." "Will many Italians return to America after the war?" I asked. "Doubtless there will be many who will want to come, but can we spare them? — that is the question." While in the United States Nite met the President and all oflScials, and insisted that Presi- dent Wilson's messages were quite as familiar to Italians as those of their own public men. "Long ago I developed a high regard for your distinguished Secretary of the Treasury, William G. McAdoo, who has made rapid strides in clarify- ing the mysteries of finance as an everyday propo- sition to the people; or, in other words, the Treas- ury selling bonds direct to the people rather than through the mystic shadows of brokers." An important conference terminated an inter- 114 We'll Stick to the Finish view which promised much. Nile is pronounced one of the coming men of Italy. As I came out I saw the usual throng before the office of Orlando — a peculiar Italian custom of honor to their leaders. The Premier acknowledged the greeting of the populace and seemed in excellent spirits — with some degree of appropriateness, for he had just been selected by the Allies to take charge of the affairs pertaining to after-the-war conditions — a real compliment to Italy and her lawmakers. XI SIEGED VENICE BY NIGHT AND DAY FALLING bombs announced the war carnival in Venice. The doves of St. Marco had flown. In the darkness, the silver sheen of the canals alone gave the aviators location, and, strangely enough, the canals received most of the bombs— thus saving the historic spires of the city. No other place in Europe is more difiicult to visit in war time than Venice. It is easier to make a tour of the first-line trenches than to pass the sentinel of the Minister of Marine, for he is en- trusted with the sublime task of saving the "Mistress of the Adriatic." A letter to the Commando Supremo, General Diaz, was my credential to unlock the gates inside the zone of army operations, but this was not sufiicient. It needed a pass from the Minister of Marine. On the train from Rome, the vision of Venice (115) 116 We'll Stick to the Finish with its Doges' palaces, St. Mark's and the Grand Canal haunted me. How would it look as compared with the glory in which I had seen it? The train was crowded with oflBcers in the first- class and soldiers in the third-class compartments. Some were grim and some were gay — a marked contrast to the days of Cook's tourists. Com- plaints of service or poor meals on the diner, or impatience at delayed trains were no longer heard. The solid troop trains to and from the front had the right of way. At Bologna I had a breakfast in keeping with its name. Sweeping over the plains of Venetia to Padua, and then on to the Maestro, evidences of the war accumulated mile by mile. When the lagoons were sighted in the soft twilight, the train rattled over the long viaduct much as over the sea at Key West. In the distance was Venice now fading into the gloom of another night. At the station in Venetia, guards were stern and un- bending. They required passport and identifica- tion. Only the week before real celebrities and prominent writers had been turned back because of some technicality in their credentials. They take no chances on strangers. Officers 'phone and wire ahead just who is expected and when. Venice is closed tight against spies. Through the gate Cest la Guerre— It is the War 117 were the outlines of a gondola, but there was nothing to suggest the gay life of her former days. Looking about to get my bearings, I was accosted by an officer, who looked me over with suspicion, and finally put his hand on my arm, as if making an arrest. When I tried to explain in my jumble of Italian and English, he said: "American Con- sul," and indicated I was to follow him. My passport. No. 10891, was again peppered with a purple stamp, but even then he kept saying "American Consul." Had something gone wrong with my papers, I wondered, and was I to be hailed before the authorities to spend the night in custody? On the war front nothing is surprising. I caught step with him in military fashion and accompanied him. When about to step into what looked like the police patrol gondola, I was in- formed by a keen-eyed young American in khaki — and the only American I had seen since leaving Rome, who evidently had overheard the Italian officer's conversation— that the American Consul expected me on an earlier train, but, being obliged to leave, detailed these officers to provide a safe escort to his home. It is safe to presume I froze to my escort. We glided along the Grand Canal and under the his- toric Rialto. Here and there demolished buildings 118 We'll Stick to the Finish stood out like spectres in the darkness. Not even the night could hide the ravages of the air raids. This was Venice, yes, the scene of countless carnivals and fetes, but now ghostly and defiant, awaiting, maybe, another avalanche of death with the new moon! As we became accustomed to the murky shadows, following the weird wake of light along the Canal, Venice in the dark became almost more fascinating than Venice in the light. Few people were on the street or in the callas after nightfall, and what few there were hugged the ancient walls. The barred windows of the closed shops indicated that most of the "Merchants of Venice" had gone. A mist swept in from the sea, as we turned a sharp corner and arrived at the home of the American Consul, Mr. Harvey Carroll. Like most of the residents of Venice, he lives on the second floor, to escape the dampness. Through the darkness of what appeared to be a subterranean entrance, I found the home haven of the American Consul and his charming wife. They radiated a Southern welcome. Without gas to cook with, but with the pluck of an American housewife, Mrs. Carroll had prepared the evening meal by fanning the embers of charcoal on a stone table fireplace. Even a cup of hot water was a luxury in the besieged city. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 119 Of the one hundred and forty thousand people who once called Venice home, only a few thousand are left. The gondolas which used to glide over the placid surfaces of the canal, gay with laughter and music, were no more. What few remained were on official business. This, together with the population gone, made Venice almost a tomb. The puffing motor boats made a somewhat lively scene as they passed here and there conveying supplies. The day before the people observed one of the traditional holidays of the Republic, but instead of the strumming guitars and the lilting songs, the merrymaking was confined to little groups who showered blossoms on the waters of the Adriatic. The weird cry of a gondolier as he turned the corner, as in the old days, was heard no more. In place of the merry life, which was once the charm of Venice, had come the sordid spectre of war. Barges laden with barrels, casks and bales now occupy the centre of the picture. A strange Venice to those who knew it in the old days, but a Venice becoming better loved because of its heroic resistance and willing sacrifices. All day long there was the intermittent roar of the distant guns. The people who have remained are so pitifully poor that they could not leave if they wished to. Under the curtain of the night, 120 We'll Stick to the Finish Paris and London present no such gloomy appear- ance. Even the ghstening shadows of the clouds on the Grand Canal brought only fear. Night attacks have been more frequent here than in any other city. Somehow Ruskin's "Stones of Venice" came to mind as I stumbled over the slippery walks during a rainy night tour of the city. Every light was out. Even the flash of a match was prohib- ited. A dull moon presaged a raid that night, but none came. Sand bags protecting buildings, statues, and historic columns were everywhere. They could even be found on the lower floor of the homes to provide protection from the overhead destruction. No less than three hundred bombs had been counted in a single night; but Venice seemed to bear a charmed life, comparatively little damage being done. In spite of the hellish Hun, most of the historic shrines still stand. In one of the refugee cellars of a school, a scene occurred never to be forgotten. A flashlight photo- graph, which has had a world-wide appeal, was made. The Sister who had charge of the school had called the little children to her side in an effort to gather them as a hen gathers her chickens under her wings. Boom! boom! boom! roared the bombs outside. The little children crouched, with C'est la Guerre — It is the War 121 wide open and startled eyes, yet they were brave. They seemed to feel they were quite safe so long as the protecting spirit of the Sister was over and around them. I met the Sister who related to me the story of that night. An Italian officer said to me in careful and delib- erate phrase: "It was the American Red Cross which saved our people from starvation, for little food has come into the city during the past year." Not even the people of Belgium have more generously expressed their gratitude for relief given than the people in war-stricken Venice. The condition of the poor could not have been more pitiable than when the Red Cross came as an Angel of Mercy. Bright and early next morning I followed the fast-walking and alert American Consul, Harvey Carroll, and watched him as he superintended the beginning of the day's activities at the Maga- zine where the people came to obtain food and supplies. Rice and cornmeal were provided, and many of the products on the shelves had familiar labels. The Magazine was in charge of bright Venetian girls, some of distinguished lineage, who stayed steadily by their task, in contradistinction to the criminal and lower classes, who fled at the 122 We'll Stick to the Finish first sight of danger. It is easy to detect the streak of yellow in individuals amid the red flame of war. Every train arriving and leaving the city was met by a delegation from the Consul, and each profughi, or refugee, was provided with enough food to take him to his destination. The refugees are scattered all over Italy. The American Red Cross unites with the Italian Red Cross and the Government in caring for these, and provides an opportunity for them to earn a livelihood in making war supplies. After a walk which encompassed nearly every street in Venice, I paused long enough to catch my breath and make a notation. Mr. Carroll was born in Texas and is a graduate of an European university. His hearty and good- natured manner has made him a beloved figure in Venice. He has demonstrated that the wide range of work of both Consul and Red Cross representative can be efficiently combined. On the streets the people met him with a smile and doffed their hats in a deference worthy a Doge. Just then a group of boys approached him, their toes sticking through their shoes. Looking up at him, they said in broken English: "Shoes go bad — Consul go good.*' Cest la Guerre — It is the War 123 "Sif si,'' replied the Consul, with a benevolent smile. Even the boys looked on him as the magic cobbler. Twenty-three separate activities of the Red Cross are located in this district, and every one is doing a needed and appreciated work. We entered a hospital which had been bombed, picking our way through the shattered glass in the courtyard. A group of people had gathered for coffee. Over eleven hundred children are cared for and two thousand meals served each day. In the faces of those outside who were given but one meal a day, radiated a gratitude that was good to see. In the hearts of the people of Italy, the ministrations of the Red Cross will live forever. Periods of prosperity and glory may yet come to Italy, but the great-hearted and open-handed generosity of America, responding as it did to the cry for food, will be cherished as long as Venice, one of the oldest republics, endures, and constitute forever bonds of affection for the younger Republic over the seas. At the Rialto, which is the ferry landing, old men and women were bearing huge milk cans; this, with the garden truck which the others brought in, was a faded picture of the markets in 124 We'll Stick to the Finish the old days. In the harbor, and far out on the Adriatic, could be detected the tiny red sails dis- tinctive of the fishing craft. These were bringing in sea food to supplement the loaves of the Ked Cross. On one of my rambles in Venice I lost my way, trying a short cut through a piazzetta that curved about like the streets of Boston. Most of the persons met were women. Was I to confess that I was lost.f* The time was approaching for my boat to leave and I could no longer parley with vanity. Lifting my hat as gallantly as I could, I accosted a little girl who was bearing a bundle and whom I addressed as "Signorita," believing I was safe in my Italian that far at least, but I found I could go no farther, so began making motions. Then shouted louder to try and make my meaning clear. She was not deaf, but it did not help matters, not even when I pointed my finger in the direction of '^somewhere." There was a puzzled look on her face as I repeated, 'T want to go to—" "Say *heir and let it go at that," shouted a voice behind me. It was an American who spoke and in the next breath he said "from Indiana." I tried to respond in Italian. While not in keeping with the Red C'est la Guerre — It is the War 126 Cross ritual, his greeting was welcome. Passing the Bridge of Sighs in company with him, we chanced upon a charmed cluster of trees in an old courtyard. The birds were singing their carols as if in defiance to the Austrian bombs. A crowd of people had gathered just to see and hear the birds in the trees. At the Hotel Man tin, a name prominent in the history of Venice, a gondola bus was ready to take passengers to the railway station. Descending the steps to the boat, I felt the carpet of moss under foot, gathered by the tides of the centuries. At low ebb the green is a bright emerald hue, forming a fresh coloring in the grayness of the scene. My eyes caught glimpses of old rusty hinges and crude locks on the doors, telling of the days when over these thresholds teemed commerce from the seven seas. The ancient palaces alone radiated the story of the once glorious days of the "Mistress of the Adriatic." Germans have cast envious eyes on Venice, something like an ancient heritage to be regained. Venitia was once occupied, pillaged and sacked by Attila, king of the Huns. The descendants of Attila are now battling at the Piave. Venice was built by the survivors of the Hun invasion on a marshy island surrounded by lagoons, to resist invasion. 126 We'll Stick to the Finish It was sunrise when I came away. Yonder in the harbor were the Italian destroyers and new electric sea tanks preparing for another chase of the Austrian fleet. My boat sailed away. Venice faded on the skyline. During the sail we passed numerous craft, carmen-hued, their sails waving like emblems of victory. Sailors were singing hopeful songs, and when we neared the landing at St. GuUien, our red Fiat motor car was ready for the dash to Padua. XII ALONG THE ITALIAN FRONT THE proverbial sunny skies of Italy were obscured by a drizzling rain as I swept along by the canal in the red motor car which Major Fabri of the Red Cross had provided. The air was cold and nipping. The lack of horses in Italy was in evidence all along the canal, for men were pulling the barges laden with war sup- plies. Arriving at Padua, the seat of the ancient Padua University, and the center of Venetian culture, we came to the headquarters of the Italian Army. It was here I met Mr. Charles Thompson of the Associated Press. He is a good type of the cru- sader. His descriptions of the war in Italy are notable contributions. He has one son in the Army and another in the Navy. Another corre- spondent who is sending out reports widely read in America, and who knows his Italy through and through, is Paul Morrow. (127) 128 We'll Stick to the Finish These men are on the spot and are keen observers of events. At Ristor's restaurant I Hstened to an illum- inating narration by these men of the debacle at Caporetto, where the blood and sacrifice of two years was wiped out in a few hours. These men were thoroughly informed as to every detail involved in the reverse. Though the worst blow in the history of the country, yet it had by some enchantment United the whole Italian people. They prophesied victory yet to come. At the luncheon were served delicacies like calves' brains, pigs' feet, and broiled vertebrae (I am not strong on stewed spinal cord, but I know what it is). In the wall of the dining room was a destination dent made by one of Napoleon's guns. Then we started on our way to Abano, where the headquarters of the Commando Supremo are located. My sole companion was a captain delegated by headquarters. As we passed through the plains, on either side of the road were myriad stumps of mulberry trees, out of which the new shoots were springing. It is here that fagot gatherers come every year to cut off the new growth, using the shoots for fuel. Even these tiny twigs are of priceless value in a land where MTE. ITALIAN MIXISTKH Ol' ll.XANCK CONVEYING SUPPLIES IN BESIEGED VENICE A LUNCHEON IN PARIS GIVEN TO AMBASSADOR SHARPE C*est la Guerre — It is the War 129 wood is almost reverenced. In the distance loomed the great mountains. Our "red devil" motor car was driven with Detroit speed over roads, on either side of which were fields dotted with reserve line trenches, barbed -wire, and machine-gun emplacements. Now and then we edged past long lines of troops coming from and going to the front. Sentinel after sentinel stopped us to see that magic paper. As we came to the headquarters of General Diaz we found ourselves in front of an old hotel, which, before the war, was a sulphur spring resort. I can smell the water yet. His quarters were on the second floor. As I entered. General Diaz, sitting at a flat-topped desk, arose. The Captain who acted as my escort snapped his heels and saluted, at the same time presenting me. The Commander immediately extended his hand in the warmest sort of greeting. His cordiality and easy manner swept away every vestige of formality. On his desk every article was arranged with methodical precision. General Diaz looked the Commando Supremo. He wore the green khaki of the Italian Army, and on his sleeve were a flock of stars in irregular shape A direct descendant of the lieutenant of Colum- bus who made the voyage of discovery with him, 130 We'll Stick to the Finish General Diaz has valorous blood in his veins. Under fifty he is in his very prime. His rise to the head of the army has been spectacular. It was the promotion of merit. The devotion of his soldiers to him is Garibaldic. He almost knows them by name. Few commanders mix so easily and gracefully with their men. It is for this reason they love him. Not alone for his personal qualities, but for his supreme genius as a tactician, does he command them. The genesis of success shown by recent operations was in his brain. As I looked upon him I saw a man of medium stature with black hair pushed back pompadour. The thick mass was slightly streaked with gray. His face was bronzed by exposure and markedly wrinkled for so young a man, but it was handsome. His dark eyes, peculiarly piercing, glistened with good humor. In repose his features are far from stern, as is shown in current photographs. When his lips parted he looked more like an artist than a soldier. He comes from Naples, and could pass for a Grand Opera star. His was a delightful blend of strength and tenderness. And the moment he spoke — his voice was as sweet and mellow as a silver bell — I was won completely to him. I extended greetings, to which he replied: C*est la Guerre — It is the War ISl "I hope your visit will bring Italy closer to you. I shall welcome the day when I see American troops in Italy." "America appreciates the great number of your countrymen who come to its shores," I began rather boldly. '*And we appreciate them more when they come back," he added quickly. "We hope the Ameri- cans will be as much better for being in Italy, as Italians are for having been in America." When I spoke of the refugee children, his liquid eyes softened, and rising and going to a table, he took up a book containing pictures, showing children in school rooms, and how Italy is caring for the refugees. He presented the book to me, saying: "Doesn't that look like America?" All our conversation was carried on through an interpreter. The General frequently supplemented question and answer by his own comments, and we just kept on talking with our hands — for- getting the interpreter. When I suggested that he should come to America, he said: "Yes, after the war. Everything comes after the war." As I timidly ventured to inquire, "How are things going at the front?" he raised his finger prophetically and said: 132 We'll Stick to the Finish ''Sperta et lerdir ("Wait and see!") When I asked him for his photograph, he sent immediately for it. In autographing it, he dashed it off so quickly and well that his every movement indicated a man of literary cultivation. After speaking of America and Italy, over his name he wrote: *'Unione fedeli, fede vuna, energie agione.'* ("Union with heart and soul, and one for energy and action") April 26, 1918." As I started to go away he arose, extended his hand and surprised me by saying in English, "Thank you very much." Not to be outdone in courtesy, I replied, *'Grazie" ("Thank you"). Then we returned to Padua where we found Major Fabri, a native American, now in the service of the American Red Cross, and whose father was once partner in the J. Pierpont Morgan firm. From Padua we sent our luggage on to Verona, to make room in the automobile in which we were to travel, for the lira (money) which the Major was to distribute to the mayors and padres in every small community, for relief among the refugees. Here we were joined by a father and son. The father was a captain and the son a lieutenant in the Italian Army. The soldier- family had been separated by the exigencies of service in different fields. Long shall I carry in C^est la Guerre — It is the War 133 my heart the picture of that father and son in the joy of their reunion. During the entire trip their exchange of experiences was accompanied by the most fervent affection for each other. It was biting cold and the Lieutenant handed me an overcoat. It had service stars on the collar and sleeve. When the Lieutenant saw the soldiers along the way saluting me, he suggested that it would be better to take the stars off, which was done. Yet for a while I passed as an Italian army officer. Major Fabri had provided rations for the journey. Forward again flashed the red "Fiat." The chauffeur was a dare-devil. We swept past village after village, their campaniles standing out like passing milestones. On the road military activities were more and more in evidence. At one place we encountered a herd of cows — and they acted as cows always do. After our delay we were on again, and did not pause until we reached Thiene, where the British headquarters are located. We were in the plateau of the Asiago. In the villages, which dotted the landscape, not a civilian remained. Every piece of furniture in the houses was gone. Here where domestic tranquility once reigned, and around doorsteps where happy chil- dren played, arose only gaunt and irregular walls. 134 We'll Stick to the Finish mutely protesting the ruthless scourge which had swept over it. Behind and above this wide stretch of crumb- ling desolation, rose the Julian Alps, their white peaks crowned with snow, their ravines robed in purple, and their foothills bathed in a russet glow. They stood there in eloquent silence de- claring that a people whose motives were as pure as the sifted snows, whose loyalty was as glorious as the blue garments they wore, and whose sacrifice was redder than their deepest tones, would some day find eternal foundations, and be lifted high in the light of heaven. Wliat a setting for the operations of the British and French, and now the American armies, who have come to stand side by side with the Italian in stemming the red-death stalking unashamed through the passes! The rest of the way to the mountains lay along roads heavily camouflaged. Toward the enemy a green foliage matting stretched mile after mile, which, while not preventing the enemy from knowing the road's location, served to obscure the observation of troops passing to and fro, and eliminated sniping. Reaching the Tyrolean Alps, we had a view of the little narrow gauge road from a different C'est la Guerre — It is the War 135 angle than that of the tourist. In our motor car we were actually among the scenes which the railroad only commands at a distance. More villages were encountered, the dwellings in each fearfully demolished. When I remarked upon the desolation, my Lieutenant companion said: "Wait until you get to my town." And when we finally reached it, what terrible destruction had been wrought. Not a building escaped. The Austrians were good gunners, having picked out the houses and potted them, one by one. Only a few straggling soldiers furnished any semblance of life. Some incidents in any journey stand out with greater vividness than others. For me now is to describe in broken words the climacteric experience of my life. No array of sentences can picture the journey from the plans of Piave to Mount Grappa. The distance is no less than a hundred miles, and it was made in a single day. We stopped at the village of Piovene, and my Lieutenant companion said, "Are you game?" Not knowing all it meant, I assented. I had not come over seas and continents to count hazards. I soon learned that he referred to the Telliferico, a little aerial railroad which runs up six thousand 136 We'll Stick to the Finish feet to the highest peak. The car or wire basket which furnishes accommodation for two persons is attached to an overhead cable — one car goes up, and the other comes down, both gravity and power being used. In the car one must He down. It is in these Httle baskets the guns and munitions are carried up, and the wounded are brought down. For fully thirty minutes we lay in the car going up the Telliferico six thousand feet. No sounds, save the clicking ratchet of the cable wheels over- head, and our voices, were heard, and our voices seldom disturbed the silence, for with peak after peak passing in view, deep caverns yawning, and stretching Alpine vistas as far as the eye could reach, it was no time for words. We were holding our breath. Far below and underneath curved in and out between the ranges the Astico River, its bluest of blue waters, flecked by white foam, showing the tumult of its soul. Reaching the top, we left the Telliferico and landed knee-deep in mud. On the trails above mules were footing their way slowly upwards, bearing their precious burden of supplies. Along the trail wherever the curve permitted, gun emplacements had been cut in the solid mountains. At the barracks we were received by the oflScer Cest la Guerre — It is the War 137 in charge who invited us in for coffee. It is the custom farther up to stop at all the barracks and take coffee with the officers. And from here up these barracks multiply fast. By the time I had finally reached the top I was full up, so it seemed, of coffee. I never drank so much coffee before and I never expect to again. But I was grateful that Nature provided me liberally with the capacity of being sociable. From Telliferico station to the trenches on Mount Verena is one thousand feet, and the only way to reach the latter is up a road which winds round and round like the stair treads in the Wash- ington monument. Every step of the way must be on foot, and with my normal weight and the additional burden of coffee, I am not surprised that my Lieutenant companion frequently asked: "Do you think you can make it?" or "How's your heart?" I replied, "My heart is all right, but my stomach is in the way." Every step now was through snow and slush and mud. My feet were soaked, my clothing smeared, and my gloves looked as if I had been in a sewer main. Every now and then we stopped for a breathing spell. At one of these was a scene that haunts me even now. 138 We'll Stick to the Finish There on a comparatively flat ledge were num- berless white crosses. It was a cemetery of the soldier-dead. Here those who had fallen by their guns in the first great push, had been laid to rest, close up to heaven's blue walls where they died, and from which their spirits easily mounted to the peace plains of the Eternal City. There slept their sacred dust, under the white blanket of the snow, with not so much as a large-eyed daisy to look down tearfully upon them. Yet they climbed the altar stairs to glory, and their memory will remain with the enduring Alps. At another stop my companion pointed to a distant peak, saying, "I spent six months in the little barracks at that point in an observation post, and during that time never once left it." It was in that post, during the early stages of the war, that an Italian commander, Austrian born, was captured by the enemy and shot. On we climbed. It would rain, then sleet, then snow, the ascent becoming more and more diffi- cult. But the stops were many, and here as at the other barracks the officer took us in, and gave us more coffee. Finally we reached the headquarters of the Commander. He proved to be Major Effisio Toulu, who wore a monocle. The barracks were C'est la Guerre — It is the War 139 built into the side of the mountain, and contained quite a few rooms, many of them papered with actresses' pictures and cartoons. They were all lighted by electricity and had telephones. Every splinter of that lumber and the materials which entered into the construction of the building were carried up that last one thousand feet by mules. The Major was a jovial fellow! Off-hand he said at once: "We're keeping them busy up here." When asked if there was much shooting, he said: "We shoot so many shells every day, just to let them know we are here." When we inquired about the time of shooting he said: "The exercises begin soon." "Can I stay?" I hesitatingly inquired. "Sure Mike," he cried, and laughed hilariously. Evi- dently it was the only bit of the American tongue he had picked up. I was willing to change my name to see the show. It was a dramatic moment when, lower down, I had looked through an opening in the peaks and saw for the first time the Austrian frontier. But the upshot of all my experiences was now to come. He conducted us to a narrow walk on the side of a rugged peak. 140 We'll Stick to the Finish "Bend low," he cautioned, "If they see, they will pepper." So skulking like Indians, we crept along until we entered a long winding tunnel. There were short lateral tunnels leading out of the main one, where stood concealed mortars and howitzers with their noses pointed in the air. I said to the Major, "Is there any danger here?" "Not unless they blow the top of the mountain off," he sniffed. We entered another barracks and here we had more coffee. Then on through a tunnel to a terrace, which led to the tip-top peak, we climbed a ladder, perhaps a hundred feet. Another winding tunnel, and through a tiny peek hole in the solid rock, was an Austrian camp, not over fifty yards away, the smoke of the fire curling leisurely upward, to dissipate in the thin air, or be lost amid the snows. The enemy was there. The Major said enthusiastically: "Now we'll see the fireworks." Ordering my Lieutenant companion to fire, the latter phoned to his own battery stationed below. In a twinkling of an eye, a ribbon of fire shot past the peek hole. Smoke puffed on the opposite peak, and through the glasses camp utensils could be seen flying into the air. We saw all this before we heard the report. C'est la Guerre— It is the War 141 "It's a hit/' the Major shouted. Then turning to the Lieutenant he praised him on the work of his battery. I had seen more than brain could comprehend. Here at the very peak of the Alps, the eye of Italy is on Austria. Descending the ladder, we entered once more the barracks, where camp dogs added a little domesticity to the soHtary loneliness. Passing down one of the tunnels, I heard a shout I did not know the language, but I recog- nized the tone, and "ducked," lying flat down, close to the eternal walls. An Austrian "skodda" was trying to become sociable. Now, for the descent of the Telliferico! I lay face up. The incline was so steep the car was almost upright— at such an angle that the whole scene spread out before me. The great peaks under- neath looked like hillocks. Great mountam val- leys from which the snow has never departed since the morning stars sang together at creation, were bathed in almost every blue and purple tone. Peaks swept on until in the distance they dis- solved in the gray mist, as dimunitive and pointed as a collection of army tents. When we had descended and reached the point where the Lieutenant's battery was located, the 142 We'll Stick to the Finish very same which had so accurately saluted the enemy, I noticed a tally board where a record of every shot, and results as far as they are known, is kept day by day. Turning to the barracks for dinner, we were just finishing our soup, when a shell smashed over the battery. The Austrians had the range now. The Lieutenant coolly said : "Guess we will have to move again." The casualties numbered four mules which were grazing about in the little space. Here I was sent to bed, until my clothing and shoes were dry enough to be wearable. Getting out of bed, we started on the one-hundred-mile ride to Verona, then through Vincenza. It was the wildest ride I ever experienced. The rain came pouring down. We were soon soaked to the skin. In the darkness, for we had no headlights, we hardly knew where we were going. Not until we arrived at Verona at one a.m., did I have a feeling of safety. In the darkness we toured within the historic walls of the city for nearly an hour trying to locate the leading hotel, and when we finally did, and sought for admission, the porter shook his head, until he learned that we were the two guests whose luggage had preceded us. Rooms were provided, C'est la Guerre — It is the War 143 but nothing else. Not a crumb to eat, not even a hot swallow to warm us. Major Fabri said: *'We're due for pneumonia tomorrow." But the porter hung out our wearing apparel under the gabled roof to dry, and Sunday morning we woke up to find our clothes cleaned, brushed and pressed, and sauntered forth for all the world feeling like *'two gentlemen of Verona.'* XIII WITH THE ROLLING CANTEEN IN ITALY IT was on the plateau of the Asiago, where the British troops were stationed, that I had my first glimpse of the American Rolling Canteen. Leaving Vincenza in the early morning, our way was through many a village levelled by Austrian guns. In a cloud of dust sent up by the Canteen, we rode on through the day, until in the evening we came to more bombarded towns, and drew up under the ruins of a campanile — nearly every town having one — the architecture reflecting Venetian influence of earlier days. Under the crumbled walls of a house the Red Cross kitchen was located. It somewhat resem- bles a lunch wagon, and was no sooner in place than soldiers were flocking about it like bees around honey. In the early evening, with cool gray mists curling about, it was a welcome heat unit. The village was deserted, everything was damp and dismal, not another fire for miles (144) ANDKKdTROEX, FRAXCK'S KORKM.Kl Ml \|,„»\ MA\rFAfT(F{|-;i{ At l.'fl, in conviTsalion witi. (m-,,,-,;.! J'.T.hing aii.l a Prcnth officer 11 ;iivjr;.> '\v '?< B •*V3 LE MARECHAL JOFFRE C'est la Guerre — It is the War 145 around. Is it any wonder that men whether eating or drinking, warming their hands, or sip- ping the steaming soup, were filled with good cheer? Most soldiers are, seemingly, always hungry, and anything differing from the regular army rations appeals to them. The Rolling Canteen supplies soup, coffee, and cigarettes — strange com- bination — but war has shown these odd associates to be the epicurean delight of soldiers. Especially do they relish a steaming cup of coffee which they will drink every two or three hours. To see a group around one of these kitchens was to be reminded of a throng of chattering Italians often seen in railroad construction camps in the United States. There was little difference in the uniform of these men, except that some had jaunty caps, while others wore Alpine hats adorned with a feather. Coffee always started the flow of jocularity, and any attention by the workers brought from the soldiers an enthusiastic ''Grazie." (Thank you.) One big fellow, a giant among his comrades, had the distinction of having been in America, and was the cynosure of all as he came forward to speak to the Americano. He saluted as he glimpsed the tiny American flag in my buttonhole, and told 146 We'll Stick to the Finish me in Italio-English that he once was in business on Broadway, New York City. "What was your Hne," I queried. "Put upa da foot." And as if to prove his assertion grasped a canteen dishcloth and pro- ceeded to demonstrate by polishing up my "Regal russet beauties." The snap of the cloth, a trick unknown in Italy, indicated him to have been a professional shoe-shiner in our great cosmopolitan city. As they grouped themselves on crags by the roadside, or amid barbed wire entanglements, the onlooking soldiers looked like a male chorus in "II Trovatore." "When I was in New York I subscriba to da Americano Red Cross," he proudly told me. "Now we geta da goods," he said, pointing to the big Rolling Canteen. These Rolling Canteens lumber along the camou- flaged roads like circus wagons. As a war vehicle, they have the right of way, and we often pulled into the ditch to let them pass, and willingly so, for they were going forward with relief and cheer to the soldiers returning from the front. The work of operating the Rolling Canteen is as hazardous as any work of the Red Cross. Since my return I have received word of the death of Lieutenant Edward McKay, who was in charge C*est la Guerre — It is the War 147 of Canteen No. 1 in Italy. I am not surprised, for the workers must travel dangerous roads just back of the front line, and are exposed to shell fire the same as soldiers. No man could die more truly in the line of duty than Lieutenant McKay. I found him stationed in one of the most hazardous passes in the mountains of the Western Italian front, the place where the last Austrian drive began. He was the only American in that section when I was there. His presence in such a place brought a salute from me, for the Rolling Canteen was a tangible evidence of the help of "big brothers" from across the sea. Imagine for yourself the picture as I saw it only a few weeks before the drive in which the brilliant young lieutenant lost his life! Above the kitchen on three sides are towering mountains. The pass is so narrow that there is room only for a built-in road, a few feet above a narrow dry stream. Great boulders from the cliffs are dislodged by shell fire and come rolling down the canyon. No water is in the ravine now, but when the snows melt or heavy rain falls, the dry bed of the stream may become a flume, through which a flood will rush with all the fury of a mountain freshet. The limit to which one may go is the head of the pass, for the enemy is just beyond, and he is 148 Well Stick to the Finish on high, too. Far above the pass and blocking it at the farther end, is a mountain of granite. On that peak are the Austrians. Their guns command the defile. The enemy is so near that one feels the danger of even a stone being thrown from the emplacements, yet that peak is a mile in the air. Some day the desperate Austrians will try to come through that pass. Indeed, they have already tried it, and have swarmed a thousand strong to the very spot where Rolling Canteen No. 1 stands, only to be beaten back by the Italians. Once or twice a day, and nearly every night, Austrian gunners send shells crashing down into that shut-in place. The big 175's and 145's, to- gether with the smaller members of the destruc- tion family, send shots against the rocks and scatter shrapnel in all directions. The bomb- proof shelters must be sought, for nothing can live in the pass when the battery opens. Of course, men with nerves steeled become accus- tomed to danger, and as soon as there is a lull in the firing, the pass is inhabited again, the men coming from holes in the mountain sides to wink at the Austrian gunners on high and drink non-chalantly of the Red Cross coffee. C'est la Guerre — It is the War 149 Now and then a bit of humor is added to the grim business. Sometimes the big shells fail to explode. There is one 175 fully charged standing on its base at the place where it landed, about twenty yards from the Rolling Canteen. It is fenced about with barbed wire and a rudely stencilled sign tacked to a scantling reads: PERICOLOSO "Perilous?" I should say so. The slightest jar might loose the forces inside the unexploded missile and scatter destruction over a radius several times twenty yards. Yet the men toy with it, dressing it up occasionally, putting a helmet and gas mask over its pointed nose. Perilous pastime! One shell which failed to explode afterwards served a useful purpose. The men of Canteen No. 1 recovered it and uncapping it drew its charge. They needed a coffee grinder just then very badly and the empty shell, weighing some sixt}^ pounds, was converted into a roller to crush the coffee berries until a grinder could be secured from headquarters. Troops which have been on duty in the pass or mountain-sides come to the Canteen by the 150 We'll Stick to the Finish hundreds. Sometimes hot and hungry, at other times cold and hungry, but always hungry and always tired. It is here their appetites are relieved and their spirits revived. The American khaki uniform always gives promise of this. The Canteen men are usually waiting for them, the coffee is hot and food ever ready to serve. And there is American jam — ^plenty of it — to spread on the dry bread which the soldiers carry with them. Twenty -five hundred have been served in a single day by Canteen No. 1. Is it any wonder they go on their way down the moun- tain pass, or back to their dugouts with lighter hearts and voicing a new friendship between Italy and America? Red Cross men in charge of a Rolling Canteen must live close to the kitchen — it may mean a lean-to or a hut or a tent. Lieutenant McKay lived in a camouflaged shack built against a cliff which rose many meters overhead. When the shells were flying at night, he took refuge in a sandbagged cave on the nose of a mountain where it was difficult to get a word either to or from him. Out of the mountain pass has come only two requests, one for the coffee-grinder, the other for a phonograph to amuse the soldiers. Now and C'est la Guerre — It is the War 151 again comes a command from the colonel of the regiment to have luncheon on the mountain top, for the officers appreciate the work that is being done fully as much as the soldiers of the line. It is an hour's climb to the top of the mountain by a zigzag footpath, but the Red Cross man brushes up his uniform, mounts a mule sent by the colonel and then on the peak there is much talk of the relief work of America. The men engaged in rolling canteen work are specially selected for the business in hand, and they find joy in the opportunity for exceptional service. From place to place these canteens go, following the needs of the soldiers. Thej^ are strongly built affairs of iron and steel, looking like big kitchen ranges on wheels. They have six places each for spacious set-in kettles, where coffee and occasionally soup may be kept always hot. Under the kettles is an oven burning wood, and once the metal kettles are heated, they will remain hot for sixteen hours at a time. Whether the soldiers pass in the night or the day, there is always something steaming hot to cheer them at these busy little Red Cross hotels on wheels. They are taken from one station to another by the "mother-car," a big lorry which serves as a storehouse for the jam and the coffee. Just 152 We'll Stick to the Finish think of it — jam and coffee! Was there ever a time in the experiences of human life when jam and coffee mean more than now to these soldiers? The regular army rations pale into insignificance beside the jam — raspberry, blackberry, any kind — just so long as it is jam. For soldiers are boys again, great big boys, and the little things of life become very big and real, especially when they bring up memories of home and mother. Jam does this wonderfully. It rejuvenates, exhilarates, and makes the hardy veterans young again. The Rolling Canteen fills not only a needed but unique place in war work. It not only ministers to the medicinal needs of fighters, but it furnishes a little by-play, a sort of home pantry with a "bite between meals." Wherever it goes, it tells the men at the front that those at home are thinking of them and planning for their comfort. Standing there I thought, what would mothers not give to be able to spread a piece of bread with jam for her boy. I am sure she would "spread it thick." XIV ANDRE CITROEN, AN INDUSTRIAL LEADER OF FRANCE AN unexpected circumstance furnished an opportunity for a glimpse into industrial France. Aiter speaking at a luncheon in Paris, in which reference was made to America's industrial achievements in the w^ork of the war, a young man, under forty, approached. He was rather under medium height, with round face set off with a stubby mustache. Through his glasses I saw^ a pair of inquisitive eyes. He looked like my friend, L. K. Liggett. **You've told the story well," he said. "Would you like to visit an industrial plant and see how we are doing things over here?" There was a pleasing challenge in his tone, combined with compelling modesty. I no sooner nodded assent than we were whirling down the banks of the Seine, past Eiffel Tower, to Javal. The name, Andre Citroen, up to this time, meant very little to me. We stopped at a cluster (153) 154 We'll Stick to the Finish of old renovated buildings, now transformed into, as I soon learned, a department store. On the first floor of the building was a meat shop, in the center of which was a glass counter so constructed as to afford a clear view through it all. The most appetizing array of meats were displayed in an attractive way. The prices were plainly marked, and so low as almost to cause a shock — a pound of ham less than the price of a sandwich. In other rooms of this building were to be found various kinds of food and wearing apparel. These rooms contained every article from sausages to millinery. Across the way was a shoe shop. Shoes at figures less than in the United States. And these were war prices, too! Various rooms were stored with hardware and useful household utensils. The main thing everywhere was the price. All customers had cards, without which they could not buy. "Looking after the necessities first," was his laconic comment, as partial explanation as to why we had stopped here in a supposed examina- tion of an industrial plant. Every customer held his card as if it was a government bond. Marked on it was the amount of each purchase. No money was used. At the C'est la Guerre — It is the War 155 end of every week the totals were added and the profits, whatever they were, reverted directly to the purchasers. The customers were exclusively in the employ of Mr. Citroen. "Large purchases and short accounts is the story," he said. With very little comment about his own busi- ness, he kept up a rapid-fire of questions about the United States. On the historic road to Versailles is Javal. In less time than it takes to tell it, we were there and visiting a baby nursery. Here were forty or fifty nursing babies in the arms of mothers who had just returned from work, and who were chattering merrily about their babies, like children over dolls, each comparing the various points of excellence or beauty in the child. After a half hour these mothers would go back to the munition factory. They make these visits five times a day. *'En a-t-il se jolis yeux?" said one young mother to me. Mr. Citroen translated her words: "Has he not pretty eyes?" I nodded assent. "Mais il a les cheveux roux," jokingly added Mr. Citroen, referring to the auburn hair. *'0u ne trouverait pas de plus beaux cheveux dans toute la ville de Venise, Monsieur." She said it so prettily I asked for the transit'' 'One could not find prettier hair in all the city of Venice, Monsieui " 156 We'll Stick to the Finish The hospital is in charge of expert nurses and is provided with every convenience. The wealthiest child on earth could not be better cared for. The fatiguing elements which every mother must bear in caring for a child are here entirely eliminated — only the joys remain. Wakeful nights with a fretful child are unknown. In sickness the child has the best that science and the medical world can provide. "Just the age of my little one at home," he said, taking up a wee tot. I was beginning to know Andre Citroen. "We can save fifty thousand babies of the working women of France in a year," he added, "if these nurseries multiply fast enough." Before I had recovered from my surprise at these two visits, I was in the largest munition factory in France. Acres on acres of floor space were covered with finished shells. The rims and tips were painted brown and yellow. Electric trucks, driven by girls, were whizzing by like fig- ures shown by a crazy camera on a screen. There seemed to be as much of a rush as in bringing up ammunition on the front lines. Yet every move- ment from crude iron to finished product was devoid of wasted energy. Through building after building, past miles and miles of lathes, foundries, welding machines. C*est la Guerre — It is the War 157 trip hammers, blazing forges, and power rooms; going from plant to plant, covering acres and acres of ground, I became so confused with the magnitude that I was unable to comprehend what it was all about until, out of the grimy smoke and away from the noise of the hammer and whirr of wheels, I stood once more in the open air, and saw electric trucks in a continuous stream pouring the finished shells into countless cars to be taken to arsenal and then to the battle-field; I realized then the tremen- dous scope and power of the plant I had been through, and the meaning of the name Andre Citroen. After this we took our places at a table in a great dining hall. "Still looking after the necessities, you see," he remarked. We were seated in the same chairs as had been occupied by General Pershing and other Generals, Ambassadors, Presi- dents, Premiers, and distinguished visitors from all the Allied countries. Before us were thou- sands upon thousands of men and women eating. They come here in shifts and manifested all the care-freedom of the boulevard. The capacity of the hall provides for three thousand of employes. We ate the same food as the munition workers. I think it was Lloyd George who said, after a meal here: "For me this excels Hotel Crillon at its best." 158 We'll Stick to the Finish At Christmas five thousand children of the employees were given a dinner, each one pre- sented a gift, and enjoyed a moving picture show. Not a child was accompanied by its parent, but not one was lost. Mrs. Sharpe, wife of the Ameri- can ambassador, was one of the patronesses at this occasion. The real Andre Citroen was begin- ning to come out. Born in Rue Lafitte at the Place de Pere, he is a native Parisian. He is a graduate in the Engi- neering Department of the Polytechnic School, and served as an officer in the Artillery. For thirteen years he was a manufacturer of motor cars. When the war broke out, he was at the front, serving six months during the early drive. Here he saw a pitiable lack of ammunition. He went to the Department of War and obtained from the govern- ment, after much difficulty, the financial backing of six million francs on condition that he would erect a plant in six months, capable of turning out five thousand shells a day. His former partners refused to join him in the undertaking. Undaunted, he began alone. Hence the one name of his plant, Andre Citroen. At the end of six months, he was turning out five thousand. This was in August, 1915. By July, 1917, he was turning out forty thousand a day, C*est la Guerre — It is the War 159 and now, in 1918, approximately sixty thousand, together with one million bullets. In the pro- duction of this huge output, three hundred and fifty tons of iron and one hundred tons of lead are consumed every twenty -four hours. The personnel of his plant embraces ten thou- sand men and women. Six thousand are women, two thousand disabled soldiers, and two thousand men over and under military age. Some idea of the welfare of his employes may be shown by the manner in which the teeth are looked after, his dental force operating on one hundred a day. The teeth of every employe are gone over every month. All the cooks, waitresses and chefs, together with all others having contact with the food, have their nails freshly manicured every day. Two hundred and fifty births among the women in his employ have been recorded since 1915, over one hundred of whom have been looked after by his nursery staff. Mr. Citroen deals only with three men in the administration of the plant. First, one on instal- lation; the second, on fabrication; the third, on health and welfare. He is his own sales manager and purchasing agent. He also buys the coal for all the factories in Paris. The industries in Paris alone consume about half the coal used in 160 We'll Stick to the Finish the entire country. Women are almost exclusively employed in the laboratories. The wages of his employes have doubled since he first started his plant, and with the advantages of the "company store" they save money and invest in French bonds. He contends that every one of the twenty- four provinces of France should buy their own necessities, thus reducing the cost to the people. Leaving, we went down into the Metro Tube (the subway). It was just at the hour of changing shifts. Trains were coming and going in a bewild- ering stream, part bringing employes, and part taking them home. Looking into their faces, we could not discern any difference in expression on those coming from, to those going to work. Both throngs seemed equally bright, vigorous and contented. **Monsieur," he said, with an unspeakable glad- ness in his eyes, "this is the test." As I looked upon him, his happiness seemed complete in the knowledge that beyond all in- dustrial achievements, is the people — their con- tentment, joy of service, and their moral and physical well-being. In his human impulses I now felt that I knew Andre Citroen. Copyriaht by Undvrwuod ifc Underwood 7>9 SIR DOUGLAS HAIG, COMMANDER IX CHIEF OF BRITISH ARMYi' ^""^1 LLOYD GEORGE, PREMIER OF ENGLAND Copyright, Undenvood & Un